The Y-Files: The Tinny Blabber Code. Part Five.

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The Y Files: The Tinny Blabber Code

My little experiment in writing satirical fiction has been great fun. Whilst I am the first to admit my technical skills need plenty of honing, I am hoping to do more about that by going back to school. I recently wrote a couple of more political spoofs. I suppose a mixture of Spitting Image, Tom Sharpe and Dan Brown meet the X Files is the best description for it.

After two short stories, I got so ‘in’ to the whole thing that in the next session of brainstorming I produced a 6k word sequel with plenty of space to continue. The whole thing became so absurd that I decided that I would use the little anecdote ‘The Great Welsh Cockles Wars’ and the political sketch ‘Heroin addicts etc, ( both posted here,) to actually be part one and two of a novelette. With such vivid characters, I just had to keep some or even maybe all into a story of what is now becoming a lampoon on modern day life.

So for your reading pleasure I present:

The Y Files: The Tinny Blabber Code. Part 3.

Wolf Mildew cast a quick glimpse at his image in the tacky Chinese made wall mounted mirror. The glowing green frame sent a pulsating signal to his brain, ‘I believe’, and noticing that he hadn’t turned into a wide eyed spaced out Alien abductee in the last five minutes, he brushed the few specs of dandruff from his immaculate Gucci suit jacket and waited for his ex-partner to arrive.

In fact, he was dying to sit down as his feet were killing him. Special Secret agent Dilly Slapper, 38-32-36, was late again. The very thought of her ridiculing him for creases in his trousers kept him on his toes. Mildew sighed, took a wilted Remembrance Day poppy out of his epaulette and started plucking the paper petals as he chanted softly to himself,

“She will, she won’t, she will, she…”

“Won’t! And that’s definite, you daft bald-headed fat twat, this better be good as I had to rush from the hairdressers, just as he was telling me what Cherry Blabber uses to dye her roots.” That was the usual style of entrance for the most desired Secret Agent in British Intelligence. Sadly she had none, but looked good and was known to execute a good hand job quickly and cleanly in the cleaners’ cupboard if it got her kicked up the ladder.

In fact, Dilly Slapper was so good at it, she was now Head Of Paralytic Research. Her expense account was rumoured to be top secret, but she spent considerable time in ‘The Nags Give Head’ pub, gathering important facts.

Wolf collapsed his ample arse onto the only stool in the tiny, cold, grey office deep in the basement of MI 69 headquarters. The Gucci pants ripped apart loudly as the Chinese produced fake disintegrated under the pressure.

“Gawd.Your so pathetic! What you want anyway, that’s so important huh! You been seeing Aliens again? I told you to stop watching Prime Minister’s question time.” Dilly lifted her right arm up above her head, and sniffed her armpit, exposing a couple of day’s stubble of dark hair. Wrinkling her nose up, she dropped her arm after first running her long lacquered nails through her freshly dyed peroxide blonde hair.

“Gawd, I stink, took me nearly 20 minutes to fire the head off, of the Head of C.O.C.K, (Covert Operations and Clandestine Killings,) this morning. Dirty old git, but I got me the keys to a new Jag convertible. My bloody arm hurts though. Anyway, stupid Alien man…what’s up Doc?” She snickered loudly. She loved ripping into Dr. Professor Wolf Mildew, Alien specialist.

The fact that it was him who had got Dilly Slapper through the front door was the only reason she even bothered to talk to him still. Promotion came via using her back door she soon worked out. So Wolf stayed in the cellar whilst Dilly had her head in the clouds. Even Wolf knew that offering HIS back door to any of the hierarchy, would result in his head in a sewer drainage pipe. Less his body.

Wolf smiled stupidly and reached for the half full pint glass of ale on the table. She had turned him into what he was now. Instead of Aliens and the Paranormal, it was Ale and totally Paralytic by knocking off time. But this time he would finally get her respect for what he did professionally. He could give her something she most desired, to be on the biggest television reality show; ‘I’m a Celebrity. Get me out of here’.

“I can prove that our Prime Minister, Tinny Blabber, was abducted by Aliens!” He almost shouted in his suppressed excitement.

Dillies eyes opened wide and pulling her right index finger out of her left nostril she flicked some of London’s accumulated CO2 carbon emissions onto the ceiling. Counting rapidly at the other accumulated balls of snot that were still stuck there, she gave up at nine, and concluded she came down here far to often.

“Big fucking deal, dick head. We all know that. Is that why…”

“No No, there is more!” Wolf interrupted, slobbering over his only clean shirt that he had worn for the occasion,

“His brain was operated on and impregnated with SPIN. And it’s highly contagious. Most of his cabinet is showing signs of the disease. It’s a plot to take over the WORLD!”

Slapper poked another long bright red finger nail between two bottom molars, trying to ease out a piece of Château Brained she had had for lunch. Smiling as the piece came loose, she chewed it for a fraction to savoir the memory, and swallowing, looked at Wolf and said,

“How he do that then? Shag Gobby Browneye?” She giggled at her crude referral to the present Chancellor.

“Exactly, your brilliant!” Wolf couldn’t quite believe how she jumped to that conclusion so fast.

Dilly wasn’t sure, she thought it was a joke, but with her afternoon ruined she might as well stick around and hear the rest.

“Go on Mastermind, and then?” Finding a corner of Mildews cluttered desk free, she attempted to pull one of her bright blue leather knee-length boots off.

“Look,” Wolf waved to a computer monitor showing a huge expanse of complex mathematical formulas. “This is what I call, The Tinny Blabber Code, and I am close to finally cracking it. I have put in all the tax returns of Tinny and his wife for the last 10 years and asked the computer to match the figures against the letters of the alphabet. The results are amazing.”

“Give us a hand pulling this bloody boot off will you; I think I’ve got a hole in my stocking. Anyway I don’t understand a thing you’re talking about.”

Wolf stood up awkwardly, and grabbing the proffered heel in his podgy hands, pulled it off.

“You bloody idiot, how the hell am I suppose to walk to my new Jag with no heel on my boot? Gawd, you’re USELESS.” The enraged former lap dancer snatched the heel out of Wolf’s hand and stuffed into her large alligator skin handbag with the Luis Vuitton logo emblazoned all over it.
“Hurry up, I’m getting bored.”

Wolf licked his lips and threw Dilly a foxy look. “Listen, all the tax returns are exactly the same every year. The identical amount of 19,169 pounds and 14 pence. It’s impossible. They are taking in millions, but that’s all they declare, year after year, before;” Mildew entered some letters into the computer keyboard and the screen changed, “so called expenses.”

Slapper looked vaguely at the latest screen offering through drooping eyes. The lunch session with Lord Goffrey Strongbow, along with two bottles of some fancy incomprehensibly named red wine, was dulling what little concentration she could muster. “You got any Coke?”

Wolf rummaged amongst his stacks of cardboard boxes he used as a filing cabinet and presented Dilly with a silver tin of sugar free.

“You sad fuck!” Dilly snorted at him. “Not that shit, you moron. Something to shove up my nose to wake me up!” Before she could continue, the handbag she had placed on the floor started to vibrate and create sounds like a demented frog on heroin. Ignoring Wolf, who was busy punching more details into the keyboard, she rummaged briefly and pulled out the bright pink mobile phone encrusted with plastic diamonds. Flicking the lid, she pressed a few buttons and perused the small screen before cackling loudly with laughter.

