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?



Hahah! Special Notification From The Archangel Gabriel!

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 uttered a dry: „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 matters such as Armageddon or Apocalypse to a writer, who is in the very serious business of perpetrating comedy, hey? I assure you that I can go on waffling till…

BOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM!!!!! (= very loud noise)

T (he End)+ 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 an extremely long queue and says: „Over there!“ I ask: „What are they?“ He answers: „That is the queue for formerly starving freelance writers!“

Even in Heaven we have to wait for our dues! Now I ask you? Maybe he did get the last word in after all. I wonder if they have internet up here. And.. what about my royalties?

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…