The Chinese Restaurant

I was in a Chinese restaurant one night. The only night. I would not think twice of going again.

I ordered chop suey. More like chopped sewage. I ate half, and then in disgust kicked up a right hullabaloo by starting with the waiter.

 A quick explanation with my Doc Martin’s, converted his precious sweetbreads into sweet and sour crushed cashew nuts and as far as I was concerned – that was that.

I would not pay, and simply walk out of the place - peacefully, quietly and with dignity. I was upholding MY rights to complain about the shit they had served me. I am an officer and a gentleman.

It was not to be.

Next thing you know, before I can finish my third liter of chinky sake, slittie eyes are swarming all over me. They pin me down to the table.
Of course I struggle. I am a former member of the BSAP. A highly trained killing machine – I would not go down without a fight.

And then, this insane looking gook type man with a tall white hat, strides towards me waving a bloody stained, huge butcher’s cleaver and in one swoop – hacks my right hand off.

‘Now, what do you think about that?’ The mad man screams.

Cool, collected, my mind sussing out the predicament. Picture this – my head squashed against the table. My eyes, staring at the rest of the chop sewage.  My last hand, still clutching a glass of chinkie saki.

I needed to respond with a stiff upper lip. Don’t let the Asian fuzzy-wuzzies even get a glimpse of our weakness – for give them a finger – they will take your hand.

‘Release me.’ I said, with great authority.

They did. I stood proud and tall. I would show them -

 ‘Would you be so kind as to give me my right hand, so as I can take home the left over(s).

When I was 23

I was crawling down the street one night. Trying to avoid the gutters. Strange things happen when you are 23. I am sure you can recall weird moments within those 365 days when you must have awoken, bathed in sweat, stinking like a worm floating in a bottle of tequila, and wondering that if it was Monday-  it would be a good idea to phone in sick.

But – it is the way that one day you are 22 and fine, and a few hours later you are 23, crawling along a vomit strewn pavement, putting out fags in the puddles, when suddenly, from behind, your behind is being assaulted – violently.

‘Rape – rape’, you scream, as between the humming in your ears comes the sound of tearing cloth. ‘Call the Police, for my arse is being savaged’. (Of course, as my mouth could barely hold a saliva sodden cigarette, it sounded more like ‘Ugh – ooh, ahh, bah- blah’.

Then – the ultimate pain in the arse. Huge needles penetrated my exposed buttocks. I collapsed. A huge weight pressed my face into my own vomit – and, just when I thought it was the end for me – a nice sensation of wet warmness flicked across my brown eye. I smiled – this was nice.

The pressure on my neck, the heat from my bleeding rump – the licking… oh oh – I started to fade away… but as I went into that zone where as when you awake you wish you were dead – a voice – as if from the heavens spoke.

‘Good dog, Rover. Now stop licking his bum hole and sit. And - you Sir, are being arrested for being drunk and disorderly in a public place.’

The Fancy Dress Party

I went to a party just down the road last night. It was a fancy dress party.

I love schnapps, but must admit, after 2 bottles of the stuff, I started to feel a bit odd. As in - I could not feel much at all.

I gathered, post- drunkenness, that I had indeed made my way home. But it was that in between phase that is truly terrible. 

For I recall – it must have been about that time between pissing yourself and gagging for a drink of something strong – such as a liter of lead free super - now on offer at my local petrol station. I was awoken by a loud buzzing sound – a bit like a two stroke motor going mad.

I remember having to sort of peel myself off the tiled floor of the bathroom. The lights were on. As I swayed and started to focus my eyes – a frightening apparition approached me.

It was a grotesque clown. It looked a bit like that weird one who sells hamburgers. But this one was slobbering out the mouth. It grunted and spurted vomit on to its tunic. Its pants were soaking wet with acid smelling yellow fluid, its shoes were brown from diarrhea dripping down the back of its legs.

Huge, bloodshot eyes stared at me – its orange, curly hair, was tilted sideways with signs of a recent fire. The bulging red nose, riddled with purple veins, the bared teeth, behind bright, blood dead scarlet, and now well smeared lipstick – was too much for my highly strung nervous system.

In fear, I threw up an arm to defend myself and it responded by waving a buzzing chain saw at me, and staggered in my direction…

I screamed in terror and slipping on a bath mat; fell totally into the arms of the thing. As my mind entered the peace and quiet of the dark zone, I heard vaguely the sound of breaking glass.

