Are you a busy salesman or executive out on the road? Save time and increase productivity with this super Road Trip Tray! Now you can write reports and browse e-mails on your laptop while you cruise down the highway. Also makes a great dining table for those high-speed picnics. And the Road Trip Tray’s 1001 uses don’t end there…

* Parents! Keep baby happy by using it as a diaper changing station, allowing busy mums to keep moving while attending to junior’s movements!

* Have a dangerous old car with no air bags? Simply tie a soft pillow to the tray and remember to bury your head into it as your car collides with that speeding truck or kindergarten group.

Net nerds! Can’t bear to be away from Facebook or YouTube for a minute? Worried you’ll miss the latest hilarious Lolcat picture? Surf while you drive with this fabulous Web Wow Wheel Widget and never miss a moment of cyber fun!*

*Do not operate while driving. Pretty please. No really, don’t. Seriously. OK, only for really important e-mails. And maybe Twitter.

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Yes folks, it seems my innocent little blog caught the attention of a shady underworld mob somewhere in Russia. Incensed by my poor grammar and constant piss-taking of Meat Loaf, those cold-hearted dons decided that my blog must disappear. From some dingy basement in Moscow, a team of ruthless Mafia hackers decided to take it apart and TAKE IT DOWN. They trashed it, burned it, pissed on the flames with their vodka-infused urine causing the flames to get higher and burn a bit more… until there was nothing left but a charred, defiled cinder of a website. Those BASTARDS!

Either that or I forgot to renew my web hosting account, I’m not entirely sure.

But anyway, having now single-handedly defeated the Russian mob, I guess it’s time to get on with it and write some ruddy posts! Bugger.

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“Back in 10 Minutes”. I walk three miles to the convenience store, only to find a scrappily-written note stuck to the door. Back in ten minutes? When is that? Is this the first minute, or the ninth? I wait ten minutes, but no-one comes back. What a shoddy way to run a store!

Time passes. I begin to wonder if something has happened to the clerk. Is he lost? Has he been hit by a truck while crossing the street? Or brutally murdered in an alley? Perhaps I should call the emergency services.

I wait another ten minutes. Now I’m getting worried. The clerk must have met with accident. Typical! I need a carton of milk, and they’re lying dead in a hospital corridor. Hang on though, that is a ’10′, isn’t it? It could be a ’40′ if I look really closely and squint a bit. Back in forty minutes- what kind of store is this? So much for customer service. Oh well, I only have another twenty minutes to wait.

Thirty minutes pass. I realize I may look a bit of a twat standing outside the store. A passerby across the street stops and stares at me. They must be thinking “Why doesn’t she go in? Does she have a phobia about convenience stores? Is she a bit retarded or something? Maybe she’s blind and can’t find the door handle. Should I go and help? No, she’ll probably get offended. I don’t want to appear patronizing…” And so the passerby stands there, agonizing about whether they should help the poor retarded blind girl.

Another fifteen minutes pass. This clerk is ether taking the piss, or really is dead. What if the store has suddenly closed down and the clerk is out of a job? Perhaps he has taken revenge and made off with the cash register. Or driven to despair by his impending unemployment, the embittered clerk has rampaged through the store with a shotgun, opening fire on the customers! You hear about that sort of thing all the time. Is the store is full of blood-soaked bodies? Maybe I should open the letterbox and see if the smell of death wafts out.

That’s it, I’m calling the cops. Something is terribly wrong, I just know it. But the cops might think I’m involved! Why else would I be standing here for ages, acting suspiciously? Great, now I’m implicated in a mass shooting and robbery. That passerby on the other side of the street has been staring at me for twenty minutes now. They must be an undercover cop or something.

Perhaps I should break into the store. I can smash down the door and rescue any victims that might still be alive. Then I’ll be seen as a hero, not a felon! And maybe I can help myself to a couple of chocolate bars while no-one’s looking. I’m sure Forensics won’t miss a blood-spattered bag of chips either. Okay Tiggy, steel yourself. Breaking down the door in 3…2…1…

I crash through the door and hurtle headlong into the shelves. Pop bottles and Reece’s Peanut Cups rain down on my head.

