Coñazo
Apocalypse Not Right Now Mummy
It was a black winter morning and the ice was thick on the windows, inside and out. The room contained two bunk-beds and there were toys and clothes scattered all over the floor. Under threadbare blankets, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse shivered between sleep and wakefulness.
“OK boys, it’s time to get up. Come on now, breakfast is almost ready.”
“OK, I’ll get up in a minute, Mummy,” said Conquest, rider of the white horse.
“You’ll get up right now my boy, and don’t let me see you with that bow and arrow at the breakfast table.”
“Mummy, I’ve got terrible ear-ache, can I stay in bed today?” said War, rider of the red horse.
“I’ll give you bloody ear-ache if you haven’t got your teeth brushed in five minutes.”
“Can I come down after breakfast, Mummy, I’m not really hungry,” said Famine, rider of the black horse.
“I’ve made your favourite eggy bread. I’ll cut it up into soldiers for you just the way you like it, now come on before I get angry with you.”
“Mummy, it’s too cold to get out of bed right now,” said Death, rider of the pale horse.
“The central heating is being fixed tomorrow. I’ve got the fire going in the kitchen so it’s all toasty and warm there. Now get up.”
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse moaned and groaned.
“Look at the frowns on you! They’ll trip you over if your not careful. Come on now, there’s still some hot water in the boiler so get washed up and I’ll put out your breakfasts.”
“Mummy,” said Death, “why does that fat old man always try to give us sweets and try to make him come with us after school?”
“You stay well away from old Mister Sharon, he's not right in the head. Hell mend him if your father ever gets his hands on him.”
“OK Mummy, we’ll try.”
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Cooking for One (The Chosen One)
Archaeologists in Israel have begun to shed light on one of the most baffling and inspirational miracles of Jesus - the feeding of the 5,000.
The Gospel of Mark tells us that Jesus taught a large crowd in a remote place until late in the day. Jesus told the people to sit down to be fed. He gave thanks to heaven and divided five loaves and two fishes among them. All were satisfied and the disciples picked up twelve basketfuls of leftovers.
The feeding of the 5,000 is a literal reminder that God will provide for the faithful, and an allegory that knowledge and spiritual instruction is food for the soul.
Archaeologists now believe that they have found the site of the feeding of the 5,000 after chancing upon an ancient buffet table buried in a mountainside. Further excavations uncovered the remnants of a large floral centerpiece, which Jesus may have used to draw attention away from the lack of food on offer.
The skeletons of two bluefin tuna were discovered. Each tuna can weigh up to 500 kilograms, so two of them would have provided individual servings of around 200 grams to each of the followers. Not a lot, perhaps, but the scientists did discover thousands of rudimentary cocktail sticks, showing that Jesus had the knack of making a little go a long way. As to how it could be that twelve baskets of leftovers could have been collected, one wicker basket has been recovered, mainly filled with serviettes.
The archaeologists have no explanation yet of how five loaves could be made to go around 5,000 people. Early theories that Jesus turned the loaves into croutons have been discredited. Perhaps it is fitting that the mystery of the bread remains outside the realms of scientific explanation, at least for the time being.
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Two Hundred Degrees Below Humour
Consumer groups have called for a total and immediate ban on the newest entrant to the $20bn alcoholic soft drink market – citrus flavoured liquid nitrogen.
Nitropops such as "
Cryobols” and “
Absolut Zero” were developed for frustrated drinkers in the Arctic Circle, where normal beverages can freeze into blocks of ice if left unattended for a few moments.
Reports of tissue freezing and cryogenic burns are increasing now that the sale of alcoholic liquid nitrogen drinks has spread to markets with more temperate climates.
Vanessa Trachtenberg, a receptionist from Pensacola, FL, spilled her nitropop over a co-worker, breaking his arm off at the shoulder when she patted him down with her handkerchief.
The Food and Drug Administration is investigating such incidents and advises people to drink liquid nitrogen based drinks in moderation, just as they would any other industrial chemical.
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What I'm Reading
1). "Carter Beats the Devil" - Glen David Gold
2). Myself the
Riot Act.
"All inner daemons in tumultuous and riotous assembly immediately to disperse themselves, and peaceably to depart to their habitations or to their lawful business."
