Category: Tittbits!!


It’s MINE!!!

Paper Heroes Location 2

Paper Heroes Location 2 (Photo credit: roadkillbuddha)

Just when you thought you’d already seen the summum of sarcasm, you had to stumble onto this bit of crap, didn’t you! You poor misguided sceptical sod, you thought you’d read or heard the lot, well… didn’t you? Forget about it! Let me put you out of your delusional misery. Or not. Actually, I think you should move your petty attention span somewhere else, because this will not be pretty! I’m warning you. Piss off, right now.(notice the absence of an exclamation mark behind this succinct piece of advice). Are you still here? Do you insist on being mortified? Alright then,here we bloody well go. –> here or here.

I, Ralphie A Burcke, do by this piece of paper(transcribing now) declare that I was walking down a certain derelict avenue, when I happened to stumble onto (the now late) gentleman, whose name shall be left out of this epistle for judicial purposes, who had in his possession a loaf of bread. Being hungry, I said that I would like some, thank him very much, but the arsehole disagreed. (Again, notice the absence of an exclamation mark(I’m trying to restrain myself)). When I inquired why he would not part with at least part of this loaf of bread, he told me, and was rather adamant about it, that he had a piece of paper which proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this loaf was his. He proceeded to show me the receipt of a supermarket, which one shall remain a mystery to you. I asked, rather sensibly I thought, whether the tree had objected, to which he tuttutted me and asked in an exasperated tone if I knew of any trees that spoke English. Nope!However, yours truly was not born yesterday, nor the day before. Actually quite a large number of yesterdays ago and I happened to have on me a small notebook and a pen. With thwarting this dastardly loafhugger’s plans aforethought, I wrote on a piece of paper:” Half of this loaf of bread ->(thataone) is indisputably , unequivocably and irrevocably the source of sustenance of Ralphie A Burcke, period.”(notice the period!) And I signed it, just for good measure. This stumped him!(notice exclamation mark)

Next this unbeliever took out his gun and declared his intention of terminating my loaf-less existence, but the cretin had neglected to take into account the presence of mind of the son of Misses Burcke! I asked if I could see a piece of paper, which stated indubitably that said gun was in actuality his. He turned red and admitted that he had acquired it from some shady fellow. To cut a long story short, I confiscated the gun and shot the bastard with it, Not because I am, paper-wise, in the habit of shooting people with their own(sic) guns, but because the idiot was starting to annoy me (and I was slightly pekish). Anyways, I ended up with a loaf of bread and a gun. I did write a little note, in my little notebook, in which I gave the tosser permission to pass on to whichever dimension would welcome his sorry arse. I pinned the note to his forehead. Are you dimwits with me so far? If you really insist on being tormented some more, so be it.

I was shuffling and munching along, when I met my second victim. Strange how these soon-to-be daisy-pusher-uppers seem to cross my path. It must be karma, theirs or mine. A mentally deficient gentleman invited me into his home. I use the personal pronoun ‘his’ loosely here, very loosely indeed, I’m sure you understand! When I asked what on earth made him think that this particular abode was his, he showed me a piece of paper and true enough, it stated that it was his, which I let pass for that instant, because pieces of paper and myself are no strangers, remember? I decided to hear what the fool had to say for himself. He confided in me that his ancestors had come with a piece of paper, which stated that this continent of America was in actuality theirs. When the natives objected, they shot the lot, minus a couple whom they corralled in a penitentiary. I asked, why on earth did these fools not recognise the validity of your piece of paper? He told me they were utterly stupid and had the ludicrous notion that the earth should be shared by all living things. Well… good riddance to this lot!

The television was on at that time and some black dude came on, saying that he had loads and loads of pieces of paper, which stated that he was the boss and that everybody should do as he said. Nuff said(paper included). Whereupon the guy who had invited me in told me that the one on TV’s grandpappie used to be his. I asked how that worked. He called me an idiot and said that he had heaps of paper to prove it. I stood corrected and looked appropriately abashed. Somehow the black lads had convinced themselves that they were not his but themselves. And all this without a piece of paper, the unmitigating nerve of these people! They had a war but this guys forebears lost, because the other came up with an even BIGGER piece of paper. Fucking fornication, sodomy and gomorrizing all put together. What is this world coming to?

As he was starting to bore me, I proceeded to write a note stating that the house I was in was mine, but this moron objected aswell and took out his gun, for which he did have a piece of paper. There is however more than one way to skin a cat! I asked If I could see the receipt for the bullets and he could not find it. More the fool he, I shot him. When the Missus came home and I shouted:”Honey, I’m home!” she was a mite surprised and so were the kids, but when I showed them the piece of paper all became abundantly clear. I did not really want nor need a family though, what with my new-found wealth. I divorced the lot of them and exchanged everything for a yacht. It was there that I met Mister Milt Bromley or some such name, who claimed to have oodles of pieces of paper with the face of some dead guy on them, green ones. I was not impressed. If he had had a piece of paper with the face of my dear departed Gran or somebody else who was near to my heart, I would have admired him immensely and possibly even have handed over the yacht for it, but for a to me unknown dead geezer!!?? Was he joking?

He did give a warning which I took to heart, namely that with my new yacht, people might become jealous and try to take it away from me with lots of guns. Something had to be done and quickly. I had a mega-brilliant idea! Does not the Peoples’ Republic of China have billions of people with lots and lots of guns? For sure they do! I wrote on a piece of paper that from then on the PRC was MINE, with a Ni hao and a Shishi thrown in for good measure. I asked Mister Misty Romley to witness it and now I am not only the uncle but the undisputed leader of that immense country. Ni hao, you may call me Emperor Ralphie! Shishi and get on with protecting my arse.(and my yacht!) Be warned, all and sundry, if you want to mess with me, I’ll set my yellow fellows on you! They can’t really object, now can they, for do they speak English? Even if they do, bugger them. Do as your leader tells you or else(remember Mao?)

I’d always wanted to score a home run and I decided to go for the whole shebang. First I dug a small hole in the ground with my spoon, for I did not have a little shovel. After that I wrote a little note, saying to old Gaia that although she’d had a good run of it, I would from that moment take charge of the whole planet and everything on it. She protested with some earthquakes, volcanic eruptions and some tsunamis, but I was not impressed, for I had buried the not inside her and even she had to acquiesce to my authority. I am now Leader of the World and all shall bow to me, by the power vested in me by that piece of paper. All hail Ralphie! Anyone who disagrees, remember my yellow fellows!!! It’s ALL mine…

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A Joking Brunette?

Brunette Combing Her Hair

Brunette Combing Her Hair (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The lengths that some people will go to in order to exercise their right to be silly is astounding. A blonde with a twist was spotted in a Murcia shopping street, but the lady in question was actually a brunette, who had paradoxically dyed the hair on her head blonde! It was her tiny mustache and her eyebrows that gave her away. No other tufts were in evidence, which was perhaps fortunate for her and the general public.

