The other night I was tottering through the snow to the bar when I was accosted by a man on a street corner. This happens a lot, but tonight the request was different.

“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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A Bad Idea | 12 Comments »

“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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A Bad Idea | 10 Comments »

Dear diary, this year my true love has promised me a new present every day until Christmas! I can’t wait to see what he’s got me. I’m hoping for electrical goods. And a vibrator.

Day One
My true love led me blindfolded into the garden. Was it a new car? A hot tub? No. It was a pear tree. A small partridge had been tied by its feet to a branch. It didn’t seem very happy and was squawking loudly.

I had asked for a Wii for Christmas. It’s the thought that counts I suppose.

Day Two
My true love gave me a large ribbon-tied box. Was it a Wii? I shook the box; it shuddered and squawked. Another partridge? I opened the box to find a pair of fluffy turtle doves blinking back at me. Oh. I guess they could keep the partridge company.

If they misbehave I could transform them into a pair of fluffy slippers.

Day Three
I received a huge box today! It rattled alarmingly. A massage chair? No, more frigging birds. Three angry-looking French hens glared at me and pecked my fingers. They flapped around the kitchen, scratched the carpet and bit my ankles. The poor things seem frustrated. I think they need a French cock.

Day Four
A blood-curdling shriek greeted me this morning. My true love presented me with four calling birds. Tweeters with Tourette’s, more like! The little bastards squawked what sounded like “cockkSUKKA!” all day.

My sexually frustrated hens have finally given up trying to mate with the doves.

Day Five
I got into trouble with the Salvation Army carol singers today. They were crowded around my doorstep and three bars into Silent Night when their warbles were shattered by “cockkSUKKA!” I had no idea carol singers could be so violent.

On the upside, my true love finally gave me a decent present – five gold rings! They’re a bit chunky for my liking, and one of them has “4 REAL 4 EVA” inscribed on it. I’m not going to ask too many questions.

Day Six
More fucking birds. I now have six geese to add to my aviary. They look suspiciously similar to the geese from our local pond. On the upside, they are popping out eggs like ping-pong balls from a Thai hooker.

I wonder what French hen omelette tastes like? I’d give it a try but unfortunately the geese have taken over the kitchen and attack me when I try to open the fridge.

Day Seven
I had to put my foot down today after my true love presented me with seven swans. All swans are property of the Queen! I now have stolen goods flapping around my house.

I’ve hidden them in the bathroom in case the cops come round. I think they’re onto me – this evening I saw a big black car parked across the street. It must be the Animal Squad or something.

Day Eight
Heeding my bird gift ban, my true love presented me with a money-making present today. A local dairy was going out of business; a dairy herd and eight milking maids were going cheap. I now have a garage awash with milk churns and cow emissions.

This enterprise may work out – the ditzy maids are so grateful for a job I’m paying them a pittance. I may have some plucking jobs for them as well.

Day Nine
I’m beginning to wonder who my true love is buying gifts for. This evening he turned up with nine scantily-clad dancers from the local strip club. He spent all evening “erecting poles” and has turned the basement into a sleazy night club. He argued that seeing how I now had my own home business, it was only fair he had one too.

The geese and swans have declared war on each other and are battling for control of the dining room. I’m thinking of moving out.

Day Ten
To mark the opening of the basement night club, my true love invited ten yuppies from the local Yacht Club for a party. They parked their shiny Porsches all over the street and barged into my basement demanding liquor, music and pole dancing. The posh poseurs spent all evening leaping around with the dancing girls and spilling expensive whiskey on the carpet.

The racket woke up the calling birds who are now squealing “cockkSUKKA!” every ten seconds.
Bloody upper classes.

Day Eleven
I have a mutiny on my hands! The Yacht Club yuppies upset the girls with their dirty dancing demands and called one of the dairy maids a “sour cream udder whore”. The maids and dancers got together to demand better wages and conditions. This morning they formed the Amalgamated Women’s Union of Dairy Operatives and Erotic Performers, otherwise known as Cream & Panties. Fucking unions.

I received a nice gift this evening. A group of eleven kilted hunks from the Purple Pipe Blowers Marching Band called to play a medley of Christmas tunes on their bagpipes. Unfortunately the band had spent most of the afternoon drinking and their spirited efforts were rather off-key. I’m sure one of them vomited into his pipe during Jingle Bells. At least the noise drowned out the squawks and clucks of the household menagerie.

That black cop car was parked outside my house again. It has spinning rims. On a cop car! No wonder my taxes are so high.

Day Twelve
My fun night of song, scotch and sporran fondling was ruined! One of the Yacht Club snobs started a fight with a piper after accusing him of throwing up on his Porsche. The piper retaliated by lifting his kilt. Twenty-one drunken men then spent the evening punching each other to a pulp.