Conclusio (which is Latin) -

It took three nurses to remove the slivers of broken mirror. I needed 27 stitches and two pints of blood. The chain saw had fallen in the toilet and cost 200 euros to repair.

WHICH – leads me to the conclusion – next time I go to a fancy dress party – I go as a fairy.

Karl Greenberg is the author of the Rhodesian cult classics -
The Gokwe Kid and Simply the Pest.

Life according to Bill and Ben –The Pot Heads.

One afternoon, down in the pub, the pair are having a quiet pint. As usual the discussion is very philosophical.

‘I stood on a parrot’s head yesterday.’

‘Did it squawk?’

‘No, just a squelching.’

‘Very onomatopoeia.’

‘Mmm. I shot at a pidgin pigmy protester on Passover. It passed over but made it piss ’
‘Tut, tut. Very hard to hit. Pigeon 12 bore shot - perfect.’

‘Alliteration?’

‘I heard that Superman flew faster than the wind around the Earth.’

‘I saw that article in a Scientific Journal.’

‘Mmm. How is your pint?’

‘Very quiet. So quiet, it is dead. Your round. But – about Superman.  If he passes wind whilst flying faster than the wind, will he fly head first into his own stench?’

‘Mmm – very articulate.  Yours a Guinness?’

‘Cheers mate. I had to go to hospital on Wednesday. A terrible pain in my cobblers.’

‘Got a serious kicking shoe in them?’

‘Nah. I was knocking Mrs Knight’s knockers, when catastrophe.’

‘Mmm - Knackers in a knot?’

‘Yeah. Time for a joint, me thinks.’

And so we leave them till the next episode of ‘Bill and Ben – The Pot Heads’.

‘

Lunatic Leper Lunched by Leopard in Leipzig

With videos going viral, police in Leipzig, Germany, have finally given a statement involving a bizarre incident at Leipzig Zoo last week.

A spokesperson, Übergruppenpolizeifürerfürbizarrefuckyupsups Alfons Schesseinhosen, whilst admitting mistakes had been made by his department was quick to condemn the local public and social media in making a ‘one off’ incident into a ‘fucking circus show’. (Google – leper leopard Leipzig.)

In a rare interview with the BBC (Brexit Bastard Clowns), Scheisseinhosen explained what had occurred -

‘Zee man was very krank in kopf. Also he in bits from leprosy. He want to end his scheisse life. He write suicide note, leaving two fingers stuck to zee pen. He hop out of lunatic asylum and by following a trail of clues, such as a nose, an ear, a toe und so weiter, we see and collect zee evidence to put his last hop together.’

Drinking a massive slug from a liter of glue wine (a common drink in Germany to prevent ‘durchfall’), he passed a watery raspberry and continued -

‘Zee dumpkopf, climb fence into leopard pit in Leipzig Zoo. He leave hands and feet in fence. He fall in – zee leopard, he very hungry and pull him apart very easy and eat him.’

At this point Sceisseinhosen became angry -

‘Aber – so many schadenfreude people. They just look and lol. They take selfies with climbing man and film as leopard rip the krank man into bits and cheer like at football match when we beat Brazil 7-1.’

Whilst many people believe the leopard should be given the sleepy bye bye spritzen, animal rights protesters claimed it was not the animal’s fault.

However, the leopard, known locally now as ‘Rippscheissekopfab’, has been given a reprieve by scientists from Medicxalschulefurscheisseblödsin, who have place the leopard in quarantine.

There they wish to find out if leprosy can be transferred to animals and have the beast under 24/7 observation. Till now all they have are a few crapped out human teeth, three toe nails and a spinal joint.

Reported by The Gokwe Kid for Reuters News Agency.

Baked Beans

Last time I was in the UK, I popped into a local corner shop to buy a tin of baked beans.

Actually, the shop was in the middle of a row of derelict High Street retailers and seamstresses that had gone bust because they kept stitching each other up. (What?) It just happened to have a funny name - The Corner Shop.

I was just about to pay for the can which had a price tag of 50 pence, when I happened to notice its use buy date was 15 years ago. I pointed this out to the owner of the shop called The Corner Shop.

'Oh my goodness gracious me! That is truly now an antique. I am afraid I have to charge one pound for it.'

The Donald

The Girl Who Felt Nothing - the next stage

To be Sectioned 13

Rocking up at Fritz's place with usual German punctuality (30 minutes early), he seemed a little nervous. No, I don't mean he was sweating and mopping his brow and silly descriptions like that – nah – this bloke reminded me of a giant human tuning fork that had just been whacked rather hard against a concrete wall.

