Visit our new
Updated Every Weekday!
[Chris's computer is apparently being a git, so it's more SM this week, you lucky people. By the looks of it he's working out some kind of serial story. Hey, good luck to him.
Now, said Hübelgrüber when they arrived at wherever it was that they were supposed to be going. There are a few things that you must do. Unfortunately the military aspect within him had taken control for that second sentence, and Jed found himself standing to attention instinctively. For all Jed could tell, he was standing (at attention) in an unremarkable field somewhere on the Isle of Man, and possibly west of Douglas if that was right.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a patch of earth move. Turning, he saw it begin to rise, revealing a metal cage with an armed guard inside.
Isnt it a bit dangerous to have him wear a red uniform? he asked.
Pretty much everyone does, replied Jeanette, you were just picked up by the special ops team.
Havent you ever seen a Star Trek episode?
Jeanette was about to answer, a questioning look on her face, when Hübelgrüber stopped her.
First, we must make sure you are trustworthy. You must undergo a probing.
He seemed to take great enjoyment from the word.
Jed sat on the bench of what had been referred to as the medics post. The bench was functional and looked similar to something that hed seen in a catalogue, so he wasnt surprised to see the yellow and blue logo stuck on one corner.
He felt uncomfortable in the hospital gown that hed been given, especially by the continuing use of the colour black in its design. No hospital robe should be black. It just felt as if the doctors had given up hope of a cure and were beginning to push you towards your funeral. The doctor walked in. At first Jed thought there was something in his eye, but it turned out to be a nervous twitch. He began to feel worried. Then he saw that the doctor was wearing black rubber gloves. In fact, all his clothes were black, apart from a dazzlingly white coat.
Hello Jed, he said in a particularly strong Glaswegian accent. I believe youre here for your first probing, yes?
Um, yes. So Im told, I mean. At this point he began to stutter like Gareth Gates on a bad day. Th-thing is doctor, I was w-wondering w-w-what exactly I-is about to h-happen.
Well now, dinnae worry pal. Its a routine procedure. Everyone here at the SWG has to have one done before they enter. Standard protocol, dontcha know. Maybe afterwards Ill tell you what happened when we probed Bill after he bought the Welsh out. That had made Jed feel a bit better. Then again, maybe it was supposed to.
Uh. O-ok. B-but what exactly does this entail?
Does nae matter pal. You just lie back there and itll all be over very quickly. Youll be perfectly fine, or my name is nae Mad George McTaggert. He grinned wide, and his squint seemed to pick up speed.
And why exactly do they call you Mad George McTaggert? asked Jed, still feeling slightly tense.
Ach, dinnae be stupid lad. My names Bill McDonald.
As Jed dived from the bench, he completely forgot to take his landing into account. As it was, it could have been worse he only hit his head against the wall.
When he woke up, he had a shockingly painful headache, and for some reason his tongue was sore.
I see youre awake. It was Jeanette.
Yeth Hang on, whatth wrong wif my thongue?
The Doc says you bit it when you hit the wall. I shouldve told you about his jokes. Did he do the twitching thing too?
Thath wath a joke? Im going to KILL that bathtard! And I beth thath probing thing wath a lie thoo-
No, thats quite real. My God, were you unconscious when they did that? Wow. If I was you, Id feel violated.
She told him to look at his ankle. On it was a little smiley face.
Here's a word to the wise; if you write a website which is occasionally read by the people you work with, don't write anything like what I wrote yesterday. This is a lesson I learned to my cost this afternoon, but the fact that I still have a job I think illustrates what a good working relationship I have with these people.
For this week's article, I take the piss out of something which I'm pretty certain is a joke website. IT'S MY SITE AND I'LL DO WHAT I LIKE. Go read it.
Additional: Whoa, I was just about to upload this when I had a really weird thought. You know that gesture where you wiggle your little finger to imply that someone has a small penis? Why isn't there something similar to imply that said penis is massive? Maybe you could wave your middle finger, or your whole arm, or something. It just seemed weird.
Gosh, readers, I'm just bursting to get down here to my computer and tell you about the fantastic day I had today. It started well at breakfast, when I discovered that my parents had bought orange juice with bits in. I can't say I care for bitty orange juice, but the first glass I had didn't have any bits in at all! Then I had cereal. Mm-mm, I love a nice healthy bowl of raisin bran every morning! It keeps my bowels regular as clockwork!
