PREZZIES! PREZZIES! PREZZIES!

As the child of emotionally feckless millionaires, my yearly Christmas stocking is less of a Christmas stocking and more of an obscenely herniatic horn of plenty that never runneth dry. Such was my bumper prezzie harvest in 2011, that I died from overexcitement. My brain simply couldn’t cope with the stimulation and imploded, like the genetically-impoverished heart valves of an inbred show-hound that has just seen itself in the mirror for the first time.

This is what I got for Christmas:

Flat-pack fully-submersible Dangle-Droid with removable, articulatable inseminator cannon.

A Blimp

JFK ‘Death in Dallas’ Cadillac Replica plus wetwipes.

All back-issues for the following alternative comix: Zurt, Wut?, Shluck, Funny Schmux, Creep ‘Zine, Fut, Snup!, Meat ‘n’ Great, Gallthtone Comicth, Zoich.

Jesus Sweatband

Authentic Huddie Leadbetter molar.

Two tickets to JFK Shoot-a-Rama theme park, plus discount vouchers for Lee Harvey Oswald Nuptial Suite in Bamborough Travelodge.

Puberty

Zesty Lemon Spray

Bog Baby Doll

Fluffed-out, billowsome shirt with tasteful epaulettes, wispy tails and Big Boy buttons.

Jackie Onassis-brand Brain Catcher

One of your aristocratic centaurs

My friend Stephen and I like to invent centaur jokes. In the broad scheme of things, one would think that this were quite an innocent pastime. One would think wrong! When our quipping caught the attention of the Merseyside Centaur Community Association, we found ourselves in deep manure . Such was their consternation at the thought of two gangly ageing youths making light of their proud homo-equinicus heritage, that they stampeded and hoofed us into tiny bits. We died, of course. Without wishing to add insult to injury, here are some of our best centaur jokes:

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Q. Did you hear about the halfman-halfhorse rower who powered his boat using the power of smell?

A. Yes, it was a scent-oar.

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Q. Did you hear about the Nobel prize-winning Indian economist who went on holiday riding a beast that was halfman-halfhorse?

A. Yes, it was the Amartya Sen-Tour

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Q. Did you about the halfman-halfhorse who was a mailman by day and an Elvis impersonator by night?

A. Yes, I particularly enjoyed his rendition of ‘Return to Centaur’

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Q. How are baby halfman-halfhorses nourished in the womb?

A. Via the pla-centaur.

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Q. Did you hear about the irate ostler who threatened to murder a shopkeeper who would not comply with his request for some paint with which to change the colour of his halfman-halfhorse’s coat?

A. Yes, the ostler reputedly said ‘Assent or die’ (a centaur dye) in a threatening manner.

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Q. To which leisure complex did the halfman-halfhorse take his family on holiday?

A. Centaur Parcs.

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Q. Which late 1980s Manchester nightspot catered exclusively for halfman-halfhorses?

A. The Hacientaur

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Q. Did you hear about the murderous halfmanhalfhorse that carries a shell around on its back?

A. Yes, it’s the assassin-tortoise (assa-centaur-toise)!

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Dear Cousin John,

After all of the incredulity and the mocking and the accusations of fraud, our predictions have proven well-founded. Your Uncle Ignatius has lost his left leg in a tragic three-legged race accident. It was terrible John, it really was. He’d got through to the regional semi-finals with his three-legged race partner, Professor Braintree, and was approaching the finishing line in first place, when their respective right and left legs, which were tied together, snagged on a hoop of wurzel-grass and came flying off. It was awful to see them hopping around in agony like a pair of deranged monopods, John, it really, really was.

Well you know your Uncle Ignatius’s generosity John. It knows no bounds. He offered Professor Braintree the £10,000 prosthetic leg you bought him right then and there. “Take it, Professor” he said, “I wouldn’t have it any other way”. Actually, it wasn’t too difficult for Ignatius, because he’s gone off the idea of having a prosthetic leg. He’s been reading up on it. Apparently they can be more of a hindrance than a help. And there is of course the stigma.

