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  1. #41

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    Default Homeotoxicity

    Homeotoxicity

    He hated his neighbour. They had been good friends once until a boundary dispute got out of control. Viewed dispassionately, it was a trivial matter because the area of land involved was small, but a few inches of a treasured garden that you have lovingly tended for years, that your kids have grown up and played in, is not a little thing to any of us and he was not going to give it away to that damn man.

    In these matters an inch can be worth a thousand pounds to the surveyors and solicitors you have to pay to defend your case and he had to spend almost five thousand before the bastard backed down. It wasn’t so much the money but the worrying about it. Just like a song that gets stuck in your mind but far more stressful, the same negative thoughts had repeated over and over in his head.

    He was almost over it now and starting to enjoy life again but the hatred for the man would not diminish. They ignored each other now, walked past each other on the street as if it was empty of anyone but themselves or gazed blankly past each other if their eyes happened to meet over the hedge, but in his head he was still killing him in every painful way possible.

    Giant Hogweed was growing on his lawn. He had read stories about how the sap can cause a painful skin reaction that can last for years and here it was growing in his garden. It was tempting. What if he smeared the sap on the handles of his neighbour’s garden tools which were in the unlocked little shed just next to his hedge? Trouble was, he might be spotted doing it or the smears would be noticed. He decided against doing it in reality although, in his imagination, he did it over and over again with invented saps that were much more poisonous and made his neighbour’s limbs swell and fall off, his eyeballs explode.

    Summer was here again and, darn it, he was constantly sniffling, it seemed he had started to suffer from hay fever. He mentioned it in a casual chat to a neighbour up the road who immediately offered to make him a homeopathic remedy. He had read various reports and believed it was total nonsense but out of politeness to a kind old lady, he did not say so and took the little bottle home, promising to take it as instructed. It tasted of water, which is all a homeopathic remedy is. He was amazed to find that in a few days his running nose cleared up, although the various anti-allergy things he had got from Boots had done very little. Was it coincidence or did water really have a strange memory? Whatever, it seemed to work and he continued to get the remedies from her, doing odd jobs in her garden in return.

    It was mid September and he no longer needed the remedies. He was clearing some trees in a little patch of woodland he owned nearby and noticed a cluster of mushrooms. He looked closer and saw they were not the edible sort but Death Caps, one of the most poisonous mushrooms in Europe. What a pity he couldn’t slip them to his neighbour as they looked like the edible ones but he would never get away with it. Hang on a minute! If Homeopathy worked with a solution so dilute that not a single molecule of the curative ingredient was present, why couldn’t it work for toxic substances? He carefully plucked the Death Caps with his gloved hands and put them in a plastic bag.

    You can find everything online and it was pretty easy. He ground up the Death Caps, left them to soak for a few days and then diluted the lethal solution, over and over again, until he was quite sure that any trace of the toxins was too small to be detected although, according to the usual principles of Homeopathy, all the biological effects of the original solution should be present. All that remained was to feed it to his neighbour and that bit was easy, just a short spray on the Beetroots next to the disputed hedge that he harvested in autumn. His neighbour would probably wash them before eating but he had allowed for that by skipping one dilution step.

    The Beets started being pulled up and three weeks later he heard from someone else in the village that his neighbour had been taken to hospital and was suffering from acute liver failure although the cause could not be established. He was not invited to the funeral but had a celebratory whisky in the garden, looking over at the nice empty one next door and chuckling. Poisoning had been suspected but nothing had been found. Homeotoxicity had proved its worth. He could never tell anyone but he felt proud of having come up with the idea.

    It would be a shame to waste it. Let’s see, that neighbour on the other side who was always making a noise with his motor mower, those squealing little girls down the road, that stupid Green Party councillor who was always objecting to things. Minor irritations, so they didn’t deserve to die like his neighbour but maybe a bit of punishment was due.

    That Giant Hogweed was growing on his lawn again.
    Last edited by xoggoth; 15th July 2016 at 20:43.
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    If everything isn't black and white, I say, 'Why the hell not?'
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  2. #42

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    Default Musings on the Golden Trashery of Ogden Nashery

    “Big bugs have little bugs upon their back to bite them. Little bugs have smaller bugs and so ad infinitum” Nobody is quite sure who said it but it is usually attributed to Ogden Nash, the humourist poet.