Jesus Christ, I've had the worst day of my entire fucking life. I swear if I don't get it all down on the website I'll be ascending the nearest clock tower. It started off badly when I discovered that my parents had bought orange juice with bits in. I hate those damn bits. Worst of all, I forgot to shake the stupid carton before I poured, so now the last few glasses are going to be nothing BUT bit. And why the hell do I always have the same raisin bran every single day? If I didn't think it was the only fibre I eat all day, I'd go right back to Choco Puffs. Except the bloody things would get stuck in my teeth. I hate mornings.
9:40 sharp and I set off for work. I always like to walk there, as fresh air and exercise is the key to healthy living! Some people might balk at the sheer distance involved, but after walking similar distances to school all my life, I can't say I notice anymore! Yes, there's surely nothing in the world that can beat a good brisk walk every morning, except perhaps TWO good brisk walks! Ho ho!
Before I even have time to get into the book I was reading, I have to begin the twenty-minute slog to work. I swear, if driving lessons hadn't been costing me fifteen quid a pop, I wouldn't have stopped until I could drive everything from Sinclair C5s to the Discovery space shuttle. Walking a mile and a half to work sucks. Especially in weather like today's. I had my trenchcoat buttoned right up and there were still icicles on my bollocks. This season is incidentally supposed to be Spring.
Arrive at work. Golly, I do so love being useful, and that's exactly what I am to the jolly folks of Tranter & Thomas Surveyors. Why, I remember the looks on their faces when I first demonstrated my ability to input data at the speed of sound. Now they just can't get enough of me! I've quite forgotten how long I've been working there, and I love every minute. I get on really well with my bosses and coworkers, which I'm sure is not something most temporary data inputters can say! Today they even kept me behind a further two and a half hours to do some extra work as only I could. And tomorrow I'm in an hour early! I'll be in Australia in no time at this rate!
Arrive at work. Same old dowdy grey office. Same old chair. Same old desk. Same old stack of five hundred million surveys to input by the end of the week. Sometimes I regret ever turning my back on shop work; at least you don't get dead buttocks from sitting in the same seat entering data for four hours. Of course, I know if I took a shop job, I'd complain incessantly about arsehole customers and backache from being on my feet all day. Work sucks balls. Why will no-one buy my sodding book? Speaking of which, I was hoping to do some work on my new novel this afternoon, but that went out the window when one of my bosses kept me in until half five. And he expects me to come in an hour early tomorrow! And let's not mention how my other boss was looking over my shoulder while I was trying to eat lunch and dropping hints about being hungry. Dammit, I just remembered they sometimes read this site.
Work finally finished after a long but worthwhile day, and off I trot home! Realised halfway back that I left my umbrella. What a silly scatterbrain! Oh well, I get some more great exercise on the way back and get to have another pleasant chat with my colleagues as I retrieve it! Then I came home, and sat down at the computer to write all about my day for the benefit of my adoring fans all over the world. It's great to know I'm appreciated!
Finally set off home when my head was about to cave in, and forgot my umbrella. I only realised this when I was that certain distance away, where I'm still near enough to the office to justify going back for it but still far enough for the added walk to truly piss me off. Got back home in a foul mood and realised I needed to write an update. Sometimes, you know, I really don't know why I bother. I work myself to near bursting point, squeezing out article after article, and what do I get in return? I get the occasional hate mail for being unfunny, controversial or derivative. So you didn't like my site? Well, I am sorry! I'll be sure to refund the sum of NOTHING you paid to read it! I HATE YOU ALL, YOU UNGRATEFUL GITS.
Got to go now, it's time for a lovely bath and a shave! Toodle-oo!
Got to go now, it's time for me to perform the tri-weekly ritual of dragging a razor across my face while wallowing in my own filth. I'll see you tomorrow. If I still possess the will to live.
LOL!!! YUO ALL FELL FOR MY CLEVAR JOKE!!!!
I'm very much alive, and ready for another evening of ranting!
I hate pop music.
Yeah, I guess you already figured that out around about the time I mentioned that I hate pop music for the eleventh time. But I do. Those godawful sugary bands who bounce around on Top of the Pops singing about homework. The 'funky' bands who wear gold jewellery, little else and sing about shagging all the time. Trios of scantily-clad babes who pretend to be tough and/or lesbians. None of them last more than a few months in the public eye and fade back into obscurity, but that's OK, as there's usually a practically identical band already having their first and only hit.