Obviously some members of the female populace no longer wish to be appreciated for their brains only, or maybe they think that they´ll have more fun this way. Have they forgotten that having more indiscriminate fun stems from an incapacity to comprehend the basic rule of cause and effect and a whimsical approach to the consequences?

Are they perhaps jealous over the lack of brunette jokes? It may also be that they feel left out, when they notice the increasing obtuseness displayed on the internet and wish to at least appear slightly dimmer than they really are. An insufficient exchange of bodily fluids with members of either sex is probably at the root of this remarkable display. One can only wish for them to get lucky very soon, before more mischief is perpetrated.

The author wishes to point out that he himself was actually blonde as a boy, but he hastens to add that his hair got progressively darker with age. He hopes that any occasional relapse, past, present or future, be overlooked and is eternally grateful that he has finally turned gray.

Those Happy Pills.

English: Happy Pills!!! (Tho I don't know what...

English: Happy Pills!!! (Tho I don’t know what are you able to get there) – Barcelona (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Earlier today I was feeling depressed over some depressing stuff, amazingly. I hardly ever get depressed over good things that happen to me, which is fortunate, therapy costing what it does. You may have guessed that my finances are in a slump and as a result so am I. My ears perked when I heard on TV that they are selling pills now that are absolutely guaranteed to cure any symptoms of depression and as an added bonus they are quite affordable.

I was just reaching for my cell to order this miracle drug, when I stayed my hand to listen to some minor side effects, which could accompany this medication. Apparently, they would render me blues-free and I would hardly care about my hair falling out and the cramps in my lower regions. That is, if I did not slip into a coma entirely or actually died, which would provide a more permanent solution to all my problems.

These miraculous tablets had not been tested on any poor animals, but a large group of inmates from a correctional facility had kindly volunteered for testing. Those that had survived had started a knitting society and were rather pleased with the treatment they had received and thankful for the wigs that the pharmaceutical company had graciously provided them.

That settles it. I’m ordering now, but I insist on my complimentary wig.

A Non-event!?

Sugar Mountain

Sugar Mountain (Photo credit: BlueRidgeKitties)

A dear friend is planning to leave his den, that comfortable haven where his cortex is safely connected to the web, to venture into the netherworld. I knew I had some weird friends, but this one absconded with the whole cooky jar. He plans to disconnect himself, temporarily one hopes, from our virtual reality and wander unknown planes, ipadless, cell-less and… (there’s worse!) cameraless. I told him with wringing hands: “But my dear chap, this does not compute!” He responded that this was the point (calamity and blasphemy). Dear Readers, my friend has obviously taken leave of his keyboard. He’s gone and planned a non-event and, one is ashamed to say, one that is not even sponsored.

We shall sadly never know the sound of his one hand clapping, as the sound-byte soft and hardware will be absent, a common mistake in the olden days and the reason why most of Man’s history is largely deemed irrelevant, as belonging to those fabled lands of imagiality and realination. He plans to go where no self-respecting cyborg has gone before, to a place of rumours only, estranged from the grid, to a parallel universe of undocumented unreality, at best found in a very few forgotten comments on some Unix platform of a tenebrous yester-millenium.

Why did He-who-must-not-be-named (because his name is protected by copyright)come from the Sugar Mountain, bringing us the tabloids of the Book of Many Faces, if not to warn us that such behaviour is unvirtual in the extreme and just not on! He would turn over in his archive, should he hear of unwarranted SPAM-less wanderings, uninterrupted by a commercial break. One despairs at the thought that the fool might actually be doddering along without a sufficient popcorn supply, possibly even wienerless!

We, who are well-linked persons and shall therefore not go missing, know that to leave the safety of one’s net is to invite disaster. One might very well bump (and quite harshly at that) into remnants, who are relics of that pre-existence period from before the Cinderella, brought to us by our Fathers from the Holy Wood (this is even pre-Oscar time, folks!) These mutated remnants may turn my delirious friend into a heathen, forcing him to read actual paper cartoon editions or turn him into a worshipper of the anti-Cyborg… *shudders*

One wonders, shall he forget our proud ancestry, shared and liked by millions, our illustrious forebears: the first, the one and only Fred and his mate Wilma? *sobs* I fear for his immortal matrix, forever out of GPS-reach, unmonitored by even one solitary cctv. Yes, if the unfiltered air does not do him in, the withdrawal symptoms surely will. And now, over to the studio!

About Gravity and Density.

Gravity well plot

Gravity well plot (Photo credit: Wikipedia) You see, it’s a plot!

I’m at present reading a novel in which is explained the mathematical and geometrical proof of gravity. At least, I assume it is!

Yet again, I am confirmed in my unshakable belief that I am completely and utterly thick, because I understood jack shit about it, not one solitary iota, bupkes, zilch.

First I thought I would ask someone to explain it to me in laymen’s terms, but then I realised that this would not do. Look at the term laymen, it has the verb ‘to lay’ in it, which means ‘to put down’.

No, Sir! I beg to differ. The degree of my stupidity is such that, if you were to try to make me understand, you would not have to put me down, but instead you would have to treat me as someone who has been deceased for quite some time!

Thus, the only ones to bring me any measure of enlightenment in the matter would be either Jesus H. Christ or God the Father Himself. As I am very much in doubt as to whether they will take the time to resurrect my mentos defunctos, I shall stick to my comfortable theory that gravity has everything to do with superglue.

It’s either that or await the Second Coming, but I think I’ll be gone by then!

Missing a Screw.

English: Screw from scooter.

Screw from Ralphie. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I must be missing a screw,
I noticed this surprising fact
just now over breakfast.
I was searching for my sleeping cap,
yes, just like that I do things
that make me sit up and wonder…
Hey, isn’t that chicken defrosted yet?
‘Cause this egg is much too cold!
~ Hunhh…??? ~

I wrote this originally in Dutch:

Ik ben zeker een schroefje kwijt.
Dit hoogst opvallend feit
merkte ik net nu bij’t ontbijt.
Ik zocht toen naar m´n slaapmuts…
Ja, zonder erbij stil te staan
doe ik dingen van je weet maar nooit.
Zeg, is die kip nou al ontdooit?
Want dit ei is wel heel erg koud!
~ Hè??!! ~

Yo Romeo, You Online? – LOL

From Fanpop

From Fanpop

Juliet:

Then: O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name; Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.

Now: Yo , Romeo, you online? Your Daddy’s a rat, unfriend him, heck block the s.o.b.! And if you won’t, you can cuss all you like, but I ain’t having no more Capuchinos with you!

