Author: R.

Goodbye Gordon

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Andrew Ian Dodge goes through the latest and last budget from Gordon Brown…

Gordon Brown, our Chancellor, has delivered his 10th and probably final budget to the House of Commons this afternoon. Overall it was nothing radical or cutting edge. There was sticking it to SUV drivers (Chelsea tractors) but not much else. What was most radical in this prudent budget was the handouts to athletes both current and future. These handouts to jocks almost totalled half a billion pounds. Now were the NHS and the state pension system in good shape this might be justified. But wasting taxpayers hard-earned money on over-pampered athletes is just taking the piss (non-steroid laced of course).

The Martyrdom of Saint Timothy

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Everybody agreed that the pizza should have pepperoni and sausage.
Except for Timothy. He insisted on mushrooms.
“How about mushrooms on half?” he asked.
“There’s five of us,” said Joe. “You getting half your way? No way.”
“Why don’t you just get a small mushroom pizza on your own?” asked Susan.
“No,” said Timothy. “I want mushrooms on half.”
That was the last straw.
Susan and Joe pinned Timothy’s arms to the table while Irwin poured hot lead into Timothy’s mouth.
Word of Timothy’s martyrdom spread throughout campus. He eventually became the Patron Saint Of Mushrooms.
Still, what a dumbass.

Iceberg

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Ah, yes. The power of love. Jim S. floats around with it for a bit…

The iceberg came into view around the box. After floating helplessly in the icy water for the last two hours, he’d finally floated around the box to view the gigantic chunk of rock and ice. Due to his numerous injuries, he’d been unable to propel himself around the supply box. Only the icy water that numbed him had kept him from losing consciousness from the pain.
Incredibly, he recognized the beauty of the moment. Sure, only two hours ago, he’d been warm in his bed with his wife.
As he floated over, he came face-to-face with his wife’s decapitated body.

Old Man Winter

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On the last day of Winter, Old Man Winter loads up his magical ice sled and tours his Winter Wonderland for the final time.
A team of gigantic penguins pulls the mighty icicle chariot through the sky, and Old Man Winter scowls through his frosty beard at the melting snow.
Northern zephyrs rush past his ears, roaring their last.
That’s when he hears the siren.
It’s the cops. He is pulled over. Driving the ice sled drunk again.
Old Man Winter will spend the next three seasons in jail, but he always breaks free when Autumn comes to a close.

Garbage

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You know, I’ve done this myself, but never had the courage to admit it. Jim S. is more courageous than me…

When we bought the house, there was no storm door on the frame in the back of the house. As a housewarming and Christmas gift, her aunt had given us a gift card just for the purpose. I had some time to do it tomorrow and I had to go buy the door at the Home Depot.
An orange card glued to a cardboard folder would be awfully hard to misplace, wouldn’t it? Not for my wife. She had managed to throw it in the garbage!
That’s the reason I’m rooting through garbage bags instead of shopping for storm doors.

Funding

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Andrew Ian Dodge takes a look at funding in England…

UK scandals: now its funding of political parties. For those who don’t know Blair & Co had a slush fund that the treasurer of the party didn’t know about…it had about £15 mil in it. Typical new Labour reaction…”we”, ( ie: all parties), are all to blame. There are suggestions that taxpayers fund the political parties: akin to £3 on your yearly tax . The reason they want this, of course, is so they can limit/eliminate money to non-standard parties: outside the main three. This would hurt parties like UKIP (on the right) and RESPECT (Galloway’s mob) on the left.

Blood Is Life

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Jim S. the Folderman takes a comment from an introduction and examines it for a bit…

It’s all about the stories. That’s what I heard Laurence say on a recent podcast..
It made me think of a line from a series of stories I used to read by Anne Rice; “The Blood Is The Life.”
I’m not sure WHY I thought of that line, but I did. I started to write a poem based on “It’s about the stories,” but after writing it, I realized that I can’t EVEN write poetry. I’ll leave that to Andrew.
The blood is the life and the stories are the point. A good analogy, if I do say so myself.

Wishfish

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Once upon a time, there was a fisherman who caught a magical talking fish.
“If you let me go,” said the fish, “I will grant you three wishes.”
So the fisherman wished for a large lemon, a sharp fillet knife, and a good wine that goes with fish.
“Your wishes are… um… er… granted,” said the fish.
Then the fisherman killed and boned the fish, slicing it into thick fillets.
However, when he got home to have his wife cook the fish for him, the stove was broken.
They had a fire pit outside, though. The fish was absolutely delicious.

Ministry of Murder

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As man reached space, so did the ministries.
It wasn’t on any cargo manifest, but along with the food and vacuum-tents were a collection of religions in the minds of every passenger.
Once the missionaries decided that Oothoulo had souls, they felt obligated to save them. So they taught the creatures all about Jesus, miracles, The Crucifixion, and The Resurrection.
A popped squeak here, a missed burble there – and the colonists woke up to a billion crucified Oothoulo.
And, no, they didn’t come back three days later. They just smelled worse.
What a shame. I heard they tasted great.

Shamrock

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Just as Valentine’s Day has become one gigantic commercial for flower merchants, candy makers, and greeting card printers, I fear that St. Patrick’s Day has become nothing more than a Guinness commercial.
Whatever happened to St. Patrick’s miracle of driving all of the snakes off of the island of Ireland?
To commemorate the true miracle of St. Patrick, we’ve farm-raised several thousand snakes and we will release them in Ireland on March 16th. Then the next day, the Irish can drive these snakes out.
Maybe when we get a corporate sponsor, we can afford to stockpile a supply of antivenin.