The main problem with this sort of manufactured tripe is that producers only hire singers who are also really good-looking, in order to nab the vital squeaky schoolgirl demographic. Have we learned nothing from the past? David Bowie, Ringo Starr, Shane McGowan, all arguably decent musicians (very arguably in the case of the latter two) who made tons o'cash, all ugly bastards. There could be the Hunchback of Notre Dame out there writing music so beautiful that it would bring a tear to the eye of a passing rattlesnake, but we'd never know.
Which is not to say I don't think pop music has no place at all in society. If there weren't bands like Westlife and N-Sync around, what would the 8-12 year old girls spend their money on? They'd probably all buy Furbies and rapidly drive the omniverse to suicide. 8-12 year old girls probably aren't responsible enough to use their money carefully, so pop music performs the vital task of taking it all away from them. I just wish they wouldn't give the bloody bands so much airtime.
I've foreseen a problem for the pop music industry. The average chart life for a pop band is somewhere around the region of fourteen minutes, so new ones materialise all the time. And sooner or later, we're going to run out of names for them. After all, there are only so many words that sound cool, and only so many ways to misspell them. Take this new 'band': Tatu. The problem's already manifesting itself; they're just taking random words now.
So, I've hit upon a great idea.
NATIONALISE POP MUSIC!
I'm serious! Make pop music a government service. It'd stop those evil fatcat record producers getting so much money, and the treasury would have an extra few billion to spend on enormously idiotic art projects and redecorating Lord Irvine's house. I say throw all those crappy bands in the bin and just have one single solitary pop band to perform all the songs.
The band will ideally be composed of eight members; four boys, four girls. There'll have to be one boy and one girl from each major pop music-buying demographic. So two will be blonde-haired types with big cheesy grins, colourful outfits, and a fondness for lollipops and puppies. Two will wear no shirts, beanie hats and enough gold jewellery to buy most of the Third World out of debt, who will make bizarre hand gestures to the camera and say 'yo' and 'whassup' a lot. Two will wear baggy clothes, dyed spikey hair and piercings, and the last two will paint their faces white and dress in black Victorian outfits. Each pairing will take it in turns to front songs from their receptive musical genres while the others can stay in the background and dance/hum/remove clothing.
Now the kids can waste the money on this band's manufactured shit while record producers concentrate on signing proper bands who actually play instruments and write their own songs. Now, all we need is a hip name for our new pop ubergroup.
I guess it'd have to use the modern pop music naming process, listed below.
- Take a
random word from the dictionary.
So, just to give an example, 'The Monkees', using this naming scheme, would instead be named 'MUNK-E', and 'The Temptations' would become 'TEMPT-A-SHUNZ' Got the hang of it? Good! Now, let's try and think of a good name for our band. The random word I picked from my dictionary was 'Cabbage'. Here're some possibilities.
And just watch the money roll in!
Right, I need a piss.
Er, hello. I don't know you guys. My name is Dr. Peter Llewellyn, and I work at St. Cross Hospital, Rugby. It is my unpleasant duty to inform you that the gentleman who runs this internet website, Yahtzee he said his name was, has met with a tragic death. He was shot six times, fell off a roof, landed on electrical wires, was run over by a lorry and suffered a heart attack. It was touch and go for a while, but he eventually passed away in hospital. His last request was that someone update his website. So here I am.
Well, I'm not sure what exactly I'm supposed to be putting here, but I've seen my daughter's website and think I understand what's expected of me. As I said, my name is Dr. Peter Llewellyn. I'm 45 years old. My interests are snooker and making model planes. I'm once married, once divorced, and I just recently finished paying off my mortgage. Likes: Inspector Morse, National Geographic and books by J. R. R. Tolkien. Dislikes: War, poverty and mean people.
I'm a bit stuck for how to go on now - oh, wait a second. I just received an instant message from someone called H. Doggie who says he knew Mr. Yahtzee personally and can update the site. Funny, I didn't even know I was logged onto any instant message programs. Or the Internet, for that matter. I suppose this is how that new Broadband thing works.
Anyway, I'll turn over to H. Doggie now.
7777//begin yahtzee emulation
?Hey, have you ever noticed how beings of organic flesh are completely useless and illogical? I mean, really, who do they think they'reERROR IN LINE 2094 REDO FROM START
?I went downtown the other day to buy some RECTAL SWABS when I was suddenly struck down by what I can only describe as A HORDE OF RAMPAGING BILLYGOATS. I was understandably surprised. I got to thinking, why does going to the shops always inevitably result in some kind of encounter with A HORDE OF RAMPAGING BILLYGOATS? That was when I decided to make a list of all the reasons why A HORDE OF RAMPAGING BILLYGOATS really gets up my nose and no mistake.