Romeo:

Then: [Aside] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

Now: [Asks a friend] Should I sign off, or should I talk to the bitch?

Juliet:

Then: ‘Tis but thy name that is my enemy: Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What’s Montague?

Now: You call your sorry self The Man? Move out already! You ain’t no man. Where can I find myself a Man?

Then: It is nor hand nor foot, Nor arm nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man. O be some other name!

Now: You had to put your foot in it again, didn’t you!? Don’t be such a pussy!

Then: What’s in a name? That which we call a rose By any other word would smell as sweet;

Now: What’s your handle now? Rosy, roflmao!? You can use all the deodorant you want, but you still gotta take a shower!

Then: So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d, Retain that dear perfection which he owes Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, and for thy name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself.

Now: Rosy(LOL), my ass, you get rid of that handle, you hear! Keep my acne heart… danged autocorrect &%$@#%!! … aching heart, but not with that handle, cause I got an image to keep up and so do you. Do it and you can have me, honey! *poke*

 

A Moment of Doubt!

English: Arriving at Prospect Halt No doubt th...

English: Arriving at Prospect Halt No doubt the Reading Society of Model Engineers have a different name for their only station. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’m gob-smacked! I’ve done it now.  I’ve Burcked myself.

I gaze in impotence at the sight of the ineptitude before me.

 

This pitiful drivel down lanes of dreary drudgery,

Would perhaps look good in kindergarten, but surely not up here!

 

I’m stumped, I tell you, at my wit’s end. They’ve left me all alone,

To fight and wrestle with words and imagery that is far beyond me.

 

There they are: my peers and learned colleagues,

Who can shake out of their endless sleeves,

Poems of wit, filled to the brim with understanding.

 

And all this just at the drop of a hat, t’ must be magical.

Lend me that hat, if you please? There’s a good chap.

Could I have a peek down your sleeve?

 

Search for a drop of inspiration, perhaps?

If you would be so kind, I would! I swear I would.

 

Maybe if I meditate, I could pick up the thread

Of life’s great mysteries and leave it there at that.

True Story: An Outrage!

Outrage! (game)

Outrage! (game) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I am finally calm enough to lift up my pen and put it to paper, after the outrageous incident, which just befell me. There I was, sitting on the Rambla in Alicante begging, when two ladies came by, with one of those candy-assed white mutts with a pink bow to keep its hair out of its eyes. You know the ones, they look like a mop, but without the handle.

Mutters comes up to me and I thought he wanted me to pet him, but instead he lifts up his hind paw and pisses in my hat! The one I use to beg with and that I wear, by the way. I pushed him away, but too late. The dirty deed was done. My jaw on the floor, I looked up a the lady, who had cramps in her face from stifling her giggles. I was speechless, ladies and gentlemen!

And then the woman just walks away, without an apology, the farty-arsed canine vandal in tow. His tail in the air, proud as a peacock. The lady’s shoulders were shaking from all the giggling and sniggering. I called after her: “Yes, you can laugh, but I can’t!”, which made her snigger even louder.

You know that dogs go to pee, where they smell the pee of other dogs. So now my hat is the main attraction for all Alicantean dogs to come and piss in. Lovely! I can’t wear it anymore, of course. Luckily, I have a spare woolly one I can put on. I shall have to ask someone to put the peed-on one in the washing machine and cook it, to get all the smell of mutter’s piss out of it.

I shall probably end up with a two-inch hat, because of all the shrinkage. I’ll have to use a hat pin, but… second handicap… I have no more hair, I shaved it all off. Therefore, I shall have to attach my two-inch hat to my scalp. I shall look a mess!

I thought about sueing, but I’d get laughed out of court. A dog pissed in my hat. What do you think about that?

Bloody Hell!

Traffic lights can have several additional lig...

Traffic lights can have several additional lights for filter turns or bus lanes. This one in Warrington, United Kingdom, also shows the red + amber combination seen in a number of European countries. It also shows the backing board and white border used to increase the target value of the signal head. Improved visibility of the signal head is achieved during the night by using the retro-reflective white border. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I had just crossed the street, when I saw a three-year-old boy come running full speed in my direction, towards the traffic lights, which were now on red for the pedestrians, followed by his frantic mother, who shouted at me: “Stop him!”

I swooped down and picked him up, but the little fellar didn’t like that, so he put on of his little, but surprisingly hard, fists right in my kisser, causing blood to flow everywhere, on him and on me.

I let out an involuntary “Bloody hell!” The mother indignantly told me not to use such language in front of her little angel. The little angel swapped arms, but did NOT smack his mum in the gob!  I beat a hasty and bloody retreat.

Afterwards, people were staring at me, giving me The Look, probably thinking that I’d been in a bar fight. And all this for preventing what was possibly Mike Tyson‘s progeny, from getting run over. I think I’ll indoors from now on, until I die from natural causes. Yup! Ouch!!

The Old Ralphie Is Back!

stick insect

stick insect (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As you all know, I’m a bit skinny like a stick insect, because of this crisis business, malnutrition and what have you. But Ralphie has been eating more of late and now I have more energy. I feel I should  do some physical exercise, like lifting something heavy to strengthen my torso and my arms.

I thought of chopping wood first with a big axe, but knowing myself I would probably chop off my foot in a moment of absent-mindedness. Therefore, I would have to be the lifting. I could try lifting a log for half an hour every day. On second thought, maybe a stick or a small branch. No, I shall start lifting a twig for half an hour every day from now on. Then I’ll move up to a branch until I eventually make it to the bog, sorry the log.

In no time I’ll be lifting redwoods and a little while later I’ll be twirling them like batons. People will start calling me the Incredible Rulcke. Yup. that’s me in about two weeks, three weeks tops! You might wonna watch the news, people. Luvs you all to bits. Toodeloo and hugs from me.

Homage to an Old Man.

Redon homage-leonardo

Redon homage-leonardo (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

An old man dressed in his gold sits on his park throne and commands me with a rheumy stare to pay tribute to his lost youth. His demeanor tells me that he, who is tired again, but not of his own volition, has merit that I could learn about, if only I were to engage him in meaningful conversation. His sun-beaten face never looked upon defeat, his heart may have grown mellow, but the fire of his memories still burns bright. His lower lip trembles in anger and nostrils flare in defiance: “Don’t you dare pity me, Puppy! For I have walked with kings and lain with queens. And what of you?” I bow my head in dutiful respect and whisper to his valiant spirit: “I hear you, Great One. I shall never look upon you as yet another old man again!” And maybe his giant ears, they heard my words, for suddenly a crooked smile adorned his countenance. Perhaps some day I shall have the courage to actually talk to him…?

Safety Tips for the Suicidal.

The Way Out, or Suicidal Ideation: George Grie...