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The Passion of the Christ II: "Revenge of the Christ"
Mel Gibson announced today that filming has begun on the sequel to his smash hit movie, "The Passion of the Christ."
The follow up movie, "The Passion of the Christ II: Revenge of the Christ" details the resurrection of the hero of the first movie and his subsequent quest for vengeance on those who knew not what they did, but did it anyway.
Stephen Seagal takes on the role of Christ in the sequel, putting his martial arts expertise to good use in dispatching the many foes of Catholicism. English actor Alan Rickman plays Pontius Pilate, a figure wracked by self doubt after crucifying the possible Messiah.
Real-life platonic man and wife Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston play Joseph and Mary who nurse Jesus back to health after his graphically depicted torture and death and teach him shaolin fighting skills he needs for the ultimate showdown with the all powerful Roman Emperor, played by Danny DeVito.
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Glaswegian Psycho: Chapter I
I got down in the mud with Kenny and Earzo behind the big wall that goes all down the Clyde near my hoose. There were big holes in the wall and smashed up bits with the bricks all loose and jaggy bushes which all gave us some cover and places to fire our air guns from.
Kenny wore full combats but Earzo and me were in our shell suits which helped a bit with the puddles and the mud. I was dead worried that my fitba strip underneath my shell suit would get covered in crap but it would be worth it if our plan came together. We could see a mile up and down the river and we knew by tests that our guns would easily reach the middle of the water. We were all good at shooting because we always went out and shot at birds and squirrels in the bluebell woods down by the golf course. Sometimes we got into teams and shot at each other. It was safe because Earzo stole plastic goggles from work to protect the eyes and we padded up the Y-fronts to save the balls from accidental puncture.
Earzo thought up the 'Naval Escapade' because his brother was a sailor on the
HMS Erskine which was in the docks for repairs or something. Earzo's brother Malky told us exactly when the ship would be sailing up the Clyde and exactly where the Captain and the officers would be standing.
The light was just starting to go down when Kenny spotted the ship coming up the river. It was definitely a fair sized warship but I guess we were disappointed because the guns on it were not as big as what you see in the war films. I could hardly stop myself from laughing as the pride of the British Navy came up towards us and we all watched it coming closer and closer through our air gun sights. You got more idea of how big and frightening it was when it was really close but we couldn't think about that too much because we had to pick our man and calm down for the shooting.
To get at least two good shots in we had to start firing when the ship was still coming up to us. Earzo shot first and then me and then Kenny. We didn't hit anybody but I heard two of the pellets skudding off the metal. After a quick re-load the ship was right across from us and I shot the Captain right in the shoulder so he dropped his binoculars. The other boys fired about the same time and one of them hit an officer in the nut, by which I mean the heid rather than the baw.
By the time we got our next shots off we could hear the sirens and the claxons going like mad and see the sailors running all over like heidless chickens. We fired into the ship not bothering what we hit and three times I heard pellets clanging off the metal. We got up from our firing positions and ran with our heads doon away from the ship with the wall for cover, half hoping for incoming rifle shots and cannon rounds. We got to the bit where we could duck through the trees and from then on it was easy to get back to the estate without being seen.
Back in my front room we were all drinking cans of lager and pissing ourselves laughing talking about what we hit and the looks on the faces of the poofy looking sailors. Kenny and Earzo couldnae agree on who'd hit the officer, but there was no disputing who it was got the Captain. Earzo said to me, "That was some bit of sharp shooting by the way, Paddy."
The next day Earzo's brother Malky told him there had been a full red alert and my shot had broken the Captain's skin. Malky said we were heroes to the normal sailors who all hated the poncy officers, so I suppose that sailors are alright guys who don't dress up gay by choice. The police were said to be investigating but we had no worries: Glasgow Polis have always been pretty shite when it comes to the crime resolution aspect of their assignment, and our estate was more or less a no-go area for them anyway. You could get away with murder up here, as was proven time and time again.
We were pure beaming at each other with pride and couldnae stop laughing when we met in the pub that Friday. It had been in the papers and everything - "
HMS Erskine Retreats from Ned Onslaught."
We got pure smashed on lager and voddy to celebrate and then we went out and kicked the living shit out of this eejit who was pure staring at us over his king sized donner kebab like we were a bunch of arseholes.
