Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Tracy Emin and The Avocado