The Way Out, or Suicidal Ideation: George Grie, 2007. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

1. If you want to hang yourself, DON´T use an elastic!

2. Whatever you do, DON´T take an overdose of laxatives, for that is NOT a happy way to GO!

3. DON´T use laughing gas for suicide purposes, for this may have the reverse effect!

4. If you want to get run over by a train, DON´T wear a red fluorescent jacket! (I can just imagine the train stopping and the driver coming over to ask, if he can help you with something!)

5. DON´T eat a lot of beans, before attempting to drown yourself!

6. If you want to jump off a really high building, make sure the elevators are in working order!

7. DON´T try to shoot yourself, if you have Alzheimers!

8. If you are absent-minded, don´t forget to leave a not to remind yourself of your decision!

9. If you´re going to leave a suicide note, write LEGIBLY and please date and sign it using your OWN name!

10. Bi-polar people should time their suicide properly!

11. If you want to blow yourself up, DON´T use a timer “Made in Taiwan”!

12. If you have a time machine, leave your parents a large supply of condoms and save yourself the bother! (but again NOT “Made in Taiwan”!)

Great Expectations!

Image representing Smashwords as depicted in C...

Image via CrunchBase

Something momentous happened yesterday, which may not mean a lot to you. I sold the very first copy of my first publication “Tittbits” on Smashwords.com, my fledgling creation, my first-born baby has finally been acknowledged by another human being. After eight long months of lying on the internet shelves, someone was kind enough to take one copy home to read in peace and have a chuckle with. It can not be stroked, caressed or smelled like you can a paper book, but nevertheless a little piece of my psyche is now in someone else´s hands, to have and to hold and to cherish for all eternity(or a trifle less).

 

Will he or she like it or sneer at it in disdain? Oh dear, don´t tell me, for the agony, the heartbreak might be my undoing! Let me continue in my belief that my child has found a loving foster parent. In fact, in would now like to entreat all my readers NOT to buy a copy, because the suspense of waiting for a sign of your approval or utter loathing would turn me into a nervous wreck, prematurely grey and weak of heart and limb… How can other authors stand this torture?

 

I can hear my old pal Dermott in Fuengirola saying: “Ralphie, old bean, I think you´ve gone overboard, your train has derailed and your marbles have yet again been scattered to the four corners of the globe(can a globe has corners, by the way?) Snap out of it! It´s only a friggin´book.” Dermott really doesn´t have a clue, does he?

 

Anyways, the book costs 8.99$ and six of those are ALL mine! But Smashwordsonly pays every trimester. I am therefore giddy with anticipation about this enormous wealth about to come my way at the end of the month of September of the beginning of October. My literary oeuvre is bearing fruit at last. I´ve already ordered the yacht, by the way! Toodeloo, gang, hugs from Ralphie.

 

Kilroy Was Probably Here!

After loud outcries from the blind community about violations of their right to know, certain governmental bodies have relented in certain parts of the globe and are now allowing graffiti for the blind. At long last the visually impaired will also get to know where Kilroy has been! Apparently they do not subscribe to the following point of view: “Man’s ambition must be small, to write his name on a shithouse wall!”

Said graffiti are created with the aid of a contraption that transcribes any text message into Braille, on sticky tape. But soon after Braille graffiti were up, some prankster decided to play a peevish joke by making the readable side sticky aswell. One hopes that future practical jokers will abstain from resorting to “smelly” pranks. A friendly warning to our Braille graffiti readers: sniff them first! Although, come to think of it, inoffensive smells could be added and guide dogs for the blind trained to sniff them out…

Some of these transcribing contraptions have already been installed in some toilets in Australia. If ever you see a dotted and spotted lavatory door over there, you will know that some dirty old blind Aussie was there. Or should I say some unsanitary Australian of indiscriminate age, who happened to be visually impaired?

The possibility is being explored of putting miniaturised sound machines in public conveniences, which would allow philanthropical-minded  visitors to read the graffiti out loud into the microphone, for the benefit of their blind brethren. Although in this instance fair warning should be given to occupants of other cubicles! And the question begs to be asked, if this would then not be unfair to the hearing-impaired, who might miss certain nuances of unsavoury jokes or witty addenda by the narrator?

As it is known that taggers tend to place their signatures in the most inaccessible places, we should implore Braille readers not to start climbing bridges or go wandering along railway tracks in search of them, for this would surely constitute a safety hazard. Guided tours might be an option!

And what about regions where graffiti for the blind have not yet been legalised? Will law enforcement officers now have to learn Braille in order to be able to ascertain whether a certain message should be considered inappropriate and/or illegal? After penitentiary facilities everywhere have filled up with blind people, should these institutions then be adapted to their special needs? Will non-blind tax-payers agree to the prohibitive cost of said adaptations with their tax dollars? Methinks that Kilroy has a lot to answer for!

Unexpected rumblings of discontent from the seeing community have surfaced, after reports of instances of gatherings by blind people, who were laughing their tits off and refused to divulge the reason for their hilarity to unfortunate seeing onlookers, who mistakenly thought that they might be the butt of some joke. Some incidents of fisticuffs took place, which in turn placed the blind at a disadvantage. People from both parties were remanded to the courts, which will have to disentangle this case of unusual discrimination.

Whereas urban legal departments have taken the lead in allowing these practices, the pastoral communities are still lagging behind. One farmer was sued, for not putting up a notice in Braille about the danger of electrified wires surrounding his cattle field, by an unfortunate blind person who had answered a call of nature there and ended up in the emergency ward of the nearest hospital. Frankly, he really needed to know!

 

For Whom The Bell Is A Friggin’ Nuisance!

Italiano: campanile English: bell tower

Italiano: campanile English: bell tower (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I heard an Imam calling the faithful to prayers at five o’clock this morning. I thought that was a bit early or late, depending on your point of view, but then that is the custom here in Morocco. I was transported back to some decennia ago, when I used to live right next to a church.

Now, when I say right next to a church, I mean that my bedroom was about fifty yards away from the bell tower. And these were not iddy biddy tiny bells, these were humongous bastards that fairly shook the life out of you, if they caught you unawares. And if you think that they were wont to ring every hour on the hour, you would only be partially right. They rang every fifteen minutes, day and night for every day of the catholic year and that’s a bloody long year, let me tell you!

I’m quite good with languages and I cursed those bells in just about every language I could think of and then some. I had nightmares about them, luckily short ones, for those blasted bells would save me from them with their annoying clanging every fifteen minutes, remember? BIG brass bells whose reverberations would rattle your very bones and marrow… I looked like a parent with triplets, I looked a mess and I wasn’t even married! Every morning some frightful red-eyed monster would scare the living daylights out of me, when I looked in the mirror… not a pretty sight!

