Scientology Saves!
You know John Travolta, don’t you? Big star. Massive star. As big today as Elvis or Marilyn Monroe were in their days. He claims. He also claims that the reason he is alive and well whereas the aforementioned stars of equal magnitude to him came to abrupt ends is thanks in no small part to his belief in the real religion of Scientology. There’s not a single reason in the world to doubt that John is speaking the truth but I know what you’re thinking: if Scientology protects you from sleeping pill overdoses (and it does) and if Scientology protects you from cardiac problems brought on by drugs (and it does) then just what else does Scientology do because that sounds like the genuine religion for me!?! Stubbing your toe on a table leg is a thing of the past once Scientology enters your heart. Scientology helps hide you from Italian partisans intent on stringing you up. While aboard ship a Scientologist always points towards magnetic north. Scientologists can race through Parisian tunnels without losing control of their cars. Stingrays avoid Scientologists like the plague. People with large heads and thick hair sit behind Scientologists in the cinema. The thetan of L. Ron Hubbard supplies the answers to The Times crossword. Prison rape is not possible thanks to the buttock-clenching power of Scientology. Scientology trains its followers to dance the Macarena correctly. At OT VI and above a Scientologist will never get stuck for article ideas on websites. Tortoises rebound harmlessly off Scientologists. French waiters are polite to Scientologists. But the corrupting power of Xenu compels them to still piss in their soup. Exclusive photos of Tom and Katie’s baby. Scientologists are pre-approved for MBNA Platinum credit cards. Reduced leg-humping by stray dogs. Your personal E-meter includes a digital radio tuner at no extra cost. Scientologists know the terrible secret behind the Smurfs. More supermarket staff attend the checkouts when a Scientologist goes shopping. Bouncy feet – ideal for jumping on chairs. Scientology is the only religion guaranteed erectile dysfunction-free. No other real religion comes close to providing such protection and everyday advantages so it’s time that the mocking of Scientology came to an end! John Travolta wishes it to be...
Scarlett Johansson’s Mouth
Does anyone else find Scarlett Johansson’s mouth distracting? And not good distracting, or excuse me but I’m off to the bathroom for five – no, make that three! – minutes distracting, but just plain old distracting. I can’t even say exactly what I find so distracting about her mouth. The lips look … wrong. When she smiles one half of one of her lips sneers while part of the other one flattens or something. Or does it? I don’t even know if that’s possible or if that’s even happening. Or maybe the upper lip inflates and deflates when her mouth opens while the lower one extends outwards slightly. Or do her lower teeth retract inside her jaw when she sneer-smiles unbalancing the mouthal area? A clear example of the distractingness of the distracting lips on the distracting mouth of Scarlett Johansson. I can’t even tell what is so distracting about her mouth due to its awesome powers to distract my cognitive functions. Perhaps it is a mouth that can only be understood through the medium of poety. Wordsworth-style. I wondered oddly at Scarlett Johansson’s mouth That expands bizarrely o’er cheeks and chin, When all at once I became distracted; A lip, transcending this dimension. Within the skin, beneath the nose, Staring intently, my confusion grows. Or through art. Klimt-style. Or through an animated GIF. Or perhaps it simply cannot be understood at...