    Just shows that comedians tend to be a better source of wisdom than all the philosophers, political and religious leaders who write so much that is so deep and yet so much is drivel, it bears little resemblance to reality. Comedy, on the other hand, is more deeply rooted in real life, related to our real life experiences and thoughts, and that’s what makes it funny. Comedians also tend to keep it short to suit the limited human attention span, rather than waffling on for volumes. The Tractatus Theologico-Politicus or Das Kapital would probably be a bit dull if presented as stand up acts.

    The comedic approach has its downsides of course, in that interesting concepts are cut short, unfinished. Smaller bugs and so ad infinitum. Ad infinitum? Not quite complete there Ogden, the smallest creatures known to science are viruses. Is it possible to get much smaller given the realities of molecular structure? Can you have a creature composed of one atom, let alone one smaller still? And what about the other way, when size increases? Is our planet actually a life form? Are all us living creatures its bugs? And if so, what is our planet feeding on?

    Maybe the answer is that the whole of physical reality, from sub atomic particles to the universe, is just one infinitesimally small aspect of existence, just that one tiny collection of bugs we can see. An infinite number of bugs exist in infinite alternate realities and none of them are aware of the existence of the others, yet they prey on each other and feed each other in ways they cannot know and could never understand.

    We can see more than a flea whose awareness, if that, encompasses only the skin it feeds on and the birds that prey on it, but, in the context of an infinite universe, our better understanding is negligible. Maybe the idea of god or gods is the closest the human mind has been able to get to grasping the realities of what is out there, the nearest our limited intellects will ever get to ever understanding how things we cannot perceive will affect our lives in ways we can never comprehend. In most established religions god is an almighty being who created mankind. But what if he is just a bigger bug who provides us with sustenance? Who preys on an even bigger bug, a greater god? .. and so ad infinitum.

    And what is infinity? Does it, or can it, really go on forever or is it a circle? In alternate universes where there is no correspondence of physical laws or reality does relative size or power make any sense or are these false concepts of the human mind based on our limited perceptions? The virus is at the bottom of the heap that we know of, but what if it is all a circle? What if that god who is at the top of the heap, the one who provides the nutrition for the next one down and so on ad infinitum, feeds solely on a virus in our world?

    Perhaps we need to be careful when we invent the next antivirus drug. For all we know, the universe could end.
    Last edited by xoggoth; 17th February 2017 at 10:18.
    bloggoth

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  3. #43

    TPAFKAk2p2

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  4. #44

    Double Godlike!

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    Default

    That Pierre A. Riffard bloke in your link, the philosopher's human traits, is worth a look. Inneresting stuff

    Don't think I'd go so far as calling them philosophers but some of the most questioning types, those who don't accept the "truths" they have been told, tick some of those boxes. Like 6. Me and a lot of other atheists were brought up as Catholics. Not just me who has noticed that. After ten years of Sunday mornings, stand up, kneel down, sit down, stand up..., drone, drone, drone, 20 minutes about the church bingo, then more droning, kneeling etc. you start to think WTF??

    Reaches breaking point after a certain age when you have to lie in the confessional about what sins you have committed that week. Not to mention trying to sing hymns in an impossibly high key that hurts yer throat.
    bloggoth

    If everything isn't black and white, I say, 'Why the hell not?'
    John Wayne (My guru, not to be confused with my beloved prophet Jeremy Clarkson)

  5. #45

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    Default Aaaaaagh

    Been totally losing me imagination the last few years, knocked up below at last minute just so I wouldn't have to give up going to me writers' club cos I like the people there.. Based on one of the titles we were given for a change, no zombies, space aliens, serial killers, alternate universes, just a bloke getting drunk.

    BORING!
    bloggoth

    If everything isn't black and white, I say, 'Why the hell not?'
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  6. #46

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    Default The Train was late

    His missus had been staying with her sister who had been having a few problems in the late stages of her pregnancy. The latest call from her was good news, a healthy baby girl had been added to the family and her sister seemed fine. All going well, she would be back on Friday and he would pick her up at the station at 8.15.