Wolf recognised that cruel tone of humour she had. The first time he had heard it was when he had presented his awaiting private parts for grateful compensation in the men’s bogs at the The Nags Give Head pub after he had arranged employment for her with C.O.C.K.

“Hey Wolfie, listen to this,” her bright red surgically enhanced lips pouted in his direction for a second, before reading from the text she had just received, “A man of mixed race goes to the Doctor. He runs on the spot and he tells the Doc that he can’t stop jogging. The Doc pours out some white powder from an envelope, uses a scalpel to create two thin long lines on his desk and tells the patient to sniff it. The patient does and stops jogging on the spot. He says to the Doc, “WOW, is that cocaine?” Nah says the Doc, its Persil, guaranteed to stop colours from running!” With that she shrieked with laughter.

Mildew was appalled. “You can’t go around receiving and sending stuff like that in this country. You will have the law on top of you in no time at all!”

“That’s true,” Slapper acknowledged, “the Chief Justice has a date with me later tonight…hah hah hah. Anyway gotta dash, so be quick. What you want from me?”

“Look,” pointing to the screen, “the sum repeated over 10 years is equal in the alphabet to the word SPIN.” And that’s where you come in,” Wolf added.

“I do? How you figure that out? Anyway, what does this SPIN mean?” Slapper limped over to the screen for a better look. One thing she did know about Wolf Mildew, the man might be an overweight drunken sot at 48, but he wasn’t a fool.

“I am not sure, but the secret is somewhere in 10 Connning Street. I think it will be hidden behind a painting. I need you to get in and look.”

“And how exactly am I suppose to do that? I can’t exactly see Tinny’s wife welcoming me with open arms, do you?” But Slapper was excited with the idea. If anyone could pull a stunt to get her photographed entering the P.M.’s private quarters, then Wolf could.
“You are to make ‘friends’ with M.P. Divhead Bonkit, the new Minister for Druggies and Dossers. He is a close friend of the Blabbers. I don’t need to explain to an expert like you how to wangle a dinner invitation, do I?” Wolf smiled and handed her a slip of paper.

“What’s this?” Dilly looked at the small yellow note scrawled with Wolf’s clumsy writing.

“It’s the name of a pet shop near ‘Nutter’s Corner’ in Hyde Park. Buy yourself a bitch. Preferably an Afghan hound and let it run free next Sunday at exactly 11.00 a.m. at ‘Nutter’s Corner’. Divhead always does his ‘Don’t blame me’ speeches there at that time whilst his dog shits all over the place. Once Divhead’s dog starts doing the ‘humpies’ with yours, you can break the ice. After that…well, nature takes its course,” Wolf added with a knowing wink.

“Phone me at home as soon as you have been penetrated…er, I mean you got in there...” Wolf ended lamely. “You pull this off, I swear you will go to Australia to eat Ant and Dec’s little worms on T.V.”

“Done. I will let you know.” Scooping up her bag, she hobbled to the door. “And get some decent coke in for next time we meet asshole!”

***

The Y-Files: The Tinny Blabber Code. Part Four.

“Well, Egghead, what you think?” Dilly Slapper did a quick spin on the spot in Wolf Mildew’s office.

Wolf whistled a spluttering high pitched tone. “Well done Dilly, you look fantastic.” That she did. Gone was the cheap tart look of Pretty Women fame. Now she was attired and groomed like a large breasted version of Geena Davis playing the part of an American President. “So when is the night?”

Mildew’s plan had worked a treat. Divhead Bonkit M.P. and the head of C.O.C.K. s paralytic department were as far as the press is concerned, a pair. Dilly gloated over the mountain of newspapers piled on Mildews desk from the previous week. Her image, along with the Cabinet member for the Druggies and Dossers portfolio, were spread on every front page.

‘BONKIT’S LATEST DOG’, screamed the headlines of the Britain’s best selling daily, The Sun. Below this was a photograph of Dilly and Divhead collecting a new dog for the blind.

“Next Friday.” Dilly paused a fraction, “shame about that plain clothes copper shooting the dogs in the head in broad daylight. All I shouted out was, “Help, there is an Afghan holding Divhead Bonkit hostage!” Next thing you know, this idiot runs over, and pumps four bullets into both dogs head. All I meant was that his bleedin dog couldn’t get off the bitch cos they were locked and howling their heads off and he couldn’t get home without his mutt. Anyway, what exactly am I looking for behind the paintings?” Dilly tossed The Sun aside to expose the next paper, The Daily Creep, Britain’s most popular satirical daily. The report was again written by their crack reporter Urine Heep.

‘Afghan hounded to death. Taliban shot in head at ‘Nutters Corner’.’ Dilly snorted through her nose as she read the title. “That; was a bloody stupid name for a dog anyway. Plus the thing stank. Won’t miss it at all. Poor Divvie was gutted about his mutt though. So Mr Alien man, what this SPIN thing look like?

Mildew looked down at the picture accompanying the article, the two dead dogs still locked together, surrounded by a gawking circle of drunken teenagers, and scratched his hole absentmindedly through a pink Turkish plagiarism of an Addidas tracksuit, as he pondered his answer.

“I think it will be a document of some form.” Wolf looked over towards Dilly. “Can you handle Bonkit okay? I don’t want you hurt in anyway.”

Slapper ran her long finger nails through her perfectly coiffured short Rosemary’s Baby styled hair and let out a demonical cackle of laughter. “You piss artist! Divvie is like putty in my hands...hah hah hah.” It was true. The man was blindly in love with her. He just couldn’t see it was him being taken for the ride. “I’ll dump the fool as soon as I find the SPIN. He talks the most complete twaddle anyway. If he saw the look on my face he would have a heart attack.” Dilly crossed her eyeballs and putting a middle finger from each hand into her large mouth pulled the corners out in a death grimace.

“Please don’t pull stunts like that when you’re having dinner with the Blabbers for gawd sake!” Wolf exclaimed, “they don’t like the piss being taken out of them.”

“Hey, Area 51 man, what happens if he got shit loads of pictures hanging all over the place? I can’t spend the whole time looking behind pictures. They will think I’m nuts or something.” Dilly tossed The Daily Creep on the side and grinned almost as broadly without her fingers stuck in her mouth, at the picture adorning The News of the World.

Mildew had been fascinated with the picture when he first saw it. The professional in him admired the paparazzi photographer who had managed to get such a superb image of the Cabinet member being flagellated with a white cane by an almost naked Dilly Slapper in knee height bright red leather boots. They both studied the picture taken through the window of Dilly’s bedroom in silence for a moment.

“Look, you can even make out our Rodney in the background.” A finger touched the spot on the image where a cheap Chinese tacky picture frame sat on a Ikea draws cabinet beyond the bed; where a prone, manacled, naked Bonkit, received some corporal punishment in sexual ecstasy.
“He told me he might be out on parole soon,” Dilly added. Her twin brother was serving out a 14 year prison sentence for flying a micro light into a Chinese pagoda in Legoland.