Busy
I have been busy. Busy like a bee. A bee that should have been gathering nectar and making honey but instead spent a few idyllic days simply buzzing around a well-kept garden in the south of England. That bee sniffed the bouquet from the flowers – possibly for the first time he really sniffed them – and that bee smiled a tiny smile that could only be seen by a bee scientist with a bee microscope. But there was no bee scientist; only the bee. What did the bee do next? The bee explored the bushes and looked at the paths left in the soil by worms who had popped out when their lookouts confirmed no birds were nearby. The bee was happy and the bee spied an open window. In through the window the bee flew. He should have been gathering nectar and making honey but here he was, flying through an open window. Oh! The bee became trapped. Not on purpose, of course, for the people in the house – large people, much larger than bees – would never willingly trap a bee inside their house unless they were bee scientists with a specific interest in this bee, or perhaps weird bee fetishists who sought the comfort and unquestioning love of a buzzy companion. No, the people closed the window without realising the bee was in the house and the bee was locked in. And the bee spent a long time trying to escape. The window would not shatter no matter how much the bee headbutted it. The bee was beside himself with fear. He should have been gathering nectar and making honey but now he was cut off from the hive! Would he ever see his stripey friends again? The bee did escape eventually. The very large people in the house opened a series of doors and then performed a dance with a newspaper that instructed the bee where the exit was. The bee was grateful and decided not to sting the people in their eyes. So, the bee was free and back in the garden. The pretty garden with all the things that he never really noticed when he was gathering nectar and making honey. And the bee considered whether he should look around some more or return to the hive and bring his heart-rate back to something approaching normal. He was not really a brave bee. He’d just had the urge to do something different. He’d almost paid the ultimate price. But he’d survived. Best not to push one’s luck especially when one is a bee. Bees are small, you see, and bee luck...
Poisson D’Avril
Poisson d’Avril! Yes, that’s the shout that will be ringing up and down the hallways and dungeons of many French-speaking households on this April 1st as the annual day o’ pranking returns and newspaper-reading and TV-viewing reaches new highs as everyone looks out for the hilarious fake reports about President Bush’s accidental Segway-down-a-well death, the incredible new business launch of Kentucky Fried Yak, and the Papacy’s support for the glow-in-the-confessional, communion wafer-flavoured, Infanticide brand of condoms. I used to know a girl called Avril. She was hot! She was so hot you had to remember to separate the letters in the word ‘hot’ in your inner monologue. H-o-t. That sort of hot. Fiery hot. Those people who see auras around other people, yeah? Well, they saw flames licking up from around Avril. She loved life and she loved everything that was alive. And many inanimate things too. A tigress in bed. A tigress whore in bed! A tigress whore with Klingon blood in bed! No, that’s spoilt the imagery. Now I’m picturing Worf in silk panties. Anyway, she was hot. Passion d’Avril! But after a while she became a little too h-o-t for me. I tried to douse her flames with my Fire Extinguisher Of Annoying Her Enough So She Would Leave Me Alone (+4 versus Riders of Rohan) but that didn’t work. Annoying her made her violently angry, probably on account of her fieriness, which I should have taken into account really. Playing it cool to dampen her sparks turned her on too. I was trapped in a firestorm of a relationship and there was only one way out: cyanide! Poison’d Avril! I needed to get away, to calm myself down, collect my thoughts, and, mostly, avoid the police, and so I consulted my special ‘Flee From Pursuers’ edition Magic 8-Ball and set off for the North Wales coast. I moved from seaside guesthouse to seaside guesthouse, never staying too long in case the constabulary or Avril’s quick-to-anger relatives were on my trail. And then one day I met a soulmate in the form of David, an IT support specialist from Liverpool who had also fled from a turbulent relationship to the county of Denbighshire. Like me he had also recently murdered his partner (although his special ‘Relationship Homicide’ edition Magic 8-Ball had settled on "Death by Office Ring-Binder Machine") and we also shared the hobbies of stamp-throwing, hieroglyphic joke-writing, arthropod mind-reading, and bed-bathing the elderly. We had similar tastes in humour, movies, reading, and even shared a shoe size. I forget which one though. The special bond between David and I went sour though one night while...
