Archive for the nonsense Category

“The Mice, The Owls, and The Bright Blue Frogs” – A Thurberian Fable

Posted in nonsense, science on September 16, 2009 by lesmonde

I really enjoy the fables of James Thurber, so I thought I’d try my hand at a tribute (or a rip-off, depending on how charitable you are) about a subject close to my heart.

“The Mice, The Owls, and The Bright Blue Frogs”

Once upon a time, in a far off woodland, lived a colony of little brown fieldmice who spent almost all of their time living in little burrows in the ground. Occasionally, a precocious and bright young mouse would question, as precocious and bright young mice are wont to ask questions, why it was that they were committed to such a miserable subterranean lifestyle when there were such beautiful and bountiful trees and grasses and streams and sunshine outside. In response the eldest and wisest of the mice would tell of a time when death was delivered daily on their ancestors by a family of vicious clawed and sharp beaked owls that lived in the trees around their burrows. And, anyway, it wasn’t so bad down here, there was plenty to eat, they were safe and they wanted for nothing.

One day, a particularly precocious and cocksure young mouse refused to accept the explanation. “Pah!” he said, rolling his eyes, “It’s not so good down here, my uncle must wear glasses and I’m sure that’s because he’s constantly straining his eyes in the dim light.”

The other mice looked around and, sure enough, a small but visible proportion of their colony did have eye problems.

“And these owls,” continued the young upstart “if they even exist, can clearly be dissuaded from eating us if we just assert ourselves. Why, there are a colony of bright blue frogs just two hillocks west from here, who spend their days hopping around in the trees where these so-called owls supposedly make their homes. Indeed, they couldn’t be more conspicuous, and they come to no harm!”

The other mice cheered, and it was resolved that afternoon that they should leave their burrows for the open air where all eye problems would be cured and they could enjoy the beautiful and bountiful trees and grasses and streams and sunshine outside. Furthermore, it was agreed that, come night-time when the owls were most active, they should stride around confidently, making themselves as conspicuous as possible, to dissuade the owls from attacking them.

News of the massacre reached the bright blue frogs within three days and, being a conscientious species, they resolved to make the journey two hillocks east and respectfully bury any body parts that remained.

The End

Edit: It appears, from feedback, that this was a little too obscure, I’ve clearly not struck the right balance between metaphor and clarity necessary for accomplished fable writing.  OH WELL.


How Did Derren Brown Predict The Lottery Numbers?

Posted in nonsense on September 10, 2009 by lesmonde

So, the internet is frothing with speculations about how exactly the magic man, Derren Brown, managed to predict the national lottery draw on live TV. Every wild and fanciful theory from split-screen technology to sleight of hand has been mooted.
However, after careful consideration, I’ve narrowed it down to the nine most likely explanations.

Derren’s magic brain drew on the balls from a distance. With a mind pencil.

A Monkey Butler
Unseen by the viewers, a trained monkey butler belonging to the novelist Dan Brown spidered down the rear wall of the studio, ascended the podium and scratched the numbers onto the balls with its little finger’s nail. Derren was able to give it signals from his position beside the telly.

Secret Gay Powers
We all know that Derren Brown is a gay, and who knows what secret powers these “gays” learn at their mysterious dancing clubs.

An Invisible Child
One of the less likely candidates. Derren’s producer gave birth to an invisible child before the show. The slumbering neonate was attached to strings and was manipulated by simple puppetry from the ceiling to pen the numbers onto the balls. Derren’s commands we’re relayed to the puppeteer by a tiny radio on his thumb.

Something Involving His Penis
Being a man, Derren has a penis. Many men learn to do quite spectacular things with their penis over the course of their long relationship with it. Who knows what form that relationship has taken in Derren’s case? Not me. Probably not you. Which leaves some kind of penis trick as likely as anything else.

We Dreamt It
At any time of the day, in half the world it is not a time of day at all. Rather it is a time of night, because it is night-time. At night time, people sleep. When people sleep, they dream. Is it not suspicious that Derren Brown performed his trick when half of the worlds population (an astounding 3.4 billion people) were asleep?