Wolf looked at the accompanying headline, ‘Divhead Whips Up Support!’ Then said to Dilly,

“Tinny Blabber’s ego is massive. He would have hidden SPIN behind a picture of special significance. During dinner, try and coax out of him his favourite paintings. Then say you need the toilet and see if you can spot it. Watch out for his wife though,” his look made Dilly withdraw her wisecrack. The Prime Minister would be an easy touch, but Cherry, his wife was pure poison ivy. Slapper’s female intuition spotted a dangerous feline from ten miles away, plus her hairdresser at Vidal’s Samoosas says she was a real bitch, that didn’t tip the girls and moaned about the Elton John music being played in the background. Instead, she asked,

“Did you phone Ant and Dec as you promised?”

“Everything is under control Dilly. I’ll have the press ready and waiting on Friday evening. Just get me the answer to the Tinny Blabber Code. I’ll be finally out of here. Your such big news now, you don’t really need me. Just think of it as a reward for my hard work.” Wolf’s tone was now equal to a left wing politician begging for votes from East End crackheads.

Look, I have a reward for you. Flashing a gold Dunhill lighter at Mildew, she flicked its top and spinning the tiny wheel, created a tall flame. Bending sharply over, she proffered the burning lighter near her buttocks, tightly wrapped in a cold coffee grey Stella McCartney designed trouser and belted out a noisy tune of methanol gas. The blue flash as it ignited made Wolf jump back in alarm.

“That’s disgusting, where you learn that?”

Dilly straightened up and snapped the lighter closed. “From Viz magazine, Handy Tips. It said that methane is the second largest cause of global warming and we should burn it off to save the planet. I thought it was a good idea and great fun too,” Dilly added, as she gazed on Mildews face that had grown very pale.


Using her eyes to really convey a genuine smile, Dilly looked at the poor pathetic creature rotting away in the ‘dungeons’ of M.I.69.

“Listen, Wolfie,” exhaling smoke rings from a freshly lit personally monogrammed Dunhill menthol cigarette, Dilly nodded her head slightly towards Secret Agent Doctor Professor Wolf Mildew, Alien specialist for C.O.C.K., “you done me good, I wont forget that.”

As Dilly left the room she turned and glanced at the semi-drunk obese balding figure looking at her so trustingly with bloodshot eyes behind Clark Kent styled glasses.

“Do me a favour will ya. Stop wearing pink. It don’t suit ya.”

To be continued…

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ZIMBABWE.

I am rather busy on another project at the moment, so I take the liberty of taking this article from The Times. If you are a reader from the European Union, you will also be thrilled to bits to hear that a brand new road built with your tax will soon be opened to great hoo-ha in Malawi.

The opening will be made by a guest of honour whose name will be given to the new road…yeah, you guessed it…Robert Gabriel Mugabe. Excuse me whilst I throw up.

Zimbabwe economy limps into anniversary.

FROM JAN RAATH IN HARARE

THE first time that Anna was arrested, two policemen confiscated her box of tomatoes, bananas, popcorn and a couple of cigarettes and ordered her to pay an on-the-spot fine of Z$250,000 (65p) for illegal vending.
When she refused to pay they took her Z$160,000 takings for the afternoon, put it in their pockets and left. Two days later Anna was caught by the police with her goods spread out on a sack. They told her to bring her goods with her to the police station.

On the way the police asked how much money she had. “Nothing,” she said. They said she could go. “No,” she said. “I want to go to the police station. I have done criminal things. Let’s go.”
“What’s your name?” they asked aggressively. She told them. “You are too cheeky,” they said. “Yes,” she said, “I am too cheeky.” She strode back to her corner, triumphant. Anna started trading on the street to pay her two children’s school fees. For millions of Zimbabweans, informal trading on a tiny scale has become the difference between life and starvation.
President Mugabe has declared the activity illegal. Every day thousands are arrested in police raids and lose their earnings and their goods, or have them smashed.
“I will be back there every day, selling,” Anna said. “They can come. I am no longer afraid of them.”

This is the reality of Zimbabwe as the country commemorates today the 26th anniversary of independence from Britain. Mr Mugabe has presided over the ruin of the country’s economy, once one of the strongest in Africa. The rapid impoverishment of Zimbabweans has been compounded by the destruction of the homes of nearly one million people, who have also been banned from making a living in his notorious “Operation Remove the Rubbish”, which continues after 11 months.
Last week the World Health Organisation said that Zimbabwean women had the lowest life expectancy in the world, at 34 years. The country has the highest inflation, at 913 per cent. The Consumer Council of Zimbabwe estimates that a family of six needs Z$35 million a month to survive. Six years ago Z$1 million dollars would have bought a whole block of luxury apartments.

State school fees have recently risen by 1,000 per cent. “Zimbabwean children are faced with some of the worst hardships confronting children anywhere in the world,” a Unicef spokesman said.
John Makumbe, a political commentator, said: “Life has become unbearable and unaffordable. These people are waiting to vent their anger through mass demonstrations. We are on the brink. The element of (ordinary Zimbabweans’) fear is overrated. That point is going to become clearer in the next few months.”
Morgan Tsvangirai, the leader of what appears to be the dominant faction of the divided Opposition, the Movement for Democratic Change, is capitalising on the rising mood of defiance.
He has promised in recent weeks that he will lead street protests to bring down the Government and has said that he is prepared to die doing so. He has hinted that the movement will start next month.
Mr Mugabe responded with a stark warning to Mr Tsvangirai: “If he wants to invite his own death, let him go ahead.”
John Robertson, an economist, said: “We are in a tinderbox situation. If something starts, it can become complete collapse and it can be started by street violence. They will call the soldiers out, but the soldiers may turn their guns on their leaders. They are having as difficult a time as everyone.

BACKWARDS STEP

1980
Name Rhodesia Capital Salisbury

Government White minority rule under Prime Minister Smith

Cost of loaf of bread Z$0.20

Land 4,500 white farmers own 70 per cent of fertile land

Adult literacy 70 per cent

Life expectancy 58 GDP per capita (real terms) US$3,377

2006
Name Zimbabwe Capital Harare

Government Nationalist ZANU-PF party under President Mugabe

Cost of loaf of bread Z$90,000

Land Farms seized from white ownership

Adult literacy 91 per cent

Life expectancy 37 GDP per capita US$2,100

Silly Mr Brown, please go away.

So the Chancellor wants to hand out more taxpayer’s money to educate the poor in Third World countries. Oops, I meant to say developing nations. What a load of hypocritical hogwash!
Pupils get paid to go to high school in the U.K., whilst university students have to pay ‘top up’ fees that will leave them in serious debt if they can manage to finish their degree. I would call these people poor!

When the last GCSE examination results came out last year, a young girl I know, proudly showed me her exam results. A large range of passed subjects, all with grades ‘C’ or above. One of them was an ‘A’ grade for German, despite that she could not understand even the most basic sentence of the language when I spoke to her in that tongue. Her knowledge of English, where she also achieved a high grade, was such that she could neither read nor comprehend, nor concentrate on any of my little anecdotes I print out and let people in this town read for feedback and comments. Any reading material I ever see in her hand consists of glossy ‘Celebs’ type rubbish.

I suggest Mr. Brown stop gallivanting around Africa and sort out the education problems back at home. Africa must sort itself out. Pumping donated billions into the continent has made a bad situation worse.