We got the kebab and rubbed it in all over his heid and it must have been stinging like crazy because of the chilli sauce getting mixed in with the blood and going in to the cuts on his face. It was only a mild beating in the overall scheme of things because it turned out quite comical. Starring in the 'Kebab Escapade' saved him from a right good doing.
We walked through the rain to get the night bus back to the estate and it felt magic to feel my sore knuckles and share a joint with Kenny and Earzo. My best mates might be unemployable sociopaths, but they would do anything for me and I knew that.
It was shite to think about how they would react if they ever found out about the real Patrick B. McMann.
To Be Continued...
This glossary may prove useful to non-Scots
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Editor's Apology
Please note that the author of the following article is almost completely ignorant of the works and philosophy of the highly esteemed scholar, Dr. Noam Chomsky, and is therefore in no position to parody Dr. Chomsky's criticisms of the modern world, which are in all probability, perfectly well reasoned. Neither is the author any kind of authority on sex. The whole article can therefore be safely passed over, not that other articles in this publication are based on a greater degree of knowledge or insight. In fact, this entire website may be ignored with impunity.
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Noam Chomsky's Guide to Sex
Yesterday I met this woman in a bar. She corresponded to nothing more than Big Media's contemporary idea of perfection, but despite that, I don't mind telling you (as an advocate of Free Speech) that she gave me the horn. Bars are nothing more than state sanctioned public pacification stations designed to drown skeptical inquiry while at the same time filling the coffers of the Elite, but all that notwithstanding, I sent this girl a drink, one of those cocktails with a suggestive name - "
A Slow Comfortable Instance of Police Brutality Against a Wall".
She looked up and smiled so I sauntered over, the bar's closed circuit camera tracked me, beaming images direct to CIA Headquarters in Langley where a team of Counter-Insurgency Specialists pored over my every move. They are biding their time before they strike me down.
The conversation flowed smoothly at first since the school system indoctrinates women in hidden language of man pleasing. I tried to steer clear of politics, but how could I? Everything is political while our country (an artificial construct created by a group of wealthy land owners) is 'governed' by a monstrous psycopath bent on the destruction of any nation state not aligned with his Christian Fundamentalist views.
As I was telling her about the war mongering duplicitousness of JFK in the run up to the Vietnam War of US Aggression, I noticed that I was becoming sexually aroused - it could have been the hidden chemicals in my Jack Daniels and Coke or my own eloquence that did it, but this girl was in my sights like a third world country to a rapacious multinational.
We walked to her car, one of those infernal machines designed to give us the impression of freedom, while choking our children and paving the country in roads paid for by the poorest, benefiting none but the corrupt construction firms secretly owned by members of the government who ultimately decide who gets the contracts. After this extensive reverie, I entered the car, propelled by healthy sexual instincts dating back to pre-historic times when man was unencumbered by the prision of 'Civilised Society'.
We drove back to her apartment, which was nothing more than an isolation machine, cable television pumping propaganda direct to the cerebral cortex 24 by 7. Alvin Toffler says that school teaches you three things in the 'Curriculum Behind the Curriculum'. These three things are: To be Punctual, To be Obedient and To Perform Repetitive Tasks Uncomplainingly. These are the skills needed by the Military- Industrial Complex not only to mass produce useless goods with built in obscolecence, but also to fight their dirty wars. Well anyway, I was an A student in these subjects as the woman took the dominatrix role and bid me administer to her every filthy need.
I found such bittersweet irony in the comparison of my slavery under her wanton and self serving desires to the plight of every one of us in the Western World who debase ourselves to serve the Bitch State.
I left the apartment spent and exhausted, the crushing forces of barbarous state oppression and cynical media manipulation piercing me me far more deeply than the angry red welts that stung my back and buttocks. The CIA operatives were no doubt recording my every footfall, but in one small way I had achieved a victory over the dark forces that night - I had faked my orgasm and used the woman's electric tootbrush to clean out my ears. The lesson being - pretend to give them what they want, but never miss an opportunity to
Fight the Power.
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Siamese Twin's Sigh of Relief
James Bradshaw expressed relief and gratitude yesterday after being successfully separated from his twin brother Michael after a six hour operation at Queen Mary's Hospital, Leeds. Mr. Bradshaw commented, "This is the first time in 32 years that Michael's known the difference between my arse and his elbow."
