Tag: humor

Tiggy Joins The No Cussing Club

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Swearing - not big or clever.

My language is often less than lady-like. I could give a 350lb Docker with a spade through his foot a run for his money in a swearing contest. I didn’t want admit I had a problem until I called my boss a cock pirate (to be fair, he took it entirely out of context). It was time to act.

Sign of Intelligence
I joined the No Cussing Club. Happy orange-shirted kiddies smiled at me from their website in encouragement. I too could a live profanity-free life! All I had to do was swear a pledge of allegiance (without swearing), buy an orange Club wristband and my potty mouth would be silenced forever! I couldn’t let the children down.

“I won’t cuss, swear, use bad language, or tell dirty jokes. Clean language is the sign of intelligence and always demands respect. I will use my language to uplift, encourage and motivate. I will Leave People Better Than I Found Them!”

I made it through the oath but as I tried to order my wristband my computer crashed. “Fuck!” I yelled, and realized I’d broken my pledge in under two minutes. “FUCK!” I exclaimed again as I realized I’d just said ‘fuck’. This was going to be tough.

Switzerland
The website suggested I try alternatives to swear words. Just use an everyday word, the first one that pops into your head. My friends began to wonder whether I was high on drugs as I randomly shouted out “Switzerland!” “Fudge Bucket!” and “Wooden Monkey Carving!”. The fact that these were the first words to pop into my head was worrying. Maybe the Club wristband was affecting my circulation.

I sounded like a Dictionary with Tourette’s and was becoming reluctant to speak in case I slipped up. I imagined tears running down the children’s orange glowing faces as I wrestled with my fudges and fucks. I had failed the No Cussing Club kids.

I’m sorry kids. It’s not that I have a limited vocabulary and don’t know lots of big clever words. But sometimes only a fuck will do. When you’re grown up and you put a spade through your foot you’ll understand.


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Tiggy’s Hollywood Movie

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You like me, you really... oh, maybe not.

I didn’t know what Hollywood scriptwriters looked like until I saw them on the picket lines during the recent writers’ strike. They looked normal enough – they didn’t drive up in their Ferraris flashing botox smiles like Tinsel Town big shots. They wore normal clothes, had normal faces and probably had messy houses and an overdraft like everyone else.

Hollywood needs them. Can you imagine if they were filming CSI: Las Vegas and the director says to the cast “Hmmm, maybe someone can pretend to be dead, here’s some fake blood. Fucked if I know, just make it up as you go along…” Gil Grissom wouldn’t look like such a know-it-all forensic fancy pants then.

Awesome Movie
Maybe I had what it took to be a movie screenwriter. Stupidly, I wondered out loud to my friends how easy it must be. All you need is to think up some characters, put them in a situation and then resolve that situation, somehow, in about 95 minutes. Go on, my friends said. At least come up with an idea.

My movie script needed careful planning. I had to come up with fascinating characters and an intriguing plotline with plenty of twists. Half an hour of solid work through my lunch break later, I had the foundations of my awesome movie – a dark road trip comedy with a clever subplot. I’d hardly finished my cup-a-soup as I typed out my synopsis. I am in the wrong job, I thought. Just wait until my friends read this. I wonder which producer will call me first?

Hot Dog-Eating Monkeys
My friends’ reviews were lukewarm. “Um, Tiggy, hasn’t this been done before?” “I don’t get that bit about the monkey and the hot dog eating contest…” “I’ve noticed one major flaw in your plotline…”

What a bunch of loser armchair critics. How dare they trash my idea! I played the whole movie back in my mind – it was fantastic! I’d pay to see it several times at a theatre. I sulked like a diva for the rest of the day.

Maybe I’m not cut out to be a screenwriter. The pressure to come up with original, logical and entertaining material is too much for me. The trauma of a rejected idea is unbearable. These Hollywood writers must have a thick skin, even without the botox.


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Tiggy’s Word Of The Day – Defibrillator

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Dr. House He So Dreamy

Dr. House rushes to another cardiac emergency

2. Defibrillator

A machine you use to resuscitate a heart attack victim while you pretend to be Dr. House. Don’t forget to shout “Clear!” and make biting yet witty remarks as you zap away. What fun.

Unfortunately it is not a good word to have to use in an emergency.
“Help, this man’s dying over here! Get me the defip… defrim… defuck… Oh, wait. Nevermind.”


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Eat Is Murder

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Nice Fishy

Are fish vegetables? Or am I a big hypocrite?

I used to be a vegetarian. I was fourteen and needed to piss off my parents. So I took the advice of my hero Morrissey, jumped on the ‘Meat Is Murder’ bandwagon and abandoned burgers. My mother estimated my latest teenage fad would last about a week.

Six years on my veggie convictions were still going strong. I’d tuck into my tofu stew and complain loudly about the dead flesh my dinner companions were shoveling into their faces. I didn’t get invited to many dinner parties.

Fish Sticks
One evening as I was sitting at a beachside grill, a waiter brought out a massive plate of barbequed fish. The sweet, delicate smell wafted to my table. Suddenly my plate of soggy lentils and green stuff lost its appeal. I began pining for the taste of juicy barbequed prawns, fluffy salmon steak and salty mussels. Hell, even fish sticks would do.

I was determined not to give in to my secret craving. But my resolve crumbled at a wedding buffet. I found myself loitering by a plate of shimmering pink smoked salmon. No-one would notice if I just tasted a tiny flake. The fish was dead and too sliced up to save. So I ate some. Nothing bad happened. I wasn’t struck by lightening. Morrissey didn’t appear and slap my salmon-filled face. The Earth didn’t explode because Tiggy nibbled one little fishy.

Slug Assassin
Now the world was literally my oyster. Sushi for breakfast, tuna for lunch and prawn curry for supper. The world’s fish stocks were beginning to dwindle.

How could I justify my fish fanaticism? Using my own special logic, I figured that even being vegetarian had its environmental downside. How many slugs had been ruthlessly murdered in order to produce those vegetables? Carrots were living things too, but I was happy to rip them out the ground and devour them.

Anyway, fish are stupid. They’d only get eaten by other fish. If there was such a thing as reincarnation, I was simply helping them up the chain by eating them. Next time they might come back as a chicken and they’d thank me for it. A succulent, tender chicken. Mmmm.


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