Zimbabwe produced one of the highest literacy rates in Africa for the first 15 odd years after achieving Independence. An incredible feat, considering that during the ‘Liberation Struggle’ the army of the ruling party effectively shut down or destroyed just about every school in the rural areas. After taking over the former whites-only schools, the government promised free education and although the qualifications, as in Britain, have been watered down, it produced a generation of a rather well educated population.

Today the Zimbabwean school system is in bits. The teachers are leaving en masse. Their wages barely cover the cost of 30 loaves of bread a month. They are forced to sell sweets or fruit and vegetables to their pupils to survive.
The government initiation of fees has resulted in a huge amount of the population unable to send their children to school. Many of the kids pass out in class from malnutrition. There is a shortage of everything, from desks to school books. The government now wants the children to report on their teachers.
At the University and Colleges, the situation is literally explosive. Over half the students cannot afford the term fees. Some colleges have erected fences in an attempt to stop non paying students from attending classes. Dissenting students are regularly arrested and beaten by the police or the feared secret service, the C.I.O.

Private schools supply the best education, but have been targeted by the ruling party who are attempting to cap fees as inflation passes the 900% mark. It is only a question of time till they collapse.

So what happened to that generation of well educated Zimbabweans? Most of them live abroad now. The economy and political chaos in their homeland cannot give them employment or if they find any, the wages are a pittance. There is hope though. Robert Mugabe and his corrupt ruling elite cannot hang on to power much longer. Should a regime change show transparency, honesty, respect human rights, personal property and above all, obey the rule of law, these people will go back and build a new Zimbabwe.

So I say to Mr. Brown: Stay at home and sort your system out here. The only education you must supply is teaching the crackpot despots of Africa the basics between right and wrong. Until they have that drummed into their heads, shovelling billions into another African black hole will only produce a few fancy examples to show on T.V. during party political broadcasts, which are watched by an ever larger dwindling British populace who are literally incapable of understanding at all what their leaders are waffling on about.

Instead they will download the G8 pop concert for their iPods, collect ASBOs, attempt to read The Sun and dream of becoming a celebrity.

*******

Please take time to look at this:

http://www.simonpoultneyfoundation.org/

WHO WANTS TO BE A BILLIONAIRE?

Question One for Z$20.000

What will Zimbabwe’s inflation rate hit in six months time?

A. We have plenty of money, the economy is booming and everyone is a millionaire.
B. 98.2%
C. 343%
D. Over a 1000%.

Correct answer is D.

Question Two for Z$50.000.

How many of Zimbabwe citizens had their homes and livelihood bulldozed and razed to the ground through the governments operation, ‘Clean out Filth’, in 2005.

A. 100.000.
B. Half a million.
C. 700.000.
D. It never happened, it was to make way for new homes. The U.N. envoy is a liar and a pawn of Western fascist governments.

Correct answer is C.

Question Three for Z$250.000

How many Ndebele tribesman, direct descendants of the Zulus, were slaughtered by Robert Mugabe’s North Korean Trained 5th Brigade in the 1980’s?

A. 500
B. It is a Western propagated deceit. These people went freely down disused mine shafts to see if they could make then operational again. Sadly they failed due to technical reasons.
C. 7500
D. 20.000, give or take a few filled mine shafts.

Correct answer is D.

Question Four for Z$500.000

Modern day high powered bows and arrows are used in Zimbabwe for what?

A. To teach young athletes this fine sport in the hope they compete in the Olympics and represent their country.
B. Shoot wild animals in the proliferating ‘canned hunting’ epidemic by well healed tourists paying thousands of US$ to wipe out the last animals in Africa.
C. Hope to get a head shot on the Zimbabwean President next time he steps out of his armoured Mercedes.
D. This is another Colonial lie in an attempt to rubbish our freed country.

Correct answer is B.

Question Five for Z$1.000.000

China supplies Zimbabwe with what?

A. Radio jamming equipment to counter Zimbabweans in diaspora or exile using stations for telling the truth.
B. Cheap clothes and sandals that helped bring down the last home industries.
C. Sophisticated software and technologies to read all electronic mail and overhear telephone conversations.
D. Whilst Zimbabwe struggles with daily power outages, what coal Hwange coal colliery can produce for the fuel starved electric power stations, 20% is sent to the Congo to supply power for Chinese owned mineral mines. In exchange they receive no real promises, but some military hardware.
E. All of the above.

Correct answer is E.

Question Six for Z$100.000.000

20% is a well known denominator to describe Zimbabwe. Does it represent?

A. % of the population, including the civil service and military who have rudiments of employment.
B. % of population under eighteen who are orphaned.
C. % of population known to have contracted HIV.
D. % of HIV infected population, including civil servants who have access to retro-viral drugs.
E. % of daily inflation.
F. % of Tobacco production this year as compared to 1999 when Mugabe allowed the farm invasions.
G.% of required food now grown by the new landowners.
H. % of population living as refugees or in diasporia.
J. % of Whites from the original population at Independence Day in 1980, who can not escape the systematic government instigated racial ethnic cleansing.
I. All of the above.

Correct answer is I.

Question Seven for Z$250.000.000

A white 73 year old railway engineer who paid 37 years into the pension fund of the now National Railways of Zimbabwe, receives the present equivalent in British sterling of how much per month?

A. About 19 pence before bank expenses. Life’s a bitch huh. Should of got Maggie Thatcher to underwrite all the pensions at the Lancaster House agreement. Not our problem. They were all Colonial thieves. Besides, the railways hardly work now, so up yours!
B. A bunch of bananas, once a month, last month.
C. A loaf of bread once a fortnight if you can find some.
D. A tin of imported Coca Cola as Zimbabwe don’t make it anymore, as they can’t pay for the syrup.
E. All of the above, except D. and maybe B. and C., as it could be an obsolete price by the time you answer this question.

Correct answer is E.

Question Eight for Z$500.000.000

The decline of the Zimbabwean economy in the last 6 years, unseen before by a country not at war, is by the ruling governments own admission, perpetuated because of what?

A. Thieving Colonial racists bent on plundering the nation and putting whites back in power to render the population again into abject poverty and slavery.
B. No rain.
C. Too much rain.
D. Sanctions imposed by war mongering gay gangster British and American fascist dictators.
E. Crisis? What crisis. We have the happiest population on earth. This is all a Western jealousy inspired hate campaign against our glorious leader.
F. All of the above.

Correct answer is F.

Question Nine for 1Billion Zimbabwean Dollars.

The highest denomination ‘banknote’, is a so called ‘bearer cheque’ with a face value of 50.000. (Approximately 1.3 eggs, if you find any in the supermarket at this moment.) As you have to make your own way to Zimbabwe to pick up the winnings, how long must you stand in the queue at the bank and how big must your protected pick up truck be to transport the huge piles of ‘bricks’? This is presuming you had previously managed to obtain some black-market petrol for $US dollars.

A. I haven’t a clue, this sounds like a horror trip, I don’t want the money.

The correct answer is A.

WARNING WARNING WARNING

Don't send sensitive e-mails to anyone in Zimbabwe!


Please, no matter how you may like my stuff, do not send any of it to anyone in Zimbabwe.
It can maybe get people killed!