After all of the kind things you have done for your Uncle Ignatius, I really feel quite cheeky asking you for this. But I know that, for you, generosity is its own reward, so I’ll just spit it out: How would you feel about donating your left leg to your poor old Uncle Ignatius? You’ve always been quite an indoorsy person, with your reading and your silly little blog, whereas your Uncle Ignatius is more of a Captain Scott/Pele kind of person, with his three-legged races and his brisk walks and such. And you know he has always talked about doing charity work with children, which requires a lot of walking and squatting. It would be very difficult for him to attend to the little ones who desperately need his help if his big clunking prosthetic leg was always getting in the way. A real, flesh leg would be a real boon for him and the charity sector in general..

Please, take some time to think about it. It is a big decision and not one you should rush into (although the sooner you could get the leg to him the less likely he will be to bleed to death).

Thanks Cousin John. You’re a real star. You must come round for cake some time.

Your cousin,

Mifanwy

1) Dear John,

I’ve run out of sherbet lemons AGAIN. Send more “please”.

Fanny

2) Dear John,

When are you going to let me have a go with your dog? You know my mother won’t let me have one in the house. Why do you have to be such an ass about it? Just lend it me already.

Klaus

3) John old pal,

Do you remember my cousin Boris? He’s the one who’s worn the same T-shirt for 14 years and whose nose bled in your ghoulash that time when you came to visit the family but who only remembered to tell you after you ate it all? Ho ho. Good old Boris. What a character. Well his VISA is about to expire. It’s terrible. He’ll almost certainly lose his job at the mortuary. The doctor has said that there’s a 97% chance Aunty Ludwigia will have another mental breakdown if poor old Boris gets deported, and then there will be no one to look after little Vladimir and his 8 sisters.

But don’t worry John old pal, there is a gleam of hope, and that’s where you come in. How do you feel about entering into a civil partnership with old Boris? It’d just be for a few years until he gets his full citizenship. You’ll only have to sleep in the same bed  while ever the immigration officers are carrying out their overnight inspections to make sure you’re a bona fide couple. And Boris’s nosebleeds really aren’t half as profuse nor as lumpy as they were back when you last saw him. He’s quite a wit really. He’s got some great stories about the mortuary. You’ll be great together. The ceremony is tomorrow.

Cheers chum,

Pavlov

1) Dear Cousin John,

Please send a cheque for £1500 immediately. Your Uncle Ignatius is in dire need of a prosthetic leg. No, don’t worry, he’s still got both of his legs. But it’s better to be prepared.

Love,

Your cousin,

Mifanwy

2) Dear Cousin John,

I’m afraid the worst has happened. Your Uncle Ignatius has lost the prosthetic leg you kindly bought him (he says to say thanks). Could you make out another cheque for £10,000? He says that he has a strong conviction that the cheaper £1500 models will irritate his stump, should part of his leg happen to be amputated or severed. The £10,000 ones are hypoallergenic. They’re the ones that the astronauts wear, John. I know it seems like a lot but it will really lift your Uncle Ignatius’s spirits to know that he is wearing what the astronauts wear, in the event that he loses his leg due to an unforeseen accident or gangrene infection or attack of flesh-eating bacteria. Also, could you make out a cheque for an additional £250 for a velvet-lined gilt-edged waterproof prosthetic leg trunk that he saw in the Argos catalogue, just in case he leaves it in the garden by mistake, like he did with those glass eyes you bought him that time. Also, could you send £35 for a thigh-master and £150 for a trampoline?

That’s £10, 435, John. Thanks.

Love

Your Cousin

Mifanwy.

3) Hey Bapster

How’s it going buddy? Yeah? Great! Listen, thanks for having me round for dinner the other day. Great trough man. Yeah.

Anyway, while I was round I couldn’t help but notice that in your passport photo you looked freakishly like me. Like we were twins or some shit. It got me to thinking, why bother forking out an arm and a leg (sorry to hear about your Uncle Ignatius by the way buddy) for a new passport, when I could just borrow yours. Have you seen how much it costs to get a new passport? It’s like £550. WTF? It’s crazy. Anyway man, you’d be doing me a real favour. I’ll only be out of the country for 3 months, if that. If you want to borrow my Police Academy or Cocoon box sets just say the word. I’d be happy to lend them to you.

Cheers buddy. I’ll come round tomorrow to pick it up.