The Cream & Panties union was no help. They voted to hold a women’s peace protest in the hallway. If I hear them sing We Are Women, We Are Strong one more bloody time…

Worse was to come! At midnight a tour bus full of drummers from the Battle of the Hair Bands Show arrived at my door. They had heard the night club was throwing the best Christmas party in town, brimming with drink, drugs and birds. Oh yes, I assured them, there was plenty of birds.
Overpowering the air with the smell of hairspray and weed, they tumbled through my front door with their drum kits, shouting “We’re ready to ROCK! Let’s PARTY!”

So this Christmas Eve I have a house full of sex-starved chickens, stolen swans, obnoxious yuppies, drunk pipers with no underpants on, drugged-up rock drummers and a militant women’s peace camp. This is not going to be a silent night.

Day Thirteen
The gunfire started at two in the morning. The black car squealed down my street and the occupants burst out, firing their guns into the air and screaming “Gimme ma bling yo mofucka! You stole ma muthafucking bling, bitch!” Looks like my five gold rings already had an owner. The gunfire woke up the calling birds, who screeched “cockkSUKKA!” at the gangstas. The dink-dink-dink of bullets hitting Porsches echoed around the street.

The Cream & Panties union broke their peace circle and raced towards the hoodlums, screaming about pimps and unpaid money and how they were taking their muthafuckin’ asses to arbitration.

Having spent the night snorting coke with the drummers, the dairy cows got spooked by the gunfire and rampaged through the garage doors, sending drunken pipers flying and crushing any gangsta or Porsche that got in their way.

The cops needed thirty police cars and a helicopter to arrest all fifty-two suspects. I’ve been charged with affray, public obscenity, assault with a lap dancing pole, various weapons charges, theft of Royal property, parking violations, infringement of unionized Labour Code C574 and imprisonment of a game bird in a pear tree.

Next Christmas, I’ll get myself a goddam Wii. And a new true love.

Wishing you all a very Hazy Christmas and a Drunken New Year!

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A Bad Idea | 9 Comments »

You know how sometimes you get a good idea but halfway through doing it, it doesn’t seem like such a good idea any more? Well, I decided to take my motorcycle test. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

I used to be a biker babe when I was a teenager and able to fit into skin-tight leather pants. I rode everywhere on my bike and together we had lots of high-speed adventures and horrific accidents. Happy days. But after digging the bike out the snow one winter’s evening, I decided to sell the damn thing and buy a nice warm car instead.

So there I was at the training centre the other night, shivering with nerves and squeezed into my old leathers (they must have shrunk over the years). Of course I was saddled with the biggest, heaviest bike the instructor could find. Me and the bike got acquainted in no time. By that I mean I ended up lying in the gutter with the bike wedged on top of me. I was just testing the weight of the machine, obviously. It had been a while since I’d ridden.

After wobbling up and down the street on the hideous metal beast for hours, the instructor waved me on to the assault course, complete with sharp turns, gravel and pot holes.

There must have been something wrong with my bike as it refused to go around corners. Bright orange traffic cones jumped in front of the wheels like they were on a suicide mission. They should build one of these torture courses at Gitmo Bay – send a few prisoners around that on rusty Honda 125 and they’d be howling their confessions in no time.

Of course my fellow trainees were all burly men who whizzed around the course like Evil Knenivel on a Vespa. I chugged behind them all, a stream of curse words and sobs echoing around my fogged-up helmet. The only way I could avoid coming last in class was if Steven Hawking joined the course.

As the rain started to pour I realized this idea was not my best one.

But by some miracle I passed the course! The miracle coming in the shape of the bottle of whisky I gave the instructor just before the test. Ha! Works every time. How do you think I got through school?

Now to decide on a new bike.

What I can afford is this:

I can see the benefits – fuel efficient, space for several friends and handy for trips to the shops or lumber yard. But I’d look like a twat.

What I really want is something like this:

Sports bikes are sexy, sleek and totally impractical. Not sure where I’d put the shopping, but I could solve that by only buying really small things and putting them in my helmet, like sliced cheese.

Now everybody seems to think this is the ultimate bike:

But there’s no way I’d ride one of those metal monsters. A Harley is about the same weight as a shipping container. If one fell on me I’d have to stay under it forever.

And as a Harley-owning biker chick, it is compulsory to wear the following attire, as this young lady demonstrates:

I can see the benefits of a thong ‘n’ chaps combination on those hot and sticky days, but what about winter riding? One sharp frost and I could hire my bum out as a ski hill.

I need a machine that is safe, practical, and suits the level of my motorcycling skills. I think I’ve found my new bike.

Chaps and thongs are mandatory over at Humor-Blogs.com.

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A Bad Idea | 7 Comments »