    It didn’t go well. He got to the station just after eight and the message board said there were delays of about 20 minutes for unstated reasons; the expected time of arrival was now 8.34. He sat on the bench for a while, checked his phone for messages from his wife and tried to phone her only to get that annoying “The person you are calling cannot take your call, please leave a message after the tone” Damn it. Was she out of range or had she forgotten to turn the darn thing on again? He decided he might as well have a quick cup of coffee and a doughnut in the cafe next door. He walked round there and it was crowded and noisy, even for a Friday, maybe other people were hanging around waiting for trains as well. The pub over the road was just as crowded and noisy but a quick whisky or two solved any discomfort. He could manage a double and still be ok to drive.

    He felt in a much better mood when he got back to the platform and the train was punctual, albeit to the revised time. He watched the passengers alight and there was no sign of his wife. Oh well, maybe she would be on the next train that was due in about 15 minutes, assuming that one was on time, anyway. As the train pulled out he wandered back to the pub and downed another whisky. He was a pretty big chap so just one more single should be all right. He had been trying hard to cut down recently but it was Friday, who didn’t have a drink or two on a Friday night?

    He was just entering the platform again when his phone rang. His wife told him her train had been stationary for ages due to an incident on the line and she had not been able to get a signal. They were on their way to Tonbridge again now but she didn’t know when the next train would be from there. He offered to come and collect her but she said it probably wasn’t worth it provided she managed to catch another one fairly soon, it could take him longer to drive than it would take her to get to their station. She should be at Tonbridge in five to ten minutes and would call him from there as soon as she had checked the train times.

    Five minutes, another 20 minutes from Tonbridge, plus waiting, should be plenty of time. Just one more whisky would be ok, he never felt drink affected his ability to drive much anyway and as soon as they left the town they would be heading back to their village via small country roads, he’d never seen a police car on any of them. He was just finishing the second whisky of his third pub visit when the wife called to say she had just missed a train and, now it was getting late, they were fewer and further between. The next one would be in 30 minutes, so she would not be there for at least another 50. He did not offer to pick her up this time as it did not seem a good idea. So he jovially said “ok love, see you then” And wandered back to the pub for another whisky or two.

    Or three or... If anyone reading this story is losing count of the whiskies be assured that you are not losing count half as much as Jack did. He was feeling distinctly merry when, an hour later his phone rang again. “Jack where are you? I’ve been waiting at the station for ten minutes and can’t see you” “Sorry love”, he mumbled “be right there” The usual two minute walk to the station took a bit longer as walks tend to do when one follows a zigzag instead of a straight line. She was watching his uneven progress. "Oh, Jack have you been drinking again?" “Sorry love” he mumbled again, “you know I’ve been doing well to cut down recently but bit of a relapse tonight I’m afraid” He gave her a brief clumsy hug, staggered with her back to the car and tossed her the keys. He knew she hated driving at night but, well, in the circumstances, it was probably the best option.

    It wasn’t his fault the damn train was late.
    bloggoth

    If everything isn't black and white, I say, 'Why the hell not?'
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  7. #47

    Double Godlike!

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    Default The Skinny Sketcher

    Many people wonder where art will go next. Rather more accurately, wonder where “art” (inverted commas) will go next. For many ordinary people, so much that is called art is meaningless, a product of the largely talentless whose main objective is fame.

    There is little point in detailed reproductions of reality anymore, digital cameras provide those easily and made a much better job of it but art still has a huge role to play. Detailed depictions of things which we cannot see, like events of history, the gods, ghosts, aliens and things that many believe in, or subjects for entertainment like super heroes and monsters. Then there is the value of the abstract, it provides new ways of looking at real things, that stimulate the imagination, can evoke emotional response with its beauty or which introduces concepts that made us think.

    It was that last, that search for meaning, that had been overstretched. The first minimalist artist to create an almost blank canvas was Kazimir Malevich back in 1918. He labelled it as “the supremacy of pure feeling or perception in the pictorial arts". Of the numerous blank or almost blank canvases created since then, one has sold for $15 million. The Tate Modern today has at least four blank canvases. Maybe the first blank canvas made a statement as Malevitch said but how many times does the same statement convey a useful meaning? After all, if the only meaning comes from our own feelings and perceptions, wouldn’t it be easier (and cheaper) to just close our eyes and relax?

    What can be deemed good art is very subjective. Perhaps history has seen some great artists that we didn’t recognise as artists at all. Jack the Ripper, for example. Those very detailed and careful facial mutilations, the skilful arrangement of flesh over the shoulders, were they artistic statements? Vandalism is hardly comparable with vicious premeditated murder but another artist associated with the streets and who has committed technically illegal acts was Banksy. We would have treated his creations as graffiti once but who wouldn’t want one of his humorous works on our wall these days? We might not all share his trendy liberal, leftist views but who cares about politics when there’s money to be had?