“What the fuck are you doing?” screams the clerk as he grabs a shotgun from under the counter. He glances at the door swinging off its hinges and grabs the ‘Back In 10 Minutes’ sign.
“Shit, I forgot to take down that sign. I hope the boss didn’t notice…Hey crazy lady, one move and you’re fuckin’ dead… Hello, 911… is that the police… I have a major situation here…”

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No, if it was poop it would be floating on the surface, right? Unless it’s old. Maybe it has been lurking in the pool for days. Or maybe it’s some really heavy shit, literally. Forget it, I’m not swimming around some crappy pool!

It’s a leaf, it must be. Look Tiggy, everyone else in the pool is splashing around and enjoying themselves. They all look respectable enough. Old ladies with flowery swimming caps doing laps, doting fathers splashing their young kids… no-one fits the profile of a sneaky pool-pooper.
But just to be on the safe side, observe everyone and look for tell-tale stains or guilty looks…

Oh for goodness’ sake, just get in the frigging pool! It’s 97 degrees and your sunburn is so bad it’s starting to crackle. It’s just a bloody leaf!

Oh look, an elderly lady is getting closer to it. Come on lady, closer, closer, COME ON you old bint, step in it for fuck’s sake! Bah, the silly old cow is swimming away. Maybe she saw it. Maybe it was her.

Oh good, a small child running along the deck. Maybe if I can push him in at the right moment… come on you little bastard… No, don’t go for ice cream, I need you for my pool shit analysis!

Maybe I’ll just get in the pool in and take a look; it’s the only way to know for sure. But if I’m already in the pool and it is poop, what then? I’ll be tainted! I could rush out and scrub down in the poolside shower… but God knows what I may find there… those dirty pool poopers can’t be trusted!

Doesn’t anyone else notice it? What is wrong with them? I’m sure I can see more poop. See that brown discoloration around the pool filter? Poop, it’s gotta be poop! I can see fecal matter everywhere! Oh my God, this pool is like a giant toilet! How can people immerse themselves in this SWAMP OF FILTH? What kind of hotel is this? I want to go home, I WANT TO GO HOME!!!
.
.

Oh, it is a leaf.

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While relaxing on the beach during your vacation, do you notice:

- The people with the highest fat density wear the least amount of clothes?

- Hot-looking beach babes always sit next to you when you have water retention?

- Pasty redheads on sun loungers seem to think they can outsmart solar rays?

- The person who used the beach washroom before you didn’t flush?

- Savage hungry seagulls can hear an ice cream being unwrapped from five miles away?

- All children under seven appear to be on speed?

- No matter where you lay your beach towel, you always end up next to a giant ant colony?

- Beach babes always sit next to you when you have bikini-line shaving rash?

- You find sand up your bum even if you’re sitting on a shingle beach?

- The person who used the beach washroom before you had some really bad oysters the night before?

- Fat old women with enormous flabby thighs just can’t stop bending down and picking up shells in front of you?

- Metal detector operators combing the shoreline always look poor?

- Beach babes always sit next to you when you have a hangover that would break Keith Richard?

- When you kick a kid’s sandcastle, their father is always 200lbs larger than you?

- The more wrinkly the man, the tighter the Speedos?

- No matter where you lay your beach towel, you always end up next to an overfriendly drunk hobo called Captain Billy?

- Redhead sunbathers seem to think the best cure for agonizing sunburn is more sunbathing?

- Despite storing them in an airtight box, the main ingredient of your sandwiches is sand? Or ants?

- Women who sunbathe with their legs wide open are usually over 70?

- The person who used the beach washroom before you was Captain Billy?

Beaches are hell. Stay home!

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Well, the thanks I get for putting myself out! All I was trying to do was help the global economy. Being the kind sort I am, I hired a gang of unemployed Mexican pig farmers to help me tend to my pot, erm, potted plants in my underground greenhouse. I had no idea I was doing anything wrong! Their immigration papers looked genuine to me. And I just sort of assumed those drug laws had been repealed by now.

Of course those swarthy Mexican buggers fled as soon as they heard the police sirens, leaving behind a basement full of empty Taco Bell wrappers and a little fella called H1N1. Muchos fuckos gracious, bastardos!

And then I drag myself off my deathbed to discover that the veritable Humor Bloggers have taken advantage of my absence to haul my virulent piggy ass on the proverbial spit and roast me! Bastardos.

Kirsten, here, from the poorly named Soccer Mom Files.