'Frau, Frau, Frau Schimdt, Schimdt Schmidt,' he stuttered bloody obviously, 'Zee meeex ov zee silber und zee zehn kilos graphite pow wow da, eet fick up zee spray gun'

Of course he didn't talk like that. He may have been German but he wasn't an illiterate idiot. I just wrote that like that for a laugh.
Anyway -

'Show me my car,' I replied authoritatively. Very, actually, since I had shoved two rather sharp finger nails into his nostrils and was guiding him to his workshop.

In the well lit area he pointed to the middle of it - 'That is the problem.'

There was going to be problem all right, there was fuck all there in it.

'Now before I break every finger of your hands, please be so kind as to tell me where the Lotus is?'

'It is there, Frau Schmidt look carefully. In the middle of the workshop.'

I looked and just for rubbish writing looked again. Oh sheet. There was a hole. A rather large one. Not in the floor because you could not see it! In fact...

'Jesus fucking Christ!' This was beyond even my wildest dreams of a swearing cliché.

I wandered over tentatively and after groping around a bit had the driver door open. Ahh – now we can see. Bit weird though. Like, the inside of a door and the cockpit. I slicked in. Nice. Very. Fritz had done a perfect job of attaching one way mirror folio to the windows. I turned on the head lights and got out. That way I could sort of gather where the car was.

'Good, Fritz, very good. How she look in natural light?
`
Opening the garage door, 'Frau Schmidt, this is illegal if you intend to drive it on a public road.' He boringly told me in typical German attitude of 'We do not think – we simply take orders.'

Did I give a shit? Exactly. Besides, in natural light the Lotus was still invisible. Rather nuts watching light beams coming out of nowhere.

Sorting out Fritz's social conscience was a breeze at 1k cash, but I had terrible intestinal convulsions known in the tired trade of writing as a queasy tummy. How the fuck was I gonna drive this without getting killed?

I needed to fink. The Germans struggle to pronounce 'th', so when in Warsaw do as Warzones do and start finking. Opening the lap top (you can't use it with the lid closed), I went to a site I use periodically – the periodic table. No idea why they named it that, but within 30 minutes I had a solution to my quandary.

'Fritz, come here and grow your hair for fuck's sake, you look like something you shove down a toilet to clean crap squirts on the porcelain. Give me some paper and a pen.' (Obviously I need a pen as I wasn't intending to fold the paper into a look alike Concord and throw them out the garage door.) Rapidly and almost frothing at the mouth rabidly, I had it solved.

'Listen Fritz, I need four, 20 litres containers of these colours mixed to this recipe. I also need a battery powered air compressor, connected to a spray paint thingy my jig and get me a dozen ultra violet lights – and stop looking like your best friend just disliked you on Facebook. 'I WILL BE BACK' (giving it the Terminator touch), in four hours. Now pull finger.'

With a bit of time - I needed to eat. Up on the High Street there were some joints, but not selling them.

'Ja Bitte. Wat U wont,' said the sad looking waitress who was obviously a Syrian refugee as she had a black bin liner over her head with slits for her eyes and her German was atrocious. Plus she ponged worse than the local pond.

'Just give me something traditional and try not to touch it. I don't fancy catching Zika virus.'

Three Weisswurst, a pretzel, sweet honey mustard and a Weissbeer was duly presented. I looked at the amputated white willies with trepidation. I was not sure which hole they were supposed to go in!

Whilst munching and suffing on the stuff, I checked my Emails. Ahh, it seems 'they' were a tad upset just by looking at - Re: Killing the Clown and Re: We hunt you down and Re: You owe us a lot of money. I ignored all that but there was one that made me smile with delight (well you don't smile with sorrow do you?), 'Congratulations, you have just won 10 million dollars as your Email address came up. Please reply here to claim your prize'.

I love this stuff. 'They' had not only taught me well, they had also given me some serious software.
So my reply was 'Thanks hey, I just fucked your entire system. Come on line to me again I will personally rip your vocal chords out and shove them up your arse so you can chat with yourself.' Cool hey!

With time to kill (yawn, another boring cliché) I had this thought (I was finking), why not make a Facebook account dedicated to me on my insane quest to kill people? Not yet sure who I want to send to the great hole in the ground to be eaten by worms as they rot and explode from intestinal gas from the bacteria in their guts, but I ponder on that.

Part… 14

After depositing last night's dinner when the armband sent messages that I needed to shit or will explode, I wandered back. Which is rather daft as I was actually walking forwards. Stupid backward language – I mean, why not just say 'I wandered forwards?'