Bradster

To be continued…

Colin Cloute: Mr January in Cosmopolitan magazine's 2009 'Shepherds' Calendar

Here’s a stanza about how I ran into Colin Cloute, the alter-ego of the Elizabethan poet,  Edmund Spenser, and he caused my face to fly off, fatally, by using his ability to produce musical sounds out of fruit on a Braeburn apple stain on my face. That’s right: I too am a victim of the musical fruit decapitation epidemic that is currently gripping ‘Cameron’s Croakin’ Country’ (note to self: must find better catchphrase to replace ‘Brown’s Broken Britain’) . Here is the stanza:

John Le Baptiste was pricking on the plain,

Yclad in loafers and chunky knitwear

His face all y-spreckled with Braeburn stain

Which madeth the plain-folk to tut and stare.

Colin Cloute at this time did tune a pear,

For he could produce songs from any fruit,

He saw the Braeburn stain John’s face did bear

And eke he made it whistle like a flute:

Alas, off came John’s face with a rooty toot toot.

On the doomsday clock of his bum

It was always Trump o’ Clock.

Some say roughage made him that way

Others say he was possessed by the

Spirit of a pig with dysentery.

He is now with his Maker

Parping contentedly

On a cumulo-nimbus

And smelling of rose-water.

Dear Sir/Madam,

I would like to apply for my job. I am interested in exploring new opportunities and developing my skills, and I feel my job would provide me with an excellent opportunity to explore these new opportunities. This however is academic and semantic. And while ever I am sitting here growing florid, you, I and everyone else is losing money. So let me cut to the chase. I know you value plain speaking. So here is why you should give me my job:

1) I have played Macbeth off Broadway

2) I can kill a man by staring at his dog

3) I have never put my genitals on any of the bread products

4) I know what you done to Benny that time in the meat room

5) I am the strongest person in my family

6) I can rap

7) I have a massive penis

8) I will die if you fire me

9) I really will die. Horribly. And it will be your fault.

10) God is watching you

11) He told me.

12) I can work by myself or as part of a team.

13) I am punctual (on my mother’s side)

Best wishes,

John Le Baptiste

Post-script: not only did the CEO of T**** refuse to continue my employment, he also hunted me down and beat me to death with his gruesome lecherous fists. I was gobsmacked. What do you have to do to impress these people?

I have thrown a 5, therefore the picnic table and everything in it is mine

Recently I was savagely assassinated by a horde of Warhammer characters. It was brutal and there was lots of roaring and at one point one of the die actually rolled under the sofa. My friend, Toby Whistler, said it was the nastiest Warhammer death he had ever seen. After the 3-hour kill session was over, Toby, Ryan, Michael and I ate Maltesers and drank some Lilt. It was nice, in spite of the aforementioned slaying. Here is a list of the names of my murderers:

Therthetter Perkatamor

The Kretertheerpetterthet

Thoth, Son of Hoth

Fruthticulus Grooth

Goeth Mifanwy

Pithy Nathtuth

Frothty the Thnowman

Mathathakathawa the Cruthipulon

Et tu, Buth-tithi-wait-tabithiculastes Gerwrongtube?

Ebola: My Beautiful Murderess

Here is a poem about how I died of Ebola, kind of.

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I was wrongo in the Congo buddy

Let me tell you

Twenty K north of base camp

With a nervous hunchback

And a heart full of grief.

_______

“Don’t go in the caves, friend”

He said, so, of course, I went in the caves.

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Two hours later my eyes went ‘snick’ (in a bad way)

My spleen fell noisily into my pants

And my stomach wrote a letter of complaint

To the British embassy.

My nose fell off my face

Revealing a bony crevice

Of unsettling dimensions.

The hunchback screamed “Skellington”

Shat himself, then shot himself.

My testicles swelled to the size of zeppelins

Then crashed fierily like the Hindenberg

Onto the forest floor.

I did a sort of involuntary dance

Which the locals called

“The March of the Decomposing Caucasoid”,

A title with a kind of poetry to it,

I felt.

_____

Eventually a pro-euthanasia parrot

Put me out of my misery

By pecking me to death at point blank range.

_____

Phewee, buddy.

Close call.

I came this close to dying of Ebola.