When I got news from Ettarose that I was to roast the famous Tiggy today, I was very excited. Not because she stole my boyfriend that time, or even because she once signed me up for the Billy Bob Thornton Fan Club. (Yes, I’m still the one and only member.) It’s just the simple fact that you just gotta love Tiggy! Who else will give you tips on where to hide your pot, or how to field dress a deer? I also never knew until I read Tiggy’s blog that there is an actual CD especially for gay dogs. “My Big Bone” would not have been on my iPod otherwise.

I don’t care that she lies about quasi intimate encounters with Hugh Laurie or that she has a thing for the ShamWow guy. You shouldn’t care that she likes to be mean to the new dorky intern at work or has a strange penchant for adult baby diapers. We’re not all perfect, so please be nice to the Tiggster.

BTW, have you noticed that she never posts pictures of herself? There is a very good reason for that. You wouldn’t advertise to the world is you looked like this, would you? She’s not even a real redhead.

Thanks, Kirsten! I think. And I would like to state for the record that a) I did not steal Jeremy Clarkson from her, he was merely helping me get over my split from imaginary Richard Hammond, and b) I do not have a thing for ShamWow Vince. Unless there is a payment of $1,000 involved.

That’s it, I’m cooked. I’m off to sit on a crowded bus and cough loudly. I find it very therapeutic.

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Oh crap! Some dorky new intern has moved into the cubicle next to mine at work. He has a full view of my computer monitor and knows I’m surfing the internet all day instead of working. The little creep will probably rat on me to the boss before the day is out. I need to get rid of him. But how?

Hot Lunch: Instead of my usual bland sandwiches, I am going to start eating bean and jalapeno tacos, fiery samosas and raw herrings. I can use my desk fan to waft the eye-watering aroma straight towards the little twerp. And the effects of all this spicy food on my digestive system will be a bonus. This tactic worked well for my old apartment neighbours who would leave a pot of cabbage curry bubbling on the stove all day. Bastards.

My Friend Ratty: I must let my cubicle enemy know about the office rat. Watch out intern, he’s a vicious little bugger! I’ve seen him pissing on your keyboard once or twice (doesn’t rat piss make you go blind?) And then I shall clumsily drop taco crumbs all over the floor. Maybe I should invest in a real rat.

It’s Raining Spikes: Oh, I’m so clumsy! I’m always tripping over while carrying huge open boxes full of drawing pins. And that towering stack of paper leaning against the cubicle wall – whoops, there it falls! Sorry intern, are you all right under there? I hope I don’t stumble as I carry this large mug of boiling coffee.

Ghost In the Machine: Hey intern, I heard your cubicle is haunted! The last guy who worked there was always complaining about flickering screens, catastrophic data losses and strange voices coming from the speakers. The IT department couldn’t work it out. Strange how the cops have never found that guy’s body…
I don’t know anything about hacking computers or causing electro-magnetic interference, but I’m sure I can inflict some damage with a screwdriver, a handful of drawing pins and a cup of rat piss.

Noisy Neighbour: There’s nothing more annoying than a stream of irritating noises coming from your cubicle neighbour. Maybe I should develop a hacking smoker’s cough, or a severe case of Tourette’s? Or maybe a more sinister noise like a creepy satanic chant? My weedy co-worker would flee in no time. Now, how does that Jihadi suicide attack prayer go?

My office now is a mess of sharp tacks, rotting herrings and rat piss. And the smarmy little fucker is still hard at work, oblivious to my spills, traps and random profane outbursts.

I quit!

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You think you’re having a bad day? Maybe you got to work hoping for a peaceful day surfing the internet, but your boss slapped a pile of work on your desk that will last you until retirement.

Worse than that? Maybe your Aunt Lucy’s life support machine was switched off by mistake. Before she’d changed her Will to leave you a million bucks. That’s bad.

Worse still? You ran over Aunt Lucy’s cat, got fired from your job for spending all day surfing the internet, then got hit by a truck and are now hooked up to life support. That’s pretty bad.

But it could be worse. You could be Sam the Catfish. This is his lousy day story.