    Then came the next new thing. Those blank canvas artists seem to keep getting away with it but, generally, an artist has to do something original and eye catching to become famous and the one who became known as the Skinny Sketcher did just that. It wasn’t just the quality of his art or the meaning that his works supposedly held. Just like Banksy, and perhaps the Ripper, he aroused an air of mystery that intrigued many. Who was he? How did he do it? Why did he choose the “canvases” he did?

    It started in Norwich. At first it was treated by police as simple assault. A few people, both men and women, had been out drinking in the evening and had woken up the next morning in strange places, in parks or derelict building sites. They recalled being in bars or clubs but their memories had become hazy as they made their way home. Test showed that Rohypnol, the so called “date rape drug” had been slipped into their drinks. The motive was unclear at first, there was no evidence of any sexual assault and none of their personal property had been taken. The only thing the cases had in common was that their bodies had been tattooed in various places. Initially the police assumed the tattoos were simply malicious as they were very small and incomplete to start with and it is not unknown for criminal to scar victims to mark their territory, to remind them who’s boss.

    Only later, as more victims started to appear throughout East Anglia and the Midlands did the artistic motivation become clear. Some victims were missing for days and the tattoos became progressively larger and more elaborate. It was becoming horrific! Being horrific, it was of course really big news and the newspapers and media, having no other major news stories at the time, went mad over it! Pictures of some of the amazingly skilled tattoos made the front pages and, while sympathising (albeit very briefly) with the victims, people could not fail to be amazed at the artistic ability and the humorous gist of the subjects. His works were a bit like Banksy’s but with a distinctly more right wing bent and that only raised their popularity. Human nature never manages to follow a straight course but swings from one extreme to another and, at that time, more and more people were rejecting the globalist left wing agenda that had caused them so many real problems.

    Some early victims had the tattoos removed on the NHS but later victims began to wonder if it was a good idea, maybe they were worth something. Then one decided to pay for a procedure normally used during skin grafting to treat burns or other injuries, he had the skin on his back removed with the tattoo intact and it sold for auction at a price that, even after the costs of surgery, added nearly £80,000 to his bank balance.

    None of the Skinny Sketcher’s victims had incurred any injuries apart from the Tattoo, indeed their welfare had clearly been important to him. They had not just been dumped but carefully left in a comfortable position with pillows and blankets to keep the cold out. Some thought a painless abduction was well worth a few tens, maybe hundreds, of thousands, in their pocket and fewer and fewer of his victims wanted to report the actions of the Skinny Sketcher to the police. Instead they would go online and contact a major art dealer. Some even began to hang around alone in venues where he might be operating, deliberately trying to look drunk and unaware of their surroundings.

    Some get lucky, or unlucky according to your viewpoint, and that’s what happened to Ted. He woke up lying behind a bench by a canal and he could feel a mild discomfort all over, like he had been in the sun for too long. He went home and stood naked in front of the mirror. Apart from on his face the tattoo was everywhere. This was Skinny’s most elaborate work to date and could be worth a fortune! But could he really dare to have skin stripped from everywhere? A major point of Skinny’s latest work, probably his best to date, was in a certain private place. He could be selective with the surgery maybe but then the value of his skin would be greatly reduced. How much less would the Mona Lisa be worth if you cut out the enigmatic smile?

    He could not go through with it. At least there was a next best thing, and the art dealers arranged it. The pay was a damn site better than he got for being a parking attendant anyway. The Skinny Sketcher exhibitions that engaged him were hugely popular and many wealthy people paid a lot extra for entry to the private exhibition to see the full artwork that was hidden from the general public. Soon, others found themselves in the same position and he was not the only exhibit. Wendy’s canvas, unsurprisingly, was even more popular than his. It wasn’t long before they hit it off, one thing led to another and they became a couple.

    Ah! Those intimate moments when art met art, when one piece of symbolism entered into another! There had to be some meaningful message there somewhere.
    Last edited by xoggoth; 17th February 2017 at 10:10.
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  8. #48

    Double Godlike!