THIS IS NOT ONE OF MY SPOOFS. I knew this was coming, but this is no joke. I received this Email, which is here in the full. The first bit is from the sender, who is not in Zimbabwe. The second is a letter from someone in Zimbabwe. I read naked terror. When will it end?

****
Please Everyone, this is of paramount importance. I received this today,followed up by three phone calls from friends in and around Zim. Some of you do not know about the recent arrests and commitment to Jail in Zim of agroup of really great people, but of course you understand that to go to jail there is very very serious. Things are extremely tenuous there now, and any excuse is used to arrest folk.

I heard from a VERY reliable source yesterday about two chaps - one White one Black who were joking in apub about the usual subject, and they have been in Adams Barracks for over6 months now, severely tortured.
Perhaps you can follow the lead set by another Rhodie who runs a newsletter and put your Zim connections in a seperate place on your addressbook so you can't send anything by mistake - which I have been guilty of inthe past.

Bless you all, Annie.


Monday 20th March, 2006

Dear Annie,

PLEASE put this out to absolutely everyone on your list. It is REALLY important that folk read this. It could literally mean the difference between life and death for someone!Please do not send us in Zim anything that can be deemed to besensitive. Our newspapers again reported about a bill being drafted topry into telephone and email messages and to compel service providers toinstall equipment to enable the state to intercept ALL private communications. This is being fast tracked through parliament. and specialist technology has already been obtained there-for.

So please do not send us any political jokes, cartoons, even memory stories referring to places by their old names or refer to the previous administration. We don't need any hassles in this regard I know that some of you never send arb. stuff, but I am sending this to all in my email address book . Thank you . A Zimbabwean".

Unemployed Heroin Addicts To Help Army In Record Numbers.

Afghani Warlords brace for an invasion of the Druggiebands.

Reported by Westminster correspondent, Urine Heep, for The Daily Creep.


Today in parliament, after the Chancellor gave his budget speech, the Prime Minister, surprised everyone, including as usual most of his own party, when he declared that a workable plan has been made to get British troops out of Afghanistan before Christmas.

He then made way to allow the newly created Minister for Druggies and Dossers, Divhead Bonkit M.P., to announce to an after lunch semi-pickled house of Commons that,

“Stinking drug addicted vermin must get off their shared needles and contribute to Britain’s safety, instead of relying on the DHS to provide them with accommodation and money to create crack houses in school play grounds.” The Dis-Honourable member for Shifty Bightsize, whipped his dog with his white stick to get it to howl loud enough to gain the attention of the back benchers, who were engrossed in chilling out with their recently donated iPods, and feeling from a paper he had punched out himself, Bonkit’s badly bruised fingers paused for a poised second before groping on,

“It is my desire to solve two problems for every overdose death. The state cannot afford to chase smelly bearded men with Kalashnikovs protecting poppy fields in mountainous Afghanistan and smelly bearded men with syringes in mountainous city slums of Britain simultaneously. We will round the druggies up, ship them to Afghanistan, where they can get their habit for free. Once all the poppy fields are used up, we can bring the troops home. The Afghan War Lords will take care of the crack heads after that. The state just cannot steal enough money for these invasion capers anymore.”

At this point the leader of the opposition, Dandy Campon, snickered and suggested that the Right Dis-Honourable member had obviously not been given a quick glimpse of the latest budget.

Bonkit, obviously not seeing the joke, groped on. Temporarily forgetting which party he belonged to, he ridiculed the Governments recent proposal to give every asylum seeker £3000 pounds and a free airfare to fuck off. He stated to the packed house, gathered to vote for a M.P. pay increase of 27,5%, which was considered to go through with support from the opposition parties,

“Take Zimbabwean asylum seekers for example. They taking the piss or what? They come from a land where their democratically elected leader says my best mate, the Prime Minister, is gay and a gangster!”


Using his white stick as a pointer, Bonkit, turned and attempted to prod the Prime Minister for dramatic emphasis, thus breaking up a short lived conversation between the Chancellor and P.M. Tinny Blabber, who had just asked Gobby Browneye if he had got a wood watching ‘Brokeback Mountain’. His misplaced lunge landed up buried deep into the Chancellors budget briefcase, making Dandy Campon quip, “What a circus, their own people are putting holes in the budget already!”


Shouts of “Woof, Woof” from the front benches, were drowned out with loud comments, such as,
“I dunno about gay, but that Tinny is a gangster awlright.” This coming from a large group of smelly New Age Travellers packing the public gallery to protest the banning of their children from wearing their traditional dress of cast off rags at schools they rarely attend. The return to the cabinet for a record third time for MP Divhead Bonkit, was not going to be another easy ride.

“I have spent hours feeling my way through the figures, (roars of laughter from the packed house,) and I can honestly say that we can withdraw our troops, relieve this land of unwanted rif raff, bring peace and prosperity to the people of Afghanistan, whilst saving billions in tax payers money needed desperately to feed the starving children in Africa.”


A heckler from the public gallery interrupted the speech by throwing a shit filled baby’s diaper in Bonkits direction and shouting out, “What the fuck you talking about you dirty old man?” But the 18 year old and 8 months pregnant, unemployed single mother of 3 children, was dragged away by security personal to be detained under the prevention of terrorism act, still shouting claims that Divhead Bonkit was the father of her unborn child.

At that point, the new minister of ‘Druggies and Dossers’, had to agree for an adjournment to future debate after he was informed his dog had just defecated on the Teresa Jolly’s brand new Gucci shoes, (a present from the Italian Prime Minister,) and was doing ‘humpies’ on Roof Kollie’s leg as she struggled to numerically put in correct order the papers for her latest education proposal.

One backbencher, who prefers to stay anonymous, told this reporter, “I love that hound. Master and dog are a perfect match, this mutt is truly like Divhead; takes advantage of any dumb bint!”

The Great Welsh Cockles War.

A little known ‘dirty’ war waged between the government authorities, desperately trying to preserve some of Britain’s last natural resources, and the even more desperate illegal immigrants trying to eke out an existence.

****

Commander James T. Jerk scratched his wooden leg absentmindedly, and swore loudly as a large splinter buried itself deep under the finger nail of his index finger.

“ ‘Chippie’ up on the bridge, now,” he screamed into the intercom, “and bring some sandpaper.”

Pulling the splinter out with his teeth, Jerk thought back to that time seven years ago when he lost his right leg, left arm, right ear, left eyeball, right testicle, left kidney, and his wallet with a winning lottery ticket inside, whilst commanding the H.M.S. Sinkfast during the fierce battle for the Nigerian Delta. The remaining two digits on his right hand, one still bleeding, wandered almost instinctively to the well fingered M.B.A. medal (Missing Bits in Action,) that he wore with pride over his collapsed left breast. Shifting uncomfortably on his chair, the absent right buttock made sitting up straight difficult, he spoke to his second in command.

“Bring her about 41 degrees of port and tell me when she has drunk enough to let me in her bed, Number 1, and any sign of the enemy yet?”

First officer Simon Simpleton lowered the binoculars from his exhausted bloodshot eyes. The party last night had been an incredible lesson in over indulgence, and he made a silent pledge never again to mix Red Bull and cheap Vodka 50/50, as he replied to his commanding officer.

“All I see are waves and they doubled. I don’t feel very well and is it alright to go below for a bit of kip, sir?”