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Observational Humourist Hunting Season
The Observational Humourist (OHum) is the bane of modern society, I do most humbly contend. The OHum mocks our everyday life and chips away at the very foundations of the progressive, liberal, democratic, cryptofascist, capitalist state. It is due to the OHum's pernicious influence that modern man finds himself a cyncial, isolated wretch, for how can any of us commit to any idea, affiliate with any group or stand up for anything without fear of the OHum's subversive mockery?
A few examples of the OHum's craft will bring the danger into sharp relief:
EXHIBIT A:
"Why do mothers always tell you to drink liquids when you are sick? It's always, 'Drink plenty of liquids'. Yeah, like I would drink a solid." (Adam Sandler, paraphrased)
Surely it is plain for all to see that this is an barely disguised attack on motherhood, the very cornerstone of family life? But the OHum's rancour knows no bounds, as can be seen in the following heinous example:
EXHIBIT B:
"Have you ever noticed how careers advisers never advise anyone to become careers advisers?" (Anonymous, paraphrased)
Once a society turns on its careers advisers the writing is on the wall. Anarchy must be close at hand once these dedicated public servants are subject to public derision. I say enough is enough! I say career advisory and no further.
It is time for OHums to have a taste of their own medicine. It is time to take the power back from these self appointed arbiters of the amusing, these hypocritical harbingers of harmful humour. I hereby declare open season on OHums and invite readers of this progressive publication to submit them to a whithering torrent of indignant wit.
Prizes will be given to the readers who release the greatest amount of pent up anger by completing the following jokes at the OHum's expense:
1. "How many OHums does it take to change a light bulb...."
2. "Why did the OHum cross the road..."
3. "Two OHums walk into a bar and say..."
4. "Have you ever noticed how Ohums..."
Good luck with your entries, and remember that your jokes will help protect mothers and career advisers.
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When Random Acts of Kindness Backfire
It was Easter Sunday and I cycled to the park, got off, locked up my bike and started walking towards the trees thinking, "who is my enemy?"
I walked down unfamilar paths, crossed rose gardens I had never seen before and bridges made for couples in love to pause upon. I thought, "What
is this thing that weighs me down, drains my strength, hardens my features into a permanent scowl and forces tears through my downcast eyes? Who
is my enemy? And how
do you fight an unseen, undeclared opponent?"
I walked the path between two broad fields torn up by weekend footballers, now fenced off to let the grass grow again in time for summer. It was irritating to think that a small number of people would mindlessly ruin an area that was there for the enjoyment of all. "Do these people have no self awareness? Why are people so selfish?" I asked myself as I walked along and I wondered whether these questions were given me by the enemy.
Then I saw a shiny red easter egg tied to the tree by the path. It was at the height that a child would have tied it. A child had tied a chocolate egg to a tree for someone else to find. I would never have done that when I was young - chocolate was to be gobbled up quickly before anyone else got their hands on it, and the same went for dinners. I sat down on a nearby bench and stared at red easter egg. However long I was there the enemy was at bay, but the moment passed and I got up and walked on, touching the egg on the way past, not brave enough with people around to bend over and give it the little kiss that I wanted to give it.
I stopped at the end of the park to take a drink from the fountain and watch the joggers go past for a while. "Must start running again," I thought. Walking back towards the bike I saw what must have been twenty little kids climbing up the old leaning tree, and later on I saw a dozen people stopped in their tracks to watch too big black dogs playing with each other joyously. I thought to myself, "I'm going to find my enemy and fight it."
I unlocked my bike and began to cycle home. "Shit, I forgot to get an easter egg for Kathy," I thought. I am always leaving things to the last minute, I don't know why. It was Easter Sunday so of course all the shops were closed. I started to cycle back to take the egg from the tree - what better present than a child's gift that was left there for me to find. It was difficult to find that part of the park again since I was coming at it from a different angle but at last I got there.
The egg was gone. I wondered if it had ever really been there, and whether it was part of the enemy's plan to plant false hope and dash it again and again until I learned the true meanings of humility and futility.
I cycled on down the path. There were two muddy guys with a ball walking along eating something. They threw the red shiny paper on the path and walked on. I picked it up and took it home to Kathy.