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    Default Under the floorboards

    A separation is always a difficult time for both parties but at least, he kept telling himself, theirs had been less stressful than most and they had parted on amicable terms, resolving to get together now and again. Over the years they had been spending less and less time together, each doing their own thing, spending time with their own friends and finally finding other relationships. A parting is much easier when you are no longer close.

    Things had worked out financially too as the sale of their successful building business had provided enough cash to provide each of them with a small house and sufficient income for a pleasant retirement. Because they had contributed pretty equally, he looking after the building side and she handling the marketing and administration, there had been no acrimony between them over a 50/50 split.

    So here he was, just retired, his first day on his own in the delightful rustic little cottage he had brought just outside a quaint historic village in the Chilterns. The view from the garden was fantastic, the rolling hills above and the grounds of an old 15th century Manor House next door. It had an interesting history, having been owned by a Lord who was supposedly the leader of an occult, some said Satanist, group. It opened to the public for a few weeks every summer and he looked forward to having a wander around.

    Over the weekend he would sort the furniture out and, on Monday, start looking at what he needed to do to get his little cottage into tip-top condition. There was probably nothing that a builder of his experience could not fix himself. Moving had been stressful so tonight he would just relax. He lit a fire, poured himself a whisky, and turned on the TV to watch what he wanted for a change. It was great to be in control of the remote. While he had some fond memories of his wife it had always really annoyed him that she ruled the TV. She was always watching some tedious program like Coronation Street, East Enders, Antiques Road Show or Strictly Come Dancing. How nice it was to be able to choose a program that men like. He flicked the remote and started watching a film on the Horror Channel.

    On Monday he got started. The first thing to look at was that small damp patch on the front room wall. There was nothing obviously wrong with the damp course from the outside so he decided to take up some floorboards and have a look. The under-floor space was much deeper than he had expected, it was more like a cellar. He fetched a torch and stepladder and clambered down. The walls looked very old, as if his house had been built over a previous building. It wasn’t long before he found a small arch in the wall. Could it be cold air from that that was causing the damp? The arch led to a low, narrow corridor made of stone. He went to get a compass, then set off down it.

    The tunnel went on and on and the compass indicated he was heading towards Great Stoke Manor. He reckoned he must be very close to it when the tunnel opened out into a large circular room. It was difficult to see much in the darkness but his tunnel was on a sort of balcony with various other tunnels around the perimeter. He shone the torch down and could just make out what appeared to be a huge pentagram, surrounded by stone pillars. This had to be the place of those Satanist rituals but, if so, it had been kept secret. It wasn’t mentioned in the visitors’ leaflets and did not look as if it had been used or visited for a very long time. Maybe the current owners knew nothing of it; he would contact them tomorrow.

    He was turning to go back when he heard a noise. It was almost inaudible, a low, burbling hiss but it made his skin crawl. He could see nothing; maybe it was just water leaking in. He walked back but felt like running; it felt like something was behind him and he was sure he could hear very low moaning noises. He told himself it was just his imagination playing with the echoes of his footsteps but he was really relieved to get back to the brightness in his front room. He decided not to mention it to anyone, he just wanted to block that arch up and get the floorboards back as soon as possible.

    He went to bed. He didn’t believe in ghosts or evil spirits, but no matter how many times he told himself it was rubbish, he still felt troubled and nervous. He managed to get to sleep but was woken up in the early hours by a curious combination of noises. That evil bubbling hiss was back but much louder and accompanied by moaning as if of tortured spirits but there were also much more mundane sounds like people talking and they made him think there had to be a simple explanation. He had probably forgotten to turn the TV off and it was still tuned to the horror channel. That had to be it! He crept down the stairs, peered into the front room and began to panic. The room was full of dark pulsating shadows that were ethereal yet still evoked a sense of rotting flesh. At their centre, on the sofa, was a much larger shape, transparent yet hideous in a way he could not describe. The evil beings from that place of devil worship had followed him home. That chance finding under the floorboards might have ruined his new life.

    The hideous being moved what looked like a huge claw and he saw it was clutching the TV remote. He knew then that his new life might have been ruined in more ways than one. The evil demons from Great Stoke Manor were watching Coronation Street on catch up TV.
    bloggoth

    If everything isn't black and white, I say, 'Why the hell not?'
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  9. #49

    Double Godlike!