Jerk sighed. Simpleton had been the only survivor besides himself when the H.M.S. Sinkfast had spectacularly self exploded after he had made the decision to scuttle the ship rather than let the enemy in 5 dug out canoes enter the delta and sabotage the oil refinery. Simpleton rarely spoke about that moment of truth, when the man had desperately struggled with his conscience to either shoot him and let terrorists destroy Britain’s desperately needed fuel for the latest models of four wheel drives, or sacrifice the ship and crew, thus sending a message around the world, (Help, the Captain is mad!,) still clutched in the hundreds of hands that went up with the ship.

“Go ahead, Number One, I’ll keep an eye on things, take King Kong’s bint with you, she also looks worse for wear.” Signalling with his good arm to the slumped figure of Jane Noname, rescued along with himself and Simpleton from a malarial infested mangrove swamp where they had landed after the ship blew up, she spoke no English besides, “More Port”, and walked on all fours.

‘Chippie’ turned up from where he had been engrossed in filing his teeth into sharp triangles.
A gruff, but gentle kid, he was intent to prove that his bight could be worse than his bark.

“Give us ya leg Captain, I’ll sand the bugger good this time, got to keep ya on your toes if we gonna catch them sneaky slitzzies.”

Jerk hated ‘Chippie’ talking like this, the uncouth ASBO collector was only 17, but he came along with the new ship now under his command, the H.M.S. Dump, a 22 foot, wood rot riddled pontoon grounded permanently in the middle of the Mawddach estuary in North Wales.

“They are illegal Chinese cockle poachers, ‘Chippie’, and please refrain from such racial inferences, otherwise it is my right to have you keel hauled if we ever get afloat.”

As ‘Chippie’ got to work on the splitting parts of his prosthesis, Jerk mentally went over once more the recent intelligence that had been passed to him in the ‘Last Inn’ pub the night before. According to a reliable source, that he had carefully nurtured for the last seven years with free beers paid out of his disability pension, today the Cockle thieves would sneak up the estuary unnoticed, disguised as tourists in black wet suits on rented Jet Skis, plunder one of Britain’s last cockle beds and sell them duty free to Chinese restaurants in Beijing.

“Not whilst there is breath in my right lung still in me left,” thought Jerk, as he watched ‘Chippie’ create a small pile of sawdust below his extended leg. He had worked on the plan to stop the raiders for over four years and now he was ready. 26 giant bottles of household cooking gas were stored below; connected together they were only stopped from expelling their deadly fumes by the handle mounted on the commander’s chair.

The navy had refused to give him a 22 inch battery gun, quoting local Gwynedd council health and safety regulations, but the hero of the Nigerian Delta had not been put off. That experience seven years ago could be put to good effect.

“They’re coming,” Jerk whispered conspiratorially to ‘Chippie’, his good ear tuned to the sounds of the approaching roars of the Jet Skis. “Get Jane and Simpleton, prepare the escape dingy, and stand by for action; RED ALERT!” With that, Jerk pulled the bright red lever to ‘Open’ and the gas started to flood into the pontoon. Timing was critical. Unlike the Delta incident, when the spectacular self destruction of H.M.S. Sinkfast had managed to destroy several hundred acres of rain forest, along with 5 dugout canoes and the oil refinery it had been sent to protect, his new command had limited fire power.

As his crew gathered, the hiss of the expelling gas drowned out by the noise of the approaching smugglers, Commander James T. Jerk, took 4 Cuban cigars out his top right breast pocket. Handing them out, he winked, tugged his shirt down, smoothing out the wrinkles and as the stench of gas reached his nostrils said to his motley crew,

“Don’t light them till the fat lady sings huh, we done it ship mates. Britain will once more be safe from terrorists”

‘Chippie’ sniffed appreciatively at the cigar in his hand,

“Didn’t they say that in some movie?” he commented, as he flicked the wheel on his newly stolen Zippo lighter.

THE 28 MINUTE STORY.

It is called this because that is how long it took to write it. I was really surprised when it received enough comments to push into Spotlight status at the writing community web site I am a member of.

It is based on a very old joke.

*******

When Tony kicked his shoes off, when he returned home from work, he did it the same way as he had since he could remember. He couldn’t be arsed bending down and undoing the laces. Simply used one foot against the heel of the other shoe and forced the foot out. The last shoe would always be flicked up into the air, to crash against the ceiling and land with satisfying ‘splat’ on the staircase, where it would then proceed to tumble, ‘thump thump thump’ all the way down, where it lay, till his screeching wife Cherie, would eventually pick it up and place it on the ‘shoe rack’.

Today was different.

As the right shoe bounced it way down as usual, there was a deeper note, and as it slid to a halt, Tony looked at in puzzlement and took a step forwards, only to crash down onto his face.
From a distance of two hands spread, Tony stared through pain watered eyes at the shoe. Something was wrong. Very wrong. It wasn’t the fact that his sour smelling grey/white sock protruded over the split and worn back of the leather shoe, but that it appeared his foot was still in it!

***
They sent Tony to a small island, just off the coast, to where the other Lepers lived. He couldn’t really complain. Being an idle sod anyway, life wasn’t so bad. Food and beer was dropped by helicopter every Thursday, Satellite T.V., 24/7. No worries in the world, except at some stage he might fall apart at the seams. The other inhabitants suffered their equal lot with quite dignity. In fact, they would take their fate with morbid humour. The women would giggle over so and so losing his member in the middle of a hefty session, the men would joke how so and so had proudly shown her breasts during one drunken orgy, only to find one was missing.

Tony settled in well, and soon had a regular Poker game going every Wednesday. Then it happened. What every Poker player dreams of. A ‘Royal Flush’, no wild cards. The stakes were high. Cigarettes the only currency. Tony knew he had the others and bet his entire allocated ration. The pile grew and grew, as the other 7 players bid and bid. Tony knew that when he won this hand, and, he had to, the odds of two Royal Flushes were as miniscule as finding life in the Whitehouse, he would have the monopoly on fags for the next week.

“CALL!”, and Tony placed the Royal Flush down on the table and grinned wickedly.

The others threw their hands in with disgust and Tony laughed his head off.

The End.

EBay Bans Me Again!

Auctioning things on EBay is not that simple. Yet again I offended their censorship software and whilst the company notified me that my sale had been accepted and they greedily charged me 30pence for it, lo and behold, almost 24 hours later it was apparent that the only person who could access the auction was me!

Last time this happened, I wrote them a letter asking what was going on. You would think that it is their responsibility to notify their customers when a listing upsets the sensitive software. This time around I made sure there was no offensive language, so exactly what did trigger the ban? So here is the original and on EBay is the ‘censored’ version… 5677090546

When I redid the description, leaving out the words that could have set the alarm bells ringing and then reposted, it suddenly appeared for all to see, but, I wasn’t compensated for the missing 20 hours…

RHODESIA + ZIMBABWE OFFICIAL TABLE TEST CRICKET GAME


Remember those times at school when the subject was boring, the teacher was a drunken nervous wreck, who muttered incoherently whilst scribbling indecipherable gibberish on the Blackboard?

So what did you, and the just as equally future illiterate co pupil sitting next to you, do?

Yes…those were the days of TTC…Table Test Cricket!