Helped By Sex Mice
Many have been the long, dark nights where I have lain awake wondering what exactly a sex mouse is. I still don’t know. All I can say, is that they are probably from the future. If I’m right about this, it’s certainly plausible that they have a book containing ALL the lottery numbers from the inception of the contest until the extinction of man in some terrible cataclysm. There’s no reason they can’t have given Derren this book (or at least some of the information in it) in advance of the show. He probably wouldn’t tell anyone about the sex mice, lest they think him mad.

Every day God answers the mental yells of over one hundred people. Brown has always claimed to be a staunch atheist, but perhaps this is all part of his funny little game. Petitioning God for help by thought would be a simple, silent and efficient way to get the numbers on the balls.

Sheer Bloody-Mindedness
Is it possible that Derren simply put on a brave face and just bloody well got on with it? Some certainly think so.

Career Criminals and Conmen

Posted in nonsense, Uncategorized on January 23, 2009 by lesmonde

Quite a while ago I made an attempt at translating Snoop Doggy Dogg’s song “Gz and Hustlaz” into plain English. It took me quite a while and sadly got lost down the toilet of time. Anyway, I found it again, and with any other sort of inspiration giving me a wide berth today, I’ll settle for posting this.

“Gz And Hustlas”


This is for the Gz, and this is for the Hustlas
This is for the hustlas, now back to the Gz
Freeze, at ease, now let me drop some more of them keys

I’d like to dedicate this song to those people for whom crime and anti-social behaviour is a way of life and specifically those who enjoy extorting money by deception.
Now please stop what you are doing, relax and let me entertain you with my song.

[Verse 1:]

“It’s 19-9-tre so let me just play
it’s Snoop Dogg, I’m on the mic, I’m back with Dr. Dre
But this time I’ma hit yo’ ass with a touch
To leave motherfuckers in a daze, fucked up
So sit back relax new jacks get smacked
It’s Snoop Doggy Dogg I’m at the top of the stack
I don’t blank for a second, and I’m still checkin
The dopest motherfucker that ya hearin on the record
it’s me, ya see, S-N-double-O-P
D-O-double-G-Y, the D-O-double-G”

It’s 1993 and I want to have some fun. My stage name is ‘Snoop Dogg’ and I’m once again working with my producer, Dr Dre. My new material is much better than my older material and, upon hearing it, you may become visibly confused and/or delerious. Please enjoy my song and, if perchance you have not heard my music before, please be aware that I am far more skilled than others who share my profession. I am particularly sharp and on-the-ball and thus you are unlikely ever to find me lost for words. It would be a mistake to think that anyone else performing on this song is any more competent than me.
If you are confused about how to spell my name, let me help you out. It is spelled thus – S-N-O-O-P-D-O-G-G-Y-D-O-G-G

“I’m fly as a falcon, soarin through the sky
And I’m high till I dizzie, rizzide
So check it, I get busy, I make your head dizzy
I blow up your mouth like I was Dizzy Gillespie
I’m crazy, you can’t phase me
I’m the S oh yes, I’m fresh, I don’t fuck with the stress
I’m all about the chronic, I’m bionic ya see
Every single day, chillin with the D-O-double-G’s
P-O-U-N-D that’s my clique, my crew
Ya fuck with us, we gots to fuck you up
I thought ya knew, but yet and still
Ya wanna get real, now it’s time to peel, ya say chill
and feel, the motherfuckin realism
Snoop Doggy Dogg is on the mic i’m hittin hard as steel nigga”

At the moment my career is going particularly well, in fact, in this respect, I could be compared (metaphorically) to a bird of prey in flight. I am likely to remain in such a position of prestige until I pass on.
Whilst listening to me perform it is likely that you will lose the ability to control your balance and, bizarrely, you may lose control over the muscles in your cheeks such that you involuntarily take on the appearance of a professional trumpet player.
My behaviour is unpredictable yet it will still be impossible for you to outsmart me, in fact, my personality is generally made up of desirable traits. Marijuana is an important part of my life and I may actually be some kind of robot.
Every day I enjoy the company of my friends and we like to refer to ourselves collectively as the ‘dogg pound’. If you attempt to get the better of us or embarrass us in any way then it is likely that you will come to some harm – is this not obvious? Clearly not, as you are still not showing us our due respect. However, your bravado soon disappears when we come face to face.