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Funny Old World
Have you ever noticed how observational humourists never comment on the foibles and peculiarities of observational humourists?
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Jack Off the Bean Stalker
Once upon a time there lived a very poor widow who had a teenage son named Jack. Each morning Jack milked Daisy. Many men give affectionate names to their special appendages and Jack was no different.
The sad day came when there was nothing to sell but the last old billy goat. "Dont worry, mother, I will take him to the market and get a good price." Jack led the goat away, whistling as he went. "I should get a good price for a whistling goat," he reflected. His mother called after him, "Are you sure we couldn't just sell it on Ebay?" But Jack was already well down the dusty road to town.
Jack was lost in thought when he met the butcher on the road. "Good morning, Jack, that's a fine looking goat you have there," said the butcher. Jack said, "I'm on my way to the market to sell him." The butcher put his hand in his pocket, fumbled about, and pulled out four curious beans. The butcher said, "I'll save you the trip. These beans have remarkable properties. Plant them overnight and each one will grow into a beautiful maiden, the fairest of whom shall be your wife. The others will marry handsome princes, who will make you rich beyond your wildest dreams..."
Jack enthusiastically exchanged the billy goat for the magic beans and ran back home to his mother. The poor widow wept when she saw the beans and was deaf to Jack's pleas, not to mention other auditory stimuli. She threw the beans out of the window and sent Jack to bed with no supper. There was nothing to eat anyway, so the no supper part was more of a symbolic gesture by Jack's mother.
Jack cried himself to sleep. The next morning, an incredible stalk had grown, blotting out the sunlight. "Oh, Daisy..." Jack sighed, but just then he heard a sound from the garden. Jack ran outside to find four enormous seed pods each bursting open to reveal a beautiful naked woman. "I'm going to call you Fee, Fi, Fo and Fum!" said Jack.
Jack whisked the naked girls to his bedroom. He found some of his mother's old clothes in the attic and gave them to the girls. The clothes fit well, better indeed than they had fit Jack in his moments of gender experimentation.
Jack sang,
"Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum...Wearing the clothes of my deaf old mum...Daisy, see these girls in bed...We'll jump their bones until I'm dead!"
Jack lurched towards the bed, but the chaste maidens cried out, jumped up and fled from the room in great commotion. Jack recovered himself and looked out of the window to see the girls running down the road. Jack called after them,
"Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum!" but the girls were gone.
The four beautiful maidens rented a small room in town together and became famous seamstresses, 'The Magic Lesbians' as they called themselves. Jack was heartbroken and could not overcome the conviction that the girls rightfully belonged to him, for the beans they grew from were his and his alone. There was a court case and a restraining order. An unfriendly giant was hired to keep Jack 200 yards away from the girls at all times.
In the fullness of time Jack met a dwarfish woman who laid golden eggs, but in truth he was a broken man. He never blamed his misfortune on his beloved Daisy, but on distorted media images of enchanted naked maidens who spring forth from seed pods.
Life in the town slowly returned to enchanted normality, and the billy goat whistled a mournful refrain... THE END.
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The Daily Sage: Fishing
1. Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day
2.
Teach a man to fish and he can feed himself and his family
3. Use unsustainable industrial fishing methods to wipe out fish stocks...
4. Give a man a bag of Doritos and he will eat for a day...
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Welcome to the World
Nathan John Taylor, born today at 12:21 GMT, weighing in at 8 pounds and 9 ounces. Son to my dear friends Paul and Katherine, weights undisclosed. Nathan is the second man child of the couple not named after the author of this publication.
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Peace, Love Breaks Out in Glasgow
Striven Gardens, a quiet street in the west end of the post-industrial city of Glasgow, has become the scene of unprecedented peace, love and harmony.
Straddling the economic fault line between the down-at-heels neighbourhood of Maryhill and upmarket Kelvinside, Striven Gardens is perhaps an unlikely location for such a blossoming of brotherly love.
While rain pours down from dark grey skies in the middle of summer, while life expectancy across the city declines due to the unhealthiest diet in Europe and while streets are prowled by gangs of randomly violent youths, residents of Striven Gardens maintain friendly relations with each other and share an optimistic, positive outlook on life.