Matches could last several lessons, providing hours of exciting entertainment!


NOW EXCLUSIVE TO RHO-YOB TOYS OF ZIMBABWE
THE EXACT COPIE OF THE ORIGINAL RHODESIAN TABLE TEST CRICKET GAME AND THE BRAND NEW UPDATED ZIMBABWE VERSION


Contents of RHODESIA TTC game.

2 hexagonal sided pencils, (unchewed, see below for more information), 1 is for the Runs and the other, ‘How Out’ pencil. (Howzat.)

Batting Team’s Runs pencil, 6 sided, labelled:

1,2,3,4,6 and HOWZAT!


How Out Pencil. 6 sided, labelled:

LBW: Leg Before Wicket.
BAC: Bowled And Caught.
R.O.: Run Out
C.B.: Clean Bowled.
C.: Caught.
Not Out.

Contents of ZIMBABWE TTC game.

1 hexagonal sided ‘How Out’ pencil and 1 half round 2 sided Runs pencil, (slightly used).


Batting Team’s Runs Pencil. 2 sided, unchewed, labelled:

1 and HOWZAT!

How Dismissed Pencil. 6 sided, labelled:

CWW: Clubbed With Wicket.
CSS: Caught Stealing Stumps.
STD: Starved To Death.
BBB: Brained By Ball.
SSB: Someone Stole Bat.
Not Out.


RULES AND PLAYING INSTRUCTIONS.


Each player has eleven players in his team, of which only ten are allowed to play. This is normal in Cricket. On a piece of paper, (Not Supplied,) each player draws up a score board as demonstrated below, using a Zimbabwe game for example:

Batter Runs Attained Total Score How Out.

1. Rob Mugabe, 1,1,1,1 4 BBB
2. Gideon Gono 1,1 2 CSS
3. Prof Mutambara 1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1 16 CWW
4. Morgan Tsvangirai 1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1 16 SSB


After all ten players are out, the final total is tallied and the highest scoring contestant wins.

To play is very simple.

After tossing a coin to see who starts, the batting team contestant takes the ‘Runs’ pencil in a hand, and from a small distance rolls it onto a flat table top. Whatever result is visible at the very top, is the amount of runs successfully completed. This is then noted. When the Batter rolls a HOWZAT, he has the opportunity to see if he is really out and rolls the ‘How Out’ pencil. Unless NOT OUT is displayed, in which case the appeal has been successful and the batter may continue, the way the batter was dismissed is entered against his score. The reason for this is not known, but in real cricket they do this in the newspapers.

Sadly with the invention of Bill Gates and the silicon chip, TTC was doomed. Most school pupils prefer to waste their educational time playing with mobile phones or chilling to MP3 players. So this is a unique opportunity to have a piece of history, as well as a unique modern version. Needing no batteries, this game is ENVIROMENTALY FRIENDLY, and the wood used surrounding the Chinese produced pencils are genuine Amazon Rain Forest hardwoods that are becoming increasingly rare.

History and Celebrities of TTC.

Most historians have agreed that the game was most probably created by Sir Ernest Shackleton in 1901, to relieve the boredom of the Discovery crew stuck for months in the Antarctic. A popular humorist, he was the first to adapt the ‘How Out’ pencil, replacing the orthodox cricket terminology with his own.

FTD: Froze to Death
LHM: Lost His Mind
EBS: Eaten By Shipmates
SBW: Stiff Before Wicket
DIB: Disappeared in Blizzard
Not Out



Albert Einstein: Using a German version of TTC, Albert, though failing maths at school, went on to develop the ‘chewed’ system. A rather nervous character, he often would chew or bite his pencils and it was during a game of TTC with Robert Oppenheimer, that he discovered a difference of the roll between chewed and unchewed pencils. This would lead years later to his sensational theory of relativity, C=BR2. (Chewed=Better Roll Twice.) Condemned for several decades as a way of cheating and manipulating the way the pencil would roll, it was finally confirmed in 1969 as an acceptable way of play, similar to how a bowler would polish or roughen certain parts of the ball in real life cricket to make it bounce differently.
Sadly, ‘Clever Al’ would die of lead poisoning before the introduction of TTC health and safety rules outlawing lead based cores and paint on the pencils.


Sid Vicious: Played an English version of TTC from the age of two, ever since his mother shoved a pencil deep in his throat to stop him screaming. He left school at the age of 12, after becoming the only pupil to have won every test match he played. Later he went on to become a member of the cult Punk rock group, The Sex Pistols, recognised as a world renowned brilliant singer, guitarist and heroin addict. He sadly died in the middle of a game of TTC, when his mother shoved a pencil too deep down his throat to stop him from screaming, whilst tripping out his box shortly after murdering his girl friend ‘Spunky Chicken’ for cheating in a game.

Osama Bin Laden: Recent video footage has often shown the cross legged sitting leader of Al- Qadea with two pencils at his feet. Close ups have revealed that it is a version of TTC, although as of now still unrecognised by the IFTTCA, (International Federation of Table Test Cricket Association,) and scrutiny of the ‘How Out’ pencil reveals in several different videos to have the following,

BWK: Beheaded With Knife.
SB: Suicide Bomber
STD: Stoned To Death
ABY: Attacked By Yanks
BWG: Bowled With Grenade
Not Out

Arnold ‘The Governator’ Schwarzenegger: A recent convert to TTC after watching President George Dummkopf Bush play a game against Pakistan’s General Pervez Musharraf during a recent tour. Arnie has ordered several hundred TTC sets to be given free to all death row inmates with his own ‘How Out’ pencil version, which he claims, will help relieve their boredom as they await for their appeals to be turned down.

KLI: Killed Lethal Injection
FIC: Fried In Chair
DOF: Died Of Fright
FS: Firing Squad
HLB: Hasta laVista Baby
Termination Complete

Coming Soon: Despot and Dictators TTC Special Edition.

Based upon Parade Magazines top 10 list of nasties’, the line up of players encompass the globe, making this a truly international side. Included are famous players such as:

Omar al-Bashir, Sudan, Kim Jong-il, North Korea, Than Shwe, Burma (Myanmar), Robert Mugabe, Zimbabwe, Islam Karimov, Uzbekistan,
Hu Jintao, China, etc.

The How Out pencil will be labelled,

CDE: Coup d’ etat
ASS: Assassinated
PMU: Popular Mass Uprising
DOA: Died of Old Age
FTE: Fled To Exile
Still In Power


As you can see we have made all possible effort to make these games as authentic as the real thing, therefore it will be no surprise that the Zimbabwe version is a much faster game.

2007 WINNER OF THE BEST REHABILATATION TOY FOR SCHIZOPHRENICS

PANIC IN BERLIN AS HITLER MAKES COMEBACK

What a laugh. Hundreds of SS (Schutz Staffel,) gathered in heavy snow to scream, ‘Sieg Heil’ as Adolf made a speech in front of the former headquarters of Hermann Goering’s Luftwaffe headquarters.

Although the Berlin City council had given the Israeli film director, Dani Levi, permission to decorate some of the historic city’s landmarks with eagles and swastikas whilst filming his comedy ‘Mein Fuhrer’, the ‘dummkopfs’ forgot to tell the locals and the tourists.