I’m watching a TV documentary about some dicks going fishing in a lake in Brazil. These two idiots are chucking in their line or whatever the angling term is, when one of them gets a bite. He excitedly yanks out the line to reveal a wriggling, angry catfish! I’ll call him Sam. I’m not sure if his name really is Sam, but it seems like a good name for a catfish. Anyway, poor Sam is struggling on the line. A bad day for a fish, you think. But get this – half of Sam’s body is missing! The lake is full of fuckin’ piranhas, and Sam’s the lunchtime sushi special!

“Oh dear,” chuckles one of the fishing dicks. “Looks like our supper’s already half eaten!” Poor Sam is half the fish he was this morning, and these guys think it’s funny! But at least Sam has escaped the piranhas…

“Thank goodness!” thinks Sam. “I’ve been rescued from that vicious mob of fish! There is a God after all… ohhhh… uhhhh… where am I…can’t breathe… no… water… oh no… fish dicks!!!”
Not only is Sam suffocating to death, he is also about to get his head smashed in and served for supper. His bad day can’t get any worse, can it?

“Oh, this fish is no good,” dick one says.
“You’re right. Better release the poor fella,” dick two suggests.
Good idea chaps! Throw Sam BACK into the water!
“Fuck.” thinks Sam.

That is what you call having a bad day.

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“You may think I’m crazy…” began the middle-aged guy shivering in his plaid shirt,”But can you do me a favour?”

Before I had chance to kick him in the nuts, he pushed $10 into my hands. $10? I’m worth more than that, buddy.

“Please can you go to the comic store and buy me the Obama Spider Man comic? There’s a limit of one per customer, but I need two for my twin boys…”
Seeing the frosty tears in the poor fella’s eyes I accepted his challenge. Summoning all my acting skills I innocently wandered into the comic book store to purchase the precious comic.

It was my first time in a comic book store. It was a cavern of endless paperback delights, Spider-Man figurines and a feeling that I’d just stepped into another world. And do you know, the guy on the counter just looked like the comic book store guy in The Simpsons. Maybe it’s compulsory.

Then I saw her. She stared back at me from the cover of a comic with a steely face and shiny tiara. My childhood hero. WONDER WOMAN! BA BA BA BA BAABAAA! Suddenly I was five years old again. Wonder Woman KICKED ASS!

When I was five I was convinced I was a superhero. I used to perform daring stunts to prove it. I was Super Tiggy!

- I had amazing jumping powers. I leapt from a garage roof to prove to my buddies I was just like Wonder Woman. I didn’t break my legs, so it must be true.

- I had an invisible space ship. Of course my friends couldn’t see it, it was frigging invisible!

- Peas would magically disappear from my plate using my powers of… feeding them to the dog. My dog could always sense when it was time for his pea-feeding mission, which I put down to my animal telepathy superpowers.

- I could see into the future. I always knew when I was about to get a kicking by the kids from the trailer park. Sadly, my super strength let me down once I was lying on the ground bleeding. Maybe those kids were from Krypton Trailer Park.

Annoyingly, our neighbourhood was never threatened by stray nuclear missiles or three-headed aliens, so my superpowers went untested. I spent most of my time saving drowning bees from the paddling pool, patrolling the streets on my SuperTrike and getting beaten up by my foes from the trailer park. All in a day’s work for Super Tiggy…

“Madam, can I help you? Excuse me, madam, are you looking for something?” barked the comic book store owner.
“Umm… I need a Spider Man Obama comic… It’s for…” I stumbled.
Think, Super Tiggy, think! He’ll realize you are a fraud. Don’t blow it! Don’t let the kids down!

“It’s… four degrees below outside. Bloody freezing!”
“Not a night to be outside, madam. That will be six dollars please…”

Mission accomplished!
BA BA BA BA BAABAAA! It’s Super Tiggy!

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“Welcome all to Rivertown’s annual Groundhog Day!” beamed the Master of Ceremonies, tipping his top hat to the shivering crowd. “Mister Mayor, please bring forth the star of the show – Rivertown Ricky!”

The Mayor stumbled onto the rickety stage, clutching the groundhog in a tight grip. “If this little bastard pees or bites I’m dropping him,” the Mayor snarled through a gritted smile.

The Master doffed his hat to the little creature, and unfurled a paper scroll. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls! And the nice lady from Channel 5 News!” He paused and smiled at the television camera hovering below the stage. “Behold Rivertown Ricky’s annual weather prediction!”