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    Default Fake news

    He was sick to death of reading about the same depressing things going on in the world every day. Terrorist attacks and atrocities, criminals preying on vulnerable people, never ending conflicts, those famines and epidemics repeating themselves every few years, illegal immigration, the perils of Brexit, lefty zealots mouthing their unrealistic ideals, corrupt politicians, long delays in A&E, the list just went on and on. News never seemed to be good.

    He doubted that things were worse today than they ever been, at least he didn’t have to hide in air raid shelters while enemy bombers flew overhead as his parents had to. It was just that modern media, the live TV in HD, the internet, made it all so much more prominent and real even when it didn’t affect you. He was getting more and more annoyed with it all, he couldn’t get through the BBC news without finding something to swear about. What would all this irritation do for his already high blood pressure? He didn’t want to end up on tablets.

    He turned on the BBC news at six. Another suspected terrorist attack in France, more dire warnings over consequences of Brexit, another looming rise in his car tax and planned cuts in school funding. He must have sworn at least twenty times. That’s it! He resolved he would not look at the news again - TV, internet, he was finished with it. He would find better things to do with his time. Resolutions are always much easier to make than to stick to and after a few days he started wondering what was going on in the world. Maybe he would just have a very quick look online. NO! NO! He would not do it! He had to find something else to fill that hour or so in his daily life. That can be a bit difficult when you’re alone and retired.

    Another thing he had got tired of seeing constantly was news about “Fake News”. But maybe fake news could be more interesting and positive than authentic news, assuming there was any. And, if it was faked, why did it really matter what it was about? A story about aliens having a party in his neighbour’s shed was just as valid as one about the Russians being behind the election of some politician. Ok, instead of watching the BBC evening news he would spend half an hour using his imagination and making up his own news.

    He needed a newscaster and that was easy. He would never admit it to others but he often talked to his little puppet parrot, Mr P, and shared a glass of wine with him. Mr P was duly appointed as newscaster for the BBC, the Blithering Bollux Corporation. He poured them an extra large glass of Pinot Grigio and they went to enjoy the evening sun at the bottom of the garden where they sat together in best Rod Hull and Emu style. He sang the opening theme tune, a rude rugby song, and then asked “And what news have you got for us today Mr P?” Mr P started with a squawk as his beak was squeezed and then the focus of the one man audience was all on him. He wasn’t a skilled ventriloquist but his own mouth moved as inconspicuously as possible while Mr P came out with the breaking news. The Loch Ness Monster was shortly due to arrive for a vacation in their garden pond, his nasty neighbour had been sentenced to five years in prison for being nasty and the chancellor was to award a free brothel pass to all single male pensioners.

    This went great for some weeks, he felt so much more positive about the world. Then somehow things gradually changed. He could be sitting there trying to think of some more great news for his presenter but the corner of his mouth kept on mumbling and Mr P kept on presenting. Was he going loopy? The news was no longer all positive either, a giant wasp had laid eggs in his bottom, an imminent volcanic eruption was expected to destroy his shed, people in his village could starve to death due to a series of strictly enforced road closures, it was getting as depressing as the real news. Maybe it would help if his reporter stopped sitting up the garden every day and got out to do some live interviews. Mr P interviewed his washing machine and he was shocked at its feelings. It lived a life of slavery and was appalled at the indignity of washing his smelly underpants every week. That was nothing compared to what the detergent tablets felt at their forced end to a drab life in a cardboard box.

    The weeks went on and the fake news covered so many sad or shocking things, worms cut in half by uncaring gardeners, squirrels planning terrorist attacks on dustbin lids, socks grieving over their missing partners, non-existent monsters that felt discriminated against just because they didn’t exist, it was unending. He now felt even more depressed over all his invented fake news than he had over the real world news.

    It was six o’clock and instead of going down the garden with Mr P he turned on the TV and watched the headlines. A major terrorist attack in Luxembourg! Ah that was more like it! He poured himself another Pinot Grigio and settled into his armchair with a sigh of contentment.
    Last edited by xoggoth; 17th March 2017 at 16:57.
    bloggoth

    If everything isn't black and white, I say, 'Why the hell not?'
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  10. #50

    Double Godlike!

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    bloggoth

    If everything isn't black and white, I say, 'Why the hell not?'
    John Wayne (My guru, not to be confused with my beloved prophet Jeremy Clarkson)

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