Every year around Christmas I would beg Santa on bended knees to please bring me a bazooka, but he never did. He must have been in cahoots with them, methinks! I thought that this was a bit petty of him. Was this really too much to ask for! I did not ask for a tank… only one little bazooka and he denied me it. *sob!* He thereby deprived me of the joy and privilege of refurbishing the bell-tower of this church to my very own specifications, which is to say bell-LESS!

One day I’d had enough. I started looking in the papers for a flat to let, somewhere as far away from my home town as possible. Anything to get away from those horrible bells. Most of them were too expensive for my humble means, but finally I spotted one that looked right up my, hopefully bell-less, alley. I arranged for a meeting with the estate agent and we soon met up.

Imagine my dismay when the flat in question turned out to be right next to a cathedral, a BIG one. Just when the estate agent showed up, the bells started ringing. I cringed and hunched up one shoulder and I moaned: „The bells, the bells!!!“ This made the man slightly nervous, but he soothed my soul and saved my day by saying that the bells were shut off from 10 pm till 10 am, out of consideration for the neighbours. I was so deliriously happy that I hugged and kissed him. He turned red as a beet and for some inexplicable reason I never got the appartement…

As soon as I got back, I started a petition to copy this very sensible practice of the shutting-off-of-the-bells-at-night, but the deacon turned a deaf ear towards it, probably because of the bells!? I swore then and there to Saint Peter that when my time comes and the bell tolls for me, I ain’t comin’! If he notifies me with some quiet flute music or a nice guitar fandango, I’ll follow as quietly as a lamb, but not for those beastly bells!

Tornado Cause Debunked!

Whacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man

Whacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man (Photo credit: RedHerring1up)

I just glanced over an article, which stated that tornadoes are apparently caused by wind turbine farms. Said article(1) was probably written by a gentleman, who dabbles in science and the proof of his scientific conclusion was almost certainly arrived at by statistical means. It is a well-known fact that a good statistician can prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Earth is actually flat.

I do not subscribe to either point of view. In my humble opinion tornadoes are caused by the wave. The very wave that is perpetrated in sports stadia all over the world, where all the spectators jump up unexpectedly and collectively wave their arms about, somewhat like children welcoming the arrival of Santa!

I shall prove my hypothesis by showing you an incontrovertible correlation between two disturbing facts. If you look at the years where particularly nasty tornadoes occurred, then you will see(and I defy anyone to dispute this fact) that in ALL those very same years, there was a Superbowl on, where the wave is a common as popcorn. What further proof do you need than this? I rest my solved case! Should any doubting Thomases require it, I shall obtain further statistical proof.

Reports(2) have also reached my desk of Mid Westerners in the US of A, who are being excessively liberal with their driver-to-driver waves and this for saluting purposes, which might also add to the air-disturbance already being caused in sports arenas. I would hereby like to admonish the aforementioned wavers to NOT go about their unholy business with open car windows! Wave not, want not, as the tornado victims would say.

Now has come the time for me to vociferously disclaim any vicious rumours about earth-quakes being caused by belly shaking laughter. This slanderous drivel has been spread by people suffering from SHDS(Sense of Humor Deficiency Syndrome, a horrible affliction!) The public can rest assured that we are in possession of stacks of reports, which offer oodles of statistical proof that categorically disprove such ridiculous allegations. My case is no longer resting, it has expired and has been ground into dust. The case is dead, long live the case!

Ladies and gentlemen, I really have to leave you now, for I have just spotted a butterfly on my window sill. I shall rush outside and tell it to sit very still and not move, We would not want it to cause another tsunami for those poor people in Japan, now would we!?? Oh dear, a terrifying thought has just struck my head. Already I dread the return of the humming birds! What havoc will they wreak?

(1)


http://cleanskies.tv/articles/wind-turbines-cause-tornado-confusion.html

(2)


http://lookingforthesweetspot.com/2012/03/19/you-deserve-the-wave-today/

Would you believe it, there I was, right in the middle of concocting another one of my brilliant Tittbits, when the archangel Gabriel had the audacity, the unmitigating nerve to disturb yours truly for some piddling notification! Now I know Gabby, whom I visit on occasion, when I’m in one of my loftier moods, but I have given him fair warning time and again not to disturb me when I’m writing.

This time he came with some utter poppycock about the imminent end of the world. I inquired: „And…“ He answered: „What do mean: and… Are you not in and of this world? Does this not concern you?“ I retorted: „Well, maybe in an oblique sort of way, but that is neither here nor there. You know very well that I shall continue to write my Tittbits for the amusement of my legions of fans, whether they be earthbound or in spirit form. How dare you interrupt a serious author in the midst of his comical endeavours? (Or maybe vice versa?) Now go and annoy somebody else and leave me to my duties!“ He answered: „Alright, Mister Smarty Pants, but don’t say I didn’t warn you!“(*) and he left in a huff and a puff.

I forthwith re-Christened him Gabby with the Big Gob! And I was not kidding, ladies and gentlemen, when I told Gabby with the Big Gob that I would continue to amuse you with my zany stories even until after the end of time. What are trifling matter such as Armageddon or Apocalypse to a writer, hey? I assure you that I can go on waffling till…

(*) BOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM!!!!!

*T + a bit – Ralphie in spirit form: * „Oy, I suppose you thought that was funny, hey!!??“

You see, dear readers, Ralphie always has to have the last word and not even the End of the World can stop him from having that!

*Ralphie shows up at the Pearly Gates and says to Gabriel:* „Right, Mister Celestial Comedian, which way do I go?“ He points at this extremely long queue and says: „Over there!“ I ask: „What are they?“ He answers: „That is the queue for formerly starving freelance writers!“

Even I heaven! Now I ask you? Maybe he did get the last word in after all! I wonder if they have internet up here?

Some Doubtful Certainties.

Doubtful Hope, oil painting by British artist ...

Doubtful Hope, oil painting by British artist Frank Holl (1875) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

  • The naughty nature of my early years was exhausting, but well worth the effort!
  • My formative years were largely a waste of time. I’m trying to forget them!
  • Rules and regulations: the obstruction of the natural flow of life, to the enjoyment of none, for the benefit of the few!
  • Law: that necessary stuff to keep the poor in check!
  • Hypocrisy: that unstoppable urge to tell others not to imitate oneself.
  • Righteousness: that blissful certainty that others are always in the wrong.
  • Doubt: that happy time before you take the wrong decision.
  • Envy: when you have a good thing, but wish that others should have nothing!
  • Irony: that glorious satisfaction you get, when a good plan comes together.
  • Hope: happy memories of the future.
  • Sarcasm: another way of saying “I told you so!”
  • Idleness: should be well planned out and preferably witnessed by others, who are extremely busy!
  • Diplomacy: that blablah before an inevitable brawl!
  • Chess: an intellectual’s attempt at machismo.
  • A nincompoop: anyone who thinks their doodoohs are funny.
  • Advice: to want to deny others the pleasure of making their own mistakes!
  • I did not say it – You can quote me on that!