The crowd cheered. Rivertown Ricky sneezed. The Mayor shuffled in discomfort.

“Well, let’s see. Hmmm.” The Master paused and frowned at the paper.

“God’s sake, get on with it, Paul!” hissed the Mayor.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it seems little Ricky is playing games with us this year. His message reads:

Forget the winter chill and cold,
There is a story to be told
When blood and fire will embrace
The greedy wanton human race
Your heart will beat and roar and clatter
Your head shall shatter with a splatter
And then the Earth will return once more
To all the creatures that came before.

p.s. It’s going to be very hot… where you are all going.

Signed, Rivertown Ricky.”

The crowd muttered in disbelief. The Mayor glared across the stage at Bob, the committee’s scribe. He shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it looks like some prankster has been tampering with our friend’s prediction. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about! Just a bit of fun…” reassured the Master, as he hastily bundled the Mayor and Rivertown Ricky off the stage.

Bloody pranksters, muttered the Mayor. Bloody rat.

* * * * * *

A glum Rivertown Groundhog Day committee assembled in the Mayor’s office.

“What a balls-up!” cried the Mayor as he picked groundhog hairs from his jacket. “A poem about blood and exploding heads, and in front of all those kiddies! What the hell were you thinking, Bob?”

“I didn’t write that!” protested Bob. “I put my poem in Ricky’s cage this morning. The scroll must have been switched. Sandra was looking after him all morning…”

“Don’t blame me!” shouted Sandra. “I only left him for a few moments while I went to top up his water. How could you think it was me?”

The bickering was interrupted by the shrill ring of the telephone. “Mister Mayor, The river’s turned red!” shouted an excited voice down the line.

* * * * * *

A deep red torrent gushed before the Mayor as he stood on the riverbank. He bent down and poked his hand into the water. A sticky crimson film clung to his fingers. Must be paint or something. Polluting little bastards.

A gaggle of TV crews had assembled at the water’s edge. A microphone was shoved in the Mayor’s face.

“Mister Mayor, is this sabotage? Or do you think there are sinister undertones to your groundhog’s predictions?” “Nothing to worry about,” began the Mayor. “The police are onto the pranksters I’m sure…” his voice trailed off and his eyes began to sparkle. “But, obviously there is the possibility that Rivertown Ricky is trying to tell us something…”

The mayor stared into the camera. “This is quite a mystery. A newsworthy event for our little town. I’m sure this story will be attracting a lot of attention from the world’s media…”

* * * * * *

The Mayor assembled the committee in his office. His mood was somewhat lighter than before.

“Rivertown is all over the television! Even CNN! Knocked those other mangy groundhogs right off the news. Although let me be clear, whoever poured that red crap into the river is going to be severely punished. But in the meantime, let’s try and keep this little prank going, eh?”

“The press wants to see the groundhog, Mister Mayor,” remarked the Master. “But Sandra said he’s a bit frightened of the camera lights, so maybe we should let him rest for now.”

“Goodness no! Get that hairy little bastard in front of the cameras! Give it a carrot, or whatever it eats, and give the press what they want. No time to waste!”

The phone on the Mayor’s desk rang. The Master picked it up.

“Mayor’s office. Yes…what? How could it? That’s impossible…” the Master stared at the committee members in frozen silence. “That was the Chief down at the fire station. He says the whole of Woodside Park is ablaze. He says it’s like a bush fire, homes gone and everything. But it’s minus four outside! How can it…?”

The Mayor shook his head. Bloody pranksters were taking it too far now.

“Holy God, we’ve got a town crawling with press now. Evacuate the town. And when I find out which little bastards have done this…” he flopped down on his seat and shut his eyes.

“Oh, I’m getting indigestion now. Bloody hell. Call the chief back… Call…Goodness, I feel dizzy…”

PTHWCHAAAASPLATTTTTTT!!

“Mister Mayor! Oh my God! Oh MY GOD, Oh MY GOD! Jesus Christ! For the love of GOD someone get an ambulance! Jesus fuc…”

PTHWCHAAAASPLATTTTTTT!!

PTHWCHAAAASPLATTTTTTT!!

Groundhogs don’t know much about the weather. But they can smell Armageddon a mile away.

Happy Groundhog day!

PTHWCHAAAASPLATTTTTTT!!

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