The England Football Team
If you’ve a passing interest in the sport the world outside America calls football but you’ve never had the time to really delve into the whos, whys, whats, whens, and how the hells then this introductory piece introducing you in an introductatious manner to some of the people in the beautiful game may be beneficial. Since I’m mostly English and we’re right in the middle of a period of qualifying games for the next Euro championships with a crunch game against Andorra coming up tonight (no, I don’t know how it’s possible to reach the situation where a game against Andorra could ever be considered a crunch game either but it’s a crazy world we live in) I thought I’d take a look at the England football team: the key players, the important staff members, the media. Key Players Owen Hargreaves The only player in the squad who doesn’t play in the English Premiership also happens to be the best player to have put on an England shirt in living memory. Of redwood trees. Yes, he’s that good. He may make the odd mistake – getting caught in possession, passing to the invisible pixie on the sideline, assuming his team-mates are any good, etc. – but he makes up for that with intelligence, passion, fitness, work-rate, and lightly-curled hair. For a long time there was a sports media campaign to eject him from the team on the grounds of "very nearly being a foreigner, what with playing in Germany, who does he think he is, eh?" but former England boss Sven Goran Eriksson thankfully ignored the clueless twats who laughingly call themselves journalists long enough for them to give up and move onto trying to remove the manager instead. Which sadly they did eventually succeed at. In Summary: Owen Hargreaves = Very Good. Wayne Rooney Like Owen Hargreaves, Wayne also often displays good fitness and work-rate. However, he also has a tendency to get upset easily and this adversely affects his game. Things that make Wayne upset are: being played in a different position from the one he’s good at and plays week-in and week-out are you listening Steve McClaren this isn’t rocket science sheesh, not offering your gran for sexual favours when conducting an interview with him, the tedious references to his resemblance to Shrek; it’s getting old now people, the tedious references to his visits to elderly prostitutes (sorry about the earlier reference to not offering your gran when conducting an interview). Wayne was educated at the De La Salle college in Liverpool. I was educated at another De La Salle college in Portsmouth. This makes Wayne...
Slavery Reparations
The slave trade period was – with hindsight – not a great period. Not like the free opium for everyone period. Can I hear an ‘awesome’? Awesome! But back to the slave trade period. Not good. Now, there are those who argue reparations should be made for the actions of our ancestors. Okay. Fine. I hear some of the arguments and maybe I can agree in principle with some of them. Figures have been bandied about recently: the World Reparations and Repatriation Truth Commission have lodged a claim for $777 trillion, for example, whilst simultaneously placing their little fingers to the sides of their collective mouths. Dr Robert Beckford plucked the far more sensible figure for Britain alone of £7.5 trillion and almost kept a straight face too. Okay. Again. Only … I’ve got a few claims of my own first. The Cost Of Caveman-Consumption The caveman-eating period in the history of the dinosaurs and their descendants remains a highly emotive and contentious subject. That the systematic terrorising, roaring, cave-encroachment, and chewing of bearded cavemen in front of their bikini-clad cavebabes had an impact on the social development of mankind is not in question. The fierce dispute between me and the descendants of the dinosaurs revolves around putting a figure on the economic cost. Birds acknowledge the role their ancestors played in the caveman-eating period but refuse to entertain the notion of compensation. I, on the other hand, believe that they should go further than merely expressing regret. An apology backed by a financial package will help to heal the mammalian-avian wounds of time. Those wounds! They hurt so bad! A billion trillion pounds should do the trick nicely. And stop crapping on my car. The Price Of Prayer It’s difficult to find anything that’s had more of a detrimental impact on the quality of life for everyone than religion. Just a few of the awful events that can be directly associated with this stain of shame on the neatly-pressed trousers of universal history include, but are not limited to: religious wars, crusades, and the ilk, praying when you could be inventing a cure for baldness, the suppression of knowledge and persecution of personal lifestyle choices, arguing with Jehovah’s Witnesses in the doorway and missing the Premiership goals round-up, rummaging in your pockets for a few unconvincing moments, patting them apologetically and smiling a sad no towards the Salvation Army Pub Guilt Squad, M. Night Shyamalan’s movies. God should be held accountable or, in His absence, anyone claiming to be one of God’s people. A trillion trillion pounds for every person affected by the historical taint of religion will...
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