Debunking The “Sport” of Cricket.

Brett Lee bowling at Lords against Pakistan. I...

Brett Lee bowling at Lords against Pakistan. ICC Champions Trophy 2004, warm up game, 4th September 2004. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

After months of intensive research on the internet, Ralphie has finally been able to piece together the rules to this game, which are incomprehensible to anyone who is not British or Indian(and maybe one or two others). Imagine my surprise, ladies and gentlemen, when I found out that this sport of Cricket has in actuality nothing to do with Jimeny and only very little with his fiddle!

It involves a ball that is almost always thrown by a man(they’re a bit sexist) in the general direction of some sticks. These sticks symbolise a ship and the object is to sink the ship of the opposing team. You may be wondering why they don’t play this game on water, well that is because this game is so long-winded that thousands of years ago, when the game was first invented, most of the team-players drowned and so they moved it to a field! You see, one game can go on for centuries!! Balls and paddles are usually passed on from father to son.

In front of the ship stands a sailor, who was supposed to row the ship out of harms way, but these days he just waves a paddle about. Actually, the sailor is supposed to block the ball from hitting the ship with his body, but most are too scared and don’t bother. There are more men on the field and these are called extras. Most of the time they just ogle the chicks in the audience, but once in a great while they go for a jog to keep their muscles from cramping up.

The extras have lodged a complaint with the league of sailors and ball-throwers for not allowing them to bring tents and sleeping bags to the field, but the league is adamant in their denial. I ask myself, why ever not? They could at least provide them with some chairs and let them enjoy a pint of lager, while they’re sitting around there twiddling their thumbs! Or at the very least some parasols.

Nobody seems to remember these days what constitutes a win. The last time the captain of one ship thought he’d won, the umpire had slipped into a coma several days before, without anyone noticing and the captain was so angry he burned the sticks. England and India have been fighting over the ashes of this vessel ever since.

I read a curious report about Mister Jan Botha,, South Africa’s former prime minister, having captained England’s team. How in the blazes he managed that, I will never know! And there’s more! While he was captain he lost against Mozes Gandhi, who captained the India team, because Mr.Gandhi refused to play by the then rules… but beat them anyways.

There are also people, who actually come and watch these games. The spectator’s object is to see how long he can stay awake and their friends place bets on this. It’s no use betting on the game, because it never seems to end! Some pharmaceutical companies have bid on the rights to televise the game as a sure-fire cure against insomnia. Strange sport, isn’t it? So far this exiting report from Ralphie. Frankly, I’d rather spend a riveting evening watching a group of elderly ladies crochet…

 

What is This Mask I’m Wearing?

Oscar Wilde, three-quarter length portrait, fa...

Oscar Wilde, three-quarter length portrait, facing front, seated, leaning forward, left elbow resting on knee, hand to chin, holding walking stick in right hand, wearing coat. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Something inexplicable is happening to me. Inside I feel like a young man, who could daintily hop from mountaintop to mountaintop, who is agile in the extreme and above all young at heart. But when I wake up, everything goes „Auch“ and when I look in the mirror some old git stares back at me. Who is this stranger? If this is carnival, why can I not take off my mask? And let us not forget the grotesque suit, which looks bedraggled in the extreme. How could this happen, when inside I still feel like a young and strong Adonis?

Was I perhaps abducted by aliens, who instead of my wholesome, healthy and handsome body, took some cruel pleasure in returning a decrepid replica? Or did the late Oscar Wilde put a reverse curse on me, by forcing me to go through life looking like shite, when some picture of the real and beautiful me hangs on the wall of one of his indifferent progeny? Oscar, wait till I get my hands on you!

Only a couple of years ago, I met this enchanting young women and we got on like a house on fire. It actually clicked and this is a situation that does not occur often. It all went pear-shaped when the young lady came out with the silly notion that she would go or me, but that I was too old! Who? A young spritely filly like me? This is what I wondered, until that accursed mirror brought me back to this insipid reality.

I can not for the life of me understand why some days I feel the weight of several centuries on my shoulders and on other days I feel the wonder of an infant at the sight of what seems mundane to others. I can only hope that I am in the middle of some foul nightmare and that I am bound to wake up very soon. Or else that more people take the trouble to look into my eyes and witness the youth of my soul! Cheerio, folks…

P.S.: For my next reincarnation, I’ve decided that I want to come back as an old man and then progressively grow younger. Question of really going out(or should I say “in”) with a bang!

Dear Kimmy Versus Dalai Lama!

 

2nd Dalai Lama http://www.simhas.org/files/2Da...

2nd Dalai Lama http://www.simhas.org/files/2Dalai.JPG (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Yesterday I took the liberty of reblogging that post about the Dalai Lama. I don’t know if you saw it. Now why would I do such a thing? Apparently, this man went visiting somewhere, very probably met some people and said some things… Personally, I am not interested in what he ate and in the state of his bowel movements, but… whenever this guy opens his mouth pearls of wisdom seem to tumble forth and for this I respect him immensely.

Back to „Dear Kimmy“, what pearls of wisdom stagger forth from her gob then? Am I missing something of interest here, folks? Has Miss Kardashian reached Nirvana and is she going to enlighten us on the shortcut that she discovered through painful(for her anyway!) meditation? Did she, after years of meticulous scientific study, invent a cure for cancer?

I wouldn’t know, because Ralphie has been too busy procrastinating and still can’t be asked to Google the Earth-shattering breakthroughs that Miss K. has on her curriculum. Could some kind-hearted reader of this blog bring this wisdom to my door, in a comment to this blog post, please?

Why do millions of people spend hard-earned money and time and effort on finding out what this bimbo is up to? Did she go discoing and get shit faced and make a spectacle of herself? So what? Billions of individuals do that every week. I know, ’cause I used to be one of them! Then why did the farterazzis not take trillions of pictures of me, when I was licking out assorted gutters all over Europe? Why did Jay Leno not invite me on his show after one of these feats? Jay, explain yourself, mate!

Or did „poor“ Kimmy have her nipples replaced by five carat diamond studs? Alright, I won’t go that far in order to reach celeb status! What is it with this broad and why do you all read about her? Tell me!!! Ralphie’s flabbergasted and flummoxed mind wants and needs to know!

A-ny-way, it is time for an update on Ralphie’s night and morning! I did pass a troubled night, because of my cold. I had coffee and cake for breakfast and for some inexplicable reason, I have not been to the bathroom yet. Details about the progress of my morning will have to wait till I can be arsed to convey said information to my gazillions of fans everywhere. Please refrain from pestering me with emails and such, because I might be in the middle of something important, like a nap! Toodeloo(!?) gang…

Starting the Dear Kimmy Fanclub!