- A HORDE
OF RAMPAGING BILLYGOATS always spends too long in the
+++ BOLLOCKS +++
The people who run Bingo halls are getting very rich and very desperate. I know they're getting very rich because they can afford to run adverts on TV all the time. I also know they're getting desperate by the content of these adverts.
In what is laughably known as 'the real world', Bingo is a game played by very old, lonely people. The announcers have to call out numbers into a microphone with the volume turned up full blast to accommodate people with hearing aids. In the really high-class places there are men in suits who take your zimmerframe for you and hang it up in a special room. By the time the eventual winner has hobbled over to the stage to receive a prize, everyone else has already died of a wide variety of old people diseases.
But the real world has little place on television, where wonders beyond your wildest imaginations can occur in any five-minute advert break. Let us leave the oft-treacherous and painful real world behind, and journey to a magical place between the ears of advertising executives.
In this fantasy dewdrop world, ordinary people always name products by the full title and hold up the packaging so that the name faces the camera. They recommend products avidly to friends and relatives who are infinitely grateful to have been told about this marvel. Everyone is happy and smiling, have well-paid nine-to-five jobs, live in nice suburban areas, are married and have two children. It is in this magical fantasy dewdrop world of advertising that we find what advertisers want us to think Bingo is like.
In the magical fantasy dewdrop world, an evening of Bingo is unmatched in the excitement stakes. Multiple orgasms can't hold a candle. In fact, many Bingo players seem to experience several whenever they win. There's an advert which rates how exciting certain activities are when compared to Bingo. 'Not Very' is the best summary. Bingo is played exclusively by exciting young professional men and women who all look like Tom Cruise and Julia Roberts. Not a Stannah Stairlift in sight.
Yes, the sheer unfettered joy on the faces of these people as they stand on the table and hold their winning tickets up like the Holy fucking Grail is comparable only to those far-eastern monks who spend fifty years in meditation to finally become one with the universe. And even they don't dance on tables and piss their pants when they reach ultimate serenity.
Obviously these advertisers have never been to an actual game of Bingo before, as they clearly haven't committed suicide. What surprises me is that these adverts are still pretty tame; if you're going to tell bare-faced lies about the excitement factor of Bingo, go the whole hog! Here's my script for a Bingo advert. Give me a call and we'll discuss how much you can pay me for it.
SCENE 1: Bingo hall. Four gorgeous pouting young twentysomethings (GPYTs) are sitting round a table.
GPYT 1: Boy, I'm sure glad we came to Bingo today!
GPYT 2: I concur!
GPYT 3: After all, we have precious little leisure time between working our high-flying well-paid jobs in the city and receiving Nobel Prizes!
GPYT 4: Yes!
(Enter George Clooney)
GEORGE: Hello, ladies! I've just had a contraceptive dispenser installed in the back of my limo and I need someone to help me test it, any volunteers?
GPYT 1: Get lost! We're playing BINGO!
GEORGE: Oh, sorry, I can quite understand. After all, when you compare Bingo to having constant sex with a glamorous and well-hung movie star, there's really only one option. I feel so wretched in having interrupted your game I will now go and push a knife into my heart.
GPYT 3: What a twat!
GPYT 2: I concur!
GPYT 4: Shush! The announcer's starting to read out the numbers!
ANNOUNCER: Eyes down for the first number. Two little ducks, 22 -
(Enter Armed South American Guerrilla Soldier (ASAGS))
ASAGS: Hold everytheeng! We, the people's army, demand that thees Beengo game does not go ahead!
ANNOUNCER: That's what YOU think!
(Announcer goes into a well-choreographed sequence of incredible martial arts moves and beats the ASAGS into crawling submission)
ASAGS: I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry!
ANNOUNCER: I forgive you, for you are a victim of a broken home and unforgiving political system.
GPYT 1: Wow, Bingo announcers are the most amazing people in the world!
ANNOUNCER: Yes, but I'm afraid I must confess that I am not actually a Bingo announcer. I am, in fact, Jesus Christ, and I have returned to bring the world to salvation.
(Jesus spreads love and peace throughout the entire world)
GPYT 3: Jesus has saved the world!
GPYT 4: Oh, Lord Jesus, you have brought joy and happiness to every miserable sinner on Earth. What will you do now?
JESUS: I'm going to play BINGO!
material not otherwise credited by Ben 'Yahtzee' Croshaw