The downcast fatalism so characteristic in other parts of the city is noticeable by its absence. The existential desperation that drives generation after generation of glaswegians to the bottle is impossible to detect. Residents are well rounded, happy individuals in loving, wholesome relationships. There is a palpable community atmosphere of mutual respect and well meaning consideration for the place in which they live.
Officials from Glasgow City Council are perplexed. Tam McGonigle, a spokesman for the council said, “Ah huvney got a Bars Irn Bru what’s going on up there, but somethin’s no right. Reminds me of that yon film ‘The Wicker Man’ with that guy fae ‘The Equaliser’ an that.”
Smiling residents of Striven Gardens claim there is nothing special about them, and no secret recipe for communal contentment. Douglas Howser from number 9 said, “We’re just normal people and we just really like each other. There are so many fascinating people living here, right on the doorstep you might say!” Robert Steers from number 17 said, “It’s great to know everyone who lives around you, and be able to support each other.” Ahmed Khan from number 34 said, “I just leave my door open and there’s nothing I like more than one of the neighbours popping in for a chat and a cup of tea.”
The reporter for this story was too freaked out to take further quotes.
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Laika Go Home
Every schoolboy knows that the first man in space was a dog. The Russian space program blasted cosmo-pooch Laika into orbit in
Sputnick II on 3rd November 1957. But what became of man's best friend in space?
Many people believe that Laika (which means 'barker' in Russian) died around a week after launch, but Swedish researcher Anna Olsson, 23, uncovered evidence that Laika was not dead, but frozen in suspended animation aboard the spacecraft that circles above our heads every day.
Olsson raised money for a rescue mission by capitalising on the newly discovered human interest in sexuality. Her
website raised the several million dollars needed to bring Laika back to earth.
Sputnick II was visited by a Russian rocket launched from Baikonur, Kazakhstan last Tuesday and the frozen body of Laika was transported to a secret location, preserved in liquid nitrogen.
Olsson personally oversaw the de-freezing process and gave the final, semi-erotic, kiss of life that brought Laika back to life. A full colour photo shoot of the event, with high quality video accompanied by tasteful music, will be available on Miss Olsson's website next week.
Laika suffered no ill effects from 46 years in space and is said to be amazed at the geo-political changes that have take place since paving the way for manned spaceflight. A committed and card carrying communist, Laika will undergo ideological re-training to convince her that she is not a Hero of the Soviet Union, but a symbol of the new, democratic Russia.
Miss Olsson feels vindicated now that Laika is safe and well on earth where she belongs. Olsson said, "If she wants, she can come and live with me in Stockholm and I'll help Laika write about her life in space. Then perhaps we'll raise the funds to rescue the many frozen chimps, chickens, mice and rabbits who fly lifeless across the boundless heavens that we might dream of worlds to come."
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New Editor Wanted: Apply Within
This publication has an opening for the position of editor. Applicant must be sensitive to the writerly spirit, diplomatic when dispensing criticism and willing to work for unremunerated glory (that's a good thing, it means 'a lot of glory'). Position has opened after sacking of previous editor following this conversation:
Coñazo: "What did you think of my latest story?"
Editor: "What latest story?"
Coñazo: "Didn't you read it? It's about the first chimpanzee to swim the English Channel. On the surface it's an old fashioned adventure yarn, but underneath the surface it's a good old primate/cod love story. No puns intended."
Editor: "No puns detected. Listen to me, I don't believe in you as a writer."
Coñazo: "What do you mean you don't believe in me as a writer? I just sold my first story."
Editor: "You contributed your first story for free to an unfunny internet site that nobody reads. Only three people read your work. One of them is me, the other is you and the other is lost on the web looking for animal porn."
Coñazo: "You think you're such a great editor? Isn't an editor not meant to say more than, 'I like it' or 'It's not funny'? That's all I get from you. I don't believe in you as an editor."
Editor: "If I believed in you, I'd probably give you more, but I just don't believe in you as a writer."
Coñazo: "Can you stop saying that please?"
Editor: "The truth hurts, baby. Shall we go for dinner tonight?"
Coñazo: "OK, but you are
so fired. Meet you at eight."
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If IT Architects Ruled the World...
...then the inefficiency of separate lavatories per household would be done away with by the creation of one central strategic toilet facility.
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