A load of drunken English football fans training in the local beer halls in preparation for the world cup, where the final will be played in Berlin, could not believe their luck. Within minutes of the first spotting of the ‘Fuhrer’, hundreds of ‘Tommies’ gathered and charged the goose stepping soldiers with impromptu weapons.

Years of experience had ‘Churchill’s finest’ thrusting broken bottles into German jugular veins and several visiting Americans caught up in the blood soaked massacre helped their allies by force feeding the highest ranking officers with Big Macs.

Several of the voluntary cast, most having been participants for simple fact that this was the only opportunity to scream, ‘Heil Hitler’, legally for the first time since the war, were deluged with slurred English accents of,

“Cun ya Mam sew, ya Nazi bastard, get er ta stitch that then…mate” which was followed with a savage head butt by a Liverpool fan with the logo, ‘Wayne Roony is a Poofter’ printed on the back of his clubs official shirt, to the bewildered unemployed plumber from Augsburg who had just been there for the fun,

and,

“Sieg Heil this ya Sauerkraut, ya Dad bombed my Chippie and now it’s a Polish, Armenian Tajikistani take away”, as a 4 inch blade from a Manchester United logo embossed flick knife was buried deep up the left nostril of a 53 year old unemployed architect from Dresden who had only agreed to play the part of a senior officer because he got to keep the socks.

A delighted Dani Levi was heard to comment,

“Mazel tov, this wasn’t quite the ending I had planned, but this will do nicely, and didn’t cost a Shekel more.”

A German women from Bavaria, when interviewed by the press after watching the amazing scenes unfold, said,

“It is my first visit here; it seems nothing has changed much.”

Back in the United Kingdom, a new pop video, starring the recently released from prison, ‘The Golliwogg Trio’, as backing vocals for controversial rapper EmmieN singing a crap version of ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’, has been banned from MTV after their lawyers saw fit that it could cause “alarm, harassment or distress” under Section 5 of the Public Order Act.

The Hitler Film:

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,3-2072666,00.html

The infamous ‘The Golliwogg Trio’:

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,2-2069322,00.html

Baa Baa Black Sheep ban:

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,2-2073043,00.html

Geri Giraffe Applies For Political Asylum.

Geri Giraffe Applies For Political Asylum.

The High Court will today decide whether Geri Giraffe, who arrived in the United Kingdom illegally, may be allowed to stay. His defence lawyer will argue that should he be returned to Zimbabwe the same fate awaits him that was dished out to his wife and children late last year.

Geri had been desperately foraging food for himself and his family in the drought stricken Hwange National Park when a police Land Rover packed with American hunters suddenly turned up.

Speaking for his client, who still cannot talk properly after catching a bad throat cold whilst escaping from the genocide, told gathered reporters, ‘The obese hunters simply stated firing wantonly with sub machine guns provided by their ‘hosts’. His wife and children didn’t stand a chance. Geri managed to run away and hide.’

Later it transpired that Geri waited for several weeks before he was able to smuggle himself aboard an Air Zimbabwe flight to London unnoticed. With the cabin crew engaged collecting foreign currency from the few passengers on board to cover the cost of fuel, Geri was spotted sitting on the wing too late for the pilot to turn the aircraft around.

Animal right groups are financing Geri’s appeal by selling T-shirts depicting a photograph taken by a passenger who had first noticed Geri at 30,000 feet, on EBay. The passenger, who insists on staying anonymous, had told Immigration officials at Heathrow airport that he had been a little surprised to see Geri watching him as he supped on a tin of beer. ‘I felt sorry for him as he is really in the same boat as all of us on the plane.’

It has now transpired that every passenger and the entire crew have all applied to be allowed to remain in the United Kingdom.

WARNER BROTHERS STUDIOS QUARANTINED AS SYLVESTER SNUFFS IT.

WARNER BROTHERS STUDIOS QUARANTINED AS SYLVESTER SNUFFS IT.


Since reports this week from Germany, where the first case of a cat dying from the potentially fatal to humans strain of bird flu H5N1, ominous news has come in that the deadly strain has reached American soil.

Panic has broken out at the famed Loony Tunes cartoon studios during a private screening of the latest Tweety Pie episode after the fully completed strip returned from its Asian outsourced sub-contractors based in Hong Kong.

As details slowly emerged, the obviously frightened spokesman for the company, attired in a full biological protective suit, told a reporter from Broken Inglish,

‘Our own artists only sketch every 20th sequence to a story, the rest are padded out in child artists sweat shops in Asia for 5 cents a page. Obviously they had been sharing a chicken for lunch and contracted the dreaded form of bird flu.’

The studio staff had been enjoying the new Sylvester v Tweety Pie episode and nothing had seemed odd until Sylvester the cat, who constantly attempts to eat the annoying fat headed arrogant canary, swallowed the yellow loud mouth just as it finished its classic line, ‘I tawt I taw a puddy tat’, and went into spasms, and as one viewer put it, ‘started to convulse like an Ebola victim on crack cocaine.’

The horrified audience had expected that Tweety’s assistant, ‘Bulldog’, would grab the hapless cat, swing it around the room by the tail for a few spins, then dash out the black and white screeching pussy’s brains against a table, onto which the cheeky chirpy canary would pop out as usual, saliva drenched but unharmed. However what transpired next has shocked the cartoon world to the bottom of its pencil boxes.

‘Sylvester started to sneeze violently, seconds after ingesting the canary and the walls were strewn with cat snot. The visibly shaken spokesman went on, ‘then it started convulsing, flew up to the ceiling, at which point the hapless feline’s eyes bulged then exploded.’

Worse was to come,

‘In it’s death throes, Sylvester’s tortured body stiffened, it’s fur stuck out like spikes and tried to defecate the flu riddled bird, resulting in Bulldog being literally ‘tarred and feathered’ by the diarrhoea stream of semi digested Tweety Pie fired out under high pressure.’

The yellow and brown shite dripping dog went barking mad, then in its canine terror savaged the animals’ owner, little old Granny, so badly that the poor dear died before even the fastest artist could rub it out. The utter carnage depicted had many of the 73 viewers collapse in shock as the final seconds of the macabre cartoon ended.

In an effort to control the outbreak all Tweety cartoons have been incinerated and plans are under way to vaccinate Daffy Duck and Road Runner. In a separate incident Terrytoons confirmed that their mischievous magpies, Heckle and Jeckle, after refusing to be inoculated, claiming it was a Taliban plot, were beaten to death at Guantánamo bay, baked, popped in a pie and sent to the King of Saudi Arabia, along with 22 terrorists suspects to make up the numbers.

However, there were still some cool heads at the studios. When asked if he was worried, Bugs Bunny, whilst chomping on a genetically manipulated carrot shaped like a bagel, replied, ‘What’s up Doc? I thought we were banned by Google in China.’


News Flash:

Disney called a hastily convened news conference after Donald Duck was arrested shortly after returning from China, where he had been guest of honour at a recent banquet celebrating the recent agreement to open another obnoxious overpriced Dillyland in the worlds most populous country. A short statement read out by Mickey Mouse to the 300 reporters gathered from around the world, stated,

‘Squeak squeak, Donald has been incarcerated, squeak, after he was filmed spreading the highly contagious virus. Squeak, tests will soon prove if his wife must be sent back as Peking duck.’