 

 

Kim Kardashian at the Seventh Annual Hollywood...

Kim Kardashian at the Seventh Annual Hollywood Life Magazine Awards. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

Ladies and Gentlemen, I retract everything I wrote earlier about Miss Kim Kardashian! It’s not poor(?) Miss Kardashian’s fault that she’s simplicity challenged and that she can not hold on to a boyfriend or husband for more than a few days. And the fact that she couldn’t hold down a job, if her life depended on it is neither here nor there, ’cause she doesn’t need to! Furthermore, she has graciously promised the voters of that place somewhere that she’s going to Mayor(sic), that she will recompense all future damages done by her administration out of her own pocket! So there…

 

As a matter of fact, I’ve grown quite fond of dear Kimmy, since I’ve gotten to know her a bit better(the bribe did help though!), because she’s proven herself to be one lucky find for a writer cum blogger(no Kimmy, that’s not indecent!) such as myself. I’ve been instructed to write that the camel wasn’t nearly as much fun to be with as boyfriend number X, although it did have better table manners.

 

Miss K’s visit to India was cut short after the unfortunate elephant ride incident. She pertinently refused to ride one facing its behind and as it seemed to have two, this left her with no other option but to sit facing sideways, which she did not appreciate at all.

 

On the other hand, I do not like Mister Stephen Hawking so much these days, because I can not say: „Haha, Hawking, you got that wrong!“, when I haven’t got a clue what he’s on about in the first instance! You see, it’s not so easy to make fun of someone who is a tad smarter than you are.

 

But now to get back to dear Kimmy, as she is affectionately known to her friends. She has very sensibly hired me to write some pretticisms for her or lines that will show her as the lady about town that she really and truly, cross her heart and hope to die, is. Already she is showing her altruistic(yes, it’s true, Kimmy) self by providing a much-needed job to yours truly and to the prompter that has to hold up the idiot boards(cross out) reminder boards for her.

 

The first public tryout of the pretticisms got off to a rocky start, when Kimmy’s vanity forbade her from putting on her reading glasses in front of all those people. Miss Kardashian breaking down in sobs, when people started en mass reading her lines for her, did not help much. She left the scene after remonstrating loudly that they should not think they were smarter than her, just because they could read. Better luck next time, Kimmy!

 

Anyone willing to donate to the „Help Poor Kimmy Fund“ can do so via PayPal on this site(;-)).

 

Kim Kardashian Rides Camel ‘cos Boyfriend Sucks?

I’m a bit of an anti-socialite. I would personally rather start a collection of bird droppings than read all about what some rich bimbo is up to. Apparently every fart emitted by this wonder of the social media is examined closely by the farterazzi, to ascertain whether it might not contain gold-dust.

But being an SEO-minded blogger, I decided to jump briefly on the bandwagon and take the quickest possible glance at who the fugg this girl is. I found out that at the tender mental age of two and a half, she has already been married more times than Elisabeth Taylor, which takes some doing!

Now, she’s running for mayor of some place somewhere and I’m sure she’ll run the place at least as efficiently as the Terminator does California. Since Arnie became Governor there, hardly any attacks by alien monsters have been reported!

Anyways, you’ll be titillated to hear that she’s got a new boyfriend, but he must not be very good, because she’s rather ride camels. Each to his or her own, I suppose!? Although it all just slides down the bulge of my indifference.

The Thing about Vampires…+

Vampire world bank protest16

Mr. Smooth? - Wikipedia

You know how vampires, in the movies, always look dressed to the nines. They never have a hair out-of-place. Two minutes after biting someone and sucking several pints of blood they have a ‘whiter than white smile’. Never any dandruff on their lapels… If they are female, the hairdo is vamptastic. But… how do they manage all this, if they can’t see themselves in the mirror? Does Igor do all this for them?

Here are some other things I’ve always wondered about:

- What does a vampire do when he or she wakes up in the middle of the day and has to take a wee?

- When a Master vampire makes a new one, does the newbie get a free dental plan?

- Do these undead stiffies get stiffies or does a vampiress have to be impregnated by a mortal?

- Do teenage vampires need braces?

- Do VERY old vampires have false teeth?

- Are there any vampirical insomniacs at all and if so how do they spend their day?

- Where does a claustrophobic vampire sleep? XXXXXL coffin?

- How do vertically challenged vampires get to bite their victims?

- Do Facebook vampires un-live their friends?

- Are there any vampires who are addicted to alcoholics?

- Is the vampire President in office for four hundred years?

- Is a cross-dressing vampire called a Transylvestite?

- What do they do in Transylvania  on Halloween? Do they get the night off?

- Are there any animal vampires, like an undead Bugs Bunny for example? If yes, how does that work out carrot-wise?

In front of haunted house during Halloween sea...

His and Hers? - Wikipedia

Now if I were a vampire I’d want a group coffin, to schmooze around awhile. One with a built-in snack cupboard, sporting the odd midget.  The obligatory urinal would be a must, of course.

P.S.: Remember the Olde Vampire Saying – Life SUCKS and then you live some more! 

 

Toddler Tim’s Quest for the Culpit!

Chocolate cake with chocolate frosting topped ...

Chocolate cake with chocolate frosting topped with chocolate shavings, misocrazy (flikr) http://www.flickr.com/photos/misocrazy/234833296/, attribution required (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Toddler Tim had been promised a yummy piece of cake, which would be waiting for him on the window sill, until “after” he’d finished all his dinner, veggies included. Toddler Tim found this unnecessarily cruel for his Mum to make him suffer a river of drool, all the while that she was preparing dinner, but he was a big boy about it, for the prize was worth it!

He was a bit worried about the ordeal of having to munch his weary way through all his veggies, but when he saw that they were mushy peas, mixed in with the mashed taters and gravy, he happily set to. At the end of his ordeal, he set down his spoon with a mighty sigh and looked up inquiringly at his Mum, who nodded a “yes”.

The toddler-who-was-tired-no-more sprinted to the kitchen only to find the window sill empty! He let out an outraged howl of discontent, which brought his mother running. Some poo-for-beans had run off with his prize, the culpit had to be found at all costs and would have to be punished to the full extent of his and their parent’s rot! You will notice that Timmy is trying bravely to be high-brow about it…

He examined the scene of the crime closely: window only open a mere crack, pooch still outside on the porch and no kitties in evidence. They’d been buggered! He exclaimed: “Mum, it must have been a cat-bugger! I’m going to find him, you see if I don’t!” He drew up his diapers and stomped outside. He took his little drum from the porch and started banging it like only a very agitated little toddler can, to summon the neighbouring kids.