Passing by the local ALDI (local? Huh!), I stopped passing by and popped in. I needed four bottles of that stuff which claims it removes every bit of grease and grime and the blah blah is just a load of lies. Hey, remember that washing powder a few years ago? Brilliant stuff – guaranteed to REALLY remove EVERY stain. And just for a change, the bastards were not lying and the stuff did work. Except for one small problem. It happened to me after I got a real bad blood stain on a blouse. Not my blood, that's besides the point, and using this magic stuff, out it came from the washing machine (I wasn't exactly going to clean it in a microwave), and lo and behold a cliché at its finest, the stain was gone and instead there was a huge hole! No wonder the stuff was removed from the market.

Anyway, I like shopping in ALDI. Best is Thursday at 8.00 am. (They close at 8.00 pm, so hence the former rather than the latter time), because all the asylum seeking bitches start ripping each others bin liners off and scratch, bite and kick over four pairs of children’s socks going for a Euro 1.50 cents. And the smell! They walked 2000 kms and never had a wash! Almost as much fun as teasing the baboons at the zoo.

Oh. I have to tell you about that. Laugh? It was so funny, I think I accidentally filled my panties. It was one of those days when I needed to entertain myself; so I went down to London Zoo with a couple of bananas. I wanted to do an experiment with some baboons if they can conquer greed through pain.

Peeling the banana seductively, it wasn't long before this huge alpha male was up against the fence with a hard on that could roger an elephant. Ignoring the sign 'Do not feed or tease the animals', because luckily for me I can not read English when I so desire, I poked the banana through the fence. Just as he snatched it, I whipped out a Tayser and gave the fucker 10 thousand volts.

Hah-hah. What a scream, not just from the baboons, but the peasants gawking away at this thing spurting a load of semen into the air whilst crapping itself. Even funnier was the rest of the pack rushing over and eating its shit!

As I said – I was doing a scientific experiment, so I buggered off for an hour, reckoning the baboon would come to is monkey senses by then and to stop my boredom Tasered a penguin to see if it could fly over the fence. Sadly that failed and it kicked it, rather promptly.

Back at the baboon pen, (Pen – I thought that was a Biro), the big git was up on a rock looking rather sulky. Not sure how baboons look sulky but I had a distinct impression it was not happy.

So... I pulled out the other banana and again seductively peeling it, waved it at him.

Hard to believe this, the fucking daft thing again got a hard on and scrabbled to the fence.

Oh well, experiment failed and I gave it another bolt in the hope it would awaken some primate brain cells. But in the ensuing twitching, vomiting, more shitting and screaming, I concluded it was in its death throes, which was confirmed in the Daily Mail the next day under the headlines 'Teased Bobo Taysered to Death.'

Is it really Part 15?

Moving on, I pitched up at Fritz's place to complete the next part of my plan...

Fritz had done wonders. Not that surprised, he had been given some serious dosh and the alternation (a much superior word than alternative), was having his bones broken so badly he could be packed in a duty free shopping bag. Still, he had some face on him hey. Well, besides if that loon Hannibal Lester gets hold of you, most people retain their face (the outer cover of the front end of your skull) until it rots off...

'Frtzy boy, now paint the machine in, that colour,' pointing to one of the plastic containers.

'But, but, but, Frau Schimdt, I have other customers and one is at the front desk and making a lot of noise why I not paint his car.'

'Get on with the work and I sort your customer out – kapeeto?'

_

'Hi, I am Veronica, and I gather you have a problem about some spray job?'

The middle aged twat, with almost no hair and a beer gut that would have passed as a Rhodesian Front, started some yowling and moaning. I can't be arsed to write the translation, but basically he had expected to pick up his resprayed car today. I told him that due to an 'emergency' Fritz was busy and maybe he should come back tomorrow. That went down like a feather coated in lead and the daft git started to come over rather heavy like.

I guess as you read this memoir, you can gather I do not tolerate such nonsense..

'Please turn around and look out the window. Do you see an ambulance?'

'No'

'Would you like to be in one, whilst unable to see, if I put my finger nails into your eyes? So fuck off and come back here tomorrow to 'see' if Fritz has finished your car.'

_

Nice. The acrylic paint had already dried. The formula could resist rain.

'Thanks Fritz, catch Ya later'

Programming the GPS (complements of the Porsche rebuild), I was soon on the motorway doing 280 kmh and heading towards Serbia. I needed to get some real fancy weapons.