[Verse Two:]

“How many hoes in your motherfuckin group
Wanna take a ride in my 7-8 Coupe, DeVille
Chill, as i take you on a trip
where them niggaz ride, and slide, you know about the East Side
Niggaz like myself, here to show you where it’s at
With my hoes on my side, and my strap on my back
Papers I stack daily, and Death Row is still the label that pays me
but you know how that goes
We flow toe for toe, if you ain’t on the Row
Fuck you and your hoe, really though, so check it”

I would now like to imply that the female acquaintances of you and your friends would much rather spend their time being driven around in my expensive car than socialise with you.
I’ll take you to my home in the east side of Los Angeles where you will see that my friends are particularly skilful when it comes to handling a motor vehicle.
You should model yourself on men like me as women want to be near me, I possess some firearm paraphernalia and large amounts of money come into my possession every day. Most of this money is courtesy of my employers ‘Death Row Records’. My employers and I are very close and if you are not also an employee of ‘Death Row Records’ then I have respect neither for you nor your girlfriend/wife.

“It’s Snoop Doggy Dogg on the solo tip
Still clockin grip, and really don’t give a sheeit
about nuttin at all, just my Doggs, steppin through the fog
and i’m still gonna fade em all
With the gangsta shit that keeps ya hangin
How many hoes in ninety-four will I be bangin?
Every single one, to get the job done
As I dip, skip, flip, right back to two one
Where the sun be shinin and i be ryhmin
It’s me, Snoop D-O-double-G, and I’m climbin”

Despite my loyalty to my employers I am still a very independent man. I have my gun and I am not really compelled to concern myself with anything other than my friends, but even amongst them I am visibly superior. Admit that you find my criminal activities fascinating and exciting.
By the end of next year I will not be satisfied that my work is complete unless I have enjoyed sexual intercourse with all of the women of the world.
Let me now return to my neighbourhood where the weather is clement. I like to go here and ponder on words which are phonetically similar. I am definitely moving up in the world.


[Verse Three:]

“I come creepin through the fog with my saggin Dukes
East Side, Long Beach, in a 7-8 Coupe DeVille
I’m rollin with the G Funk, bumpin in my shit and it don’t quit”

As I drive through Los Angeles it is clear for all to see that I am both sartorially and musically cognizant.

“So drop it on the one motherfucker put together that set
A nigga with a grip of that gangsta shit
With the Eastside hoes on my motherfuckin dick
And the Compton niggaz all about to set trip
Swing it back, bring it back, just like this
And if you with my shit, then blaze up another spliff
And keep the motherfuckin blunt in your pocket loc
Cuz Doggy Dogg is all about the zig zag smoke
See it’s a West coast thing, where I’m from
And if you want some, get some, bad enough, take some
But watch the gun by my side
Because it represents me and the motherfuckin East Side”

I am generally well respected and feared and I am sexually involved with several women from my neighbourhood.
If you are enjoying my music then please feel free to smoke some marijuana. In fact, it may be an idea if you keep a marijuana cigarette on you at all times. You see, I am really quite partial to administering myself pharmacologically active doses of cannabis plant extracts. Everybody in the west coast of the united states of America (where I reside) has a similar habit. If you have no marijuana left, please, help yourself to mine. But, beware, because I am armed and if you are in any way at odds with the values of my particular community there may be an altercation.

“So bow down to the bow wow, cause bow wow
yippie yo, you can’t see my flow
My shit is dope, original, now you know
And can’t no hood fuck with Death Rizzow”

You should afford me the same respect as you might a religious icon because I am terribly good at my job. Together myself and my employers are formidable competition and our position of prestige is unlikely to be undermined.