The first to show up was Sandra, his special friend from  next door. After she had asked what all the drumming was about, Tim exclaimed in a grave tone of voice: “Cake-napping in progress, keep your nappies on!” When all the usual gang was assembled, he asked if any strange kids that acted ‘spiciously had been seen? When they all replied with a no, he shouted that this was even worse than he had thought, for this meant that one of them could be the culpit.

He said that he was very sorry, but that he had to insist on a full nappy-check, inside and out, of everyone that was there. His Mummy would do the necessary. Tim’s mum, who by now had a heck of a time trying to keep from laughing out loud and actually had tears running down her cheeks, played along. The toddler patted her arm and said: “Don’t cry, Mum, we’ll find him!” No chocolaty leftover signs were discovered anywhere and Tim the toddler was getting redder with the minute, which was not a good sign, because everybody knew that he could throw a mean temper-pamper!

At this precise moment, who would show up but Uncle Pete, carrying Tim’s piece of cake. He remarked shyly: “Tim, I thought this chocolate cake could do with some whipped cream.” and handed it to the now shame-faced child. He apologised very much to all his friends, but then turned round to his uncle and said: “Uncle Pete, thank you ever so much, but next time could you tell someone that you’re going to do something like this, cos you almost gave me a hat-attack!” And then he delved in and even shared some with his special friend Sandra… So you see, finding the culpit had been a piece of cake after all!

Starting the WordPress Idiot Club!

stupidity

stupidity (Photo credit: KairosOfTyre)

I plead guilty, ladies and gentlemen, it’s not that I’m terminally stupid, but certain things are and always will be beyond me…

For example, try as I may, I will NEVER understand women! I’ve talked with them at length, I’ve lived with some and I’ve slept with some, but I do not comprehend certain peculiarities that they persist in. For example, if I see my girlfriend with a dishevelled hairdo, tears running down her cheeks and sobbing her cotton socks off, I tend to think that maybe something might be wrong with her. But upon inquiry, I steadfastly get a negative answer and when I want to leave it at that, she gets upset!  For why?

But these are trifling matters. I will also never fathom why some people drink tea instead of coffee? Or that yucky Pepsi instead of Coca-Cola? And sacrilege of sacrileges, why some people drink decaffeinated coffee? Or alcohol-free beer? The ludicrous insensibility of it! You see , I was thinking of an example to compare to about how silly this is and my mind is a blank, which proves once and for all that I am for all intents and purposes: an idiot!

The same goes for when I’m in an argument, my mind goes: “——————————————–” or if you will “zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz”. But the moment that my adversary leaves, this blasted space between my ears starts spouting the most brilliant retorts known to man(slight exaggeration perhaps!), when it’s too friggin’ late! Once I actually ran after the bugger, but the second I caught up with him, my cerebrum went into stupid-mode again. At times I feel like tearing all my hair out by the roots, for frustration.

And another thing: those books for dummies are too difficult! My ineptness is too great for me to understand them. I have stupid questions, which these people have never thought of! I have invented ways of fouling up, messing up and fucking things up that may well be extra-terrestrial! Perhaps I am  indeed a Master of Stupidity! Stupid, stupider, stupidest, Ralphie.

Anyways, upon reading certain blogs here on WordPress, I have spied with my little eye, things that made me remark: “I could have done that! I’m definitely silly enough to think or try that!” and so on. In short, I have spied a kindredness of stupidity that has touched my heart, in many bloggers(blonde or otherwise!) on this platform. It is for this reason that I invite all of you who think that you also fit into this category to join this club and share some delicious anecdotes with your fellow-dimwits.

Rejection – *sob*

(This story was inspired by the reading of the post on finely crafted Shakespearean insults, see reblogged posts!)

Rejection Therapy logo

Rejection Therapy logo (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I submitted what I thought was a humorous story to my editor and he rejected it. Now, I am no stranger to rejection. In fact, I married her, but after two weeks of marital disjunction, she filed for divorce and demanded custody of the key to my padded cell! I have not seen hide nor feather of her since. She even took the tar with her.

And as  if this were not enough, I got the above-mentioned story shoved back down my esophagus. But this was not what did me in, dear reader, it was the phrasing of said rejection that caused me grievous comical harm. How would YOU like to get this email for breakfast, on an empty stomach and hung over:

“Dear Mr. Burcke,

Concerning your latest contribution:

Although your addressing me as “Deer Editor” made me smile, I should point our to you that ours is not a publication that caters to hunters. However, do allow me the privilege of shooting down your submission and this for the following reasons:

Your comprehension of the laws of comedy is so astronomically minute as to embrace gravity. Even though your logic is so drearily quaint and so hopelessly safe as to actually make a foolish kind of sense. Every morsel of wisdom to you is like the square root of an apple pie. Your comical astuteness has been known to make turnips yawn. Next to you, the boringest person in the entire universe is but a reflection in the mirror. My dear chap, you could force an insomniac into hibernation by reading this story to him out loud!

Although it must be said, in all honesty, that you have the waffle business down pat. Perhaps you should consider a career vending the latter on market day!? Oh and do me the courtesy of unsubscribing me from your list of hunting acquaintances. There’s a good chap!

Signed, The Turnip Hunter, editor in chief.”

Waffling, me? I’ve never baked in me life!

Easter Bunny Accidentally Killed!

Easter postcard circa early 20th century

I was out hunting trolls with my bow and arrows. This is the only hunting sport that I indulge in. Or should I say, this is the only species that I can hit with me weapon of choice. You all know that trolls are about as big as a barn and as my eyesight not being what it used to be…

There I was, letting fly of my broom-sized arrow, when the famous Easter Bunny jumped up right in between and I’m afraid it took a fatal hit. I sincerely apologise for the demise of this Easter Icon, but I swear it was an accident! Anyways, I never really understood why a bunny should go around distributing eggs in the first place! Surely this is an activity, which is much  more suited to an animal that does not hop up and down all the time, thus turning the children’s presents into scrambled eggs.

I put an ad in the paper for a  replacement and boy, do I have a surprise for you all! I am extremely proud to present to you, for the first time ever…. the Spotted Easter Warthog!

Now, be reasonable, ladies and gentlemen, does this not make a lot more sense than a hopping bunny? It is universally known that pigs are great are uncovering truffles. Therefore, if this one should bring you one of these by mistake, you could sell them for a thousand quid a kilo! While every holiday is being commercialised to the hilt, I thought I would contribute my thousand bucks worth.

All that remains is to think of some suitable attire for our Hog. All suggestions are welcome! I do not have Photoshop at my disposal, so for those of you that have, please enjoy yourselves dressing this one up to your heart’s content! Let us know what you come up with. Toodeloo from a remorseful Ralphie.

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