Travelling Cretins

Posted in complaints, nonsense, Uncategorized on January 22, 2009 by lesmonde

Hagfish are disgusting animals. Barely even vertebrates, these repulsive, ugly creatures make their homes in that horrible sludge that floors our oceans. There, hidden from the eyes of human beings other than those who are compelled by some sadistic scientific curiosity to look them out, hagfish lie excreting a vile, mucid slime from out of their skin. That is, of course, when they’re not squirming into the anus of some unfortunate passing marine creature and feasting on the contents of its colon.
Hagfish truly represent a valid and powerful refutation of the teleological argument for the existence of God. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that, just like leek and potato made with dirty spuds, a horrid scum formed on the surface of the primordial soup wherein occured a seperate but tandem evolution to that of our own. This is where, I hypothesise, hagfish came from.

It would also be the ancestral forge of half the people that travel on buses.

I travel on buses with some regularity, and I really don’t mind this way of getting around. It can be peaceful, the Scottish countryside is undeniably beautiful, and the steady hum of the engine on the motorway is oddly therapeutic. I can think, read or just zone out. In theory, it’s actually rather wonderful. Then the hissing, clicking, beeping and crackling starts. Some brain donor, some cretinous fucktard with a Tomy ‘my first mobile phone’ has decided that the rest of the passengers would like a soundtrack to their journey. So, making use of the worst sound system ever devised by mankind, they set about delivering to all within earshot (which, on a coach, is simply “all”) music which sounds like the kind of noise a fruit machine makes when you win – but looped for two hours. I’d rather listen to my neighbour’s burglar alarm in the small hours before an important meeting.

And whose idea was it to make mobile phones capable of this in the first place? The quality is so bad that you’d be better off not listening to music at all. It’d be like designing a TV that sits at the end of an enormous pipe that you have to peer into, using a system of mirrors to see the tiny, distant screen. It’s better not to bother.
If, by some bizarre spasm of fate, I ever end up in the home of the individual who first approved this feature, I’ll break some of his crockery. I’ll knock a ramekin off his kitchen worktop with my elbow and say it was an accident. And I want you to hold me to that. I might even pluck out a pube and hide it on the bottom of his soap.

There are also individuals who travel on the bus who have absolutely no notion of self-consciousness. These people discuss their mundane or otherwise depressing lives at volumes which normal people would reserve for organising a round at a rock concert. Surely not even the person they’re talking to can be interested in what inane remark their friend made to them about Derek next door on the phone the other night before Eastenders came on the telly and they almost missed the start when the smoke alarm went off because their microwave peas were burning.
And it’s not only terminally tedious minutiae like this that’s announced to all within earshot. You hear some things that erode your faith in humanity so much and so rapidly that you sincerely wish that the bus would crash and we’d all just die in the resulting conflagration.
The following is part of a conversation I heard between two individuals, a pregnant woman and the father-to-be, on the way home from the hospital, clearly after a consultation regarding the pregnancy:

Man: But ah’m no goin’ tae be there aw the time, so it’s no really up to me what the bairn’s called.
Woman: Aye, I know but I really wish we could live together.
Man (with sincerity): Ye know I’d just end up batterin’ ye if we lived together.
Woman (sincere and resigned): Aye, I know, Kev, I know.

Earlier they’d been discussing names:

Man: How about Rhiannon?
Woman: That’s a paki name, Kev.

I wanted to drive my thumbs into my eyes until I pierced my brain and collapsed into a fatal seizure. It shouldn’t be legal to put someone in a position like this just because you won’t limit the volume of your moronic conversation. If that child gets abducted in a few years, I’ll be imploring the police not to rush too much – maybe wait and see how it turns out for the kid.

I don’t know how busdrivers do it. Driving us fetid, greasy human beings around all day and night should be enough without also having to endure these kinds of horrible cretins. My misanthropy gland has been working so hard after just an hour and a half on the bus that I’d gladly boil infants in oil and not even bother eating them afterwards, so the drivers must be as saintly as a thousand Mother Teresas squeezed into a tennis ball. How much do they get paid? Is it a lot? It can’t be enough, however much it is.

I’m going to start a charity. These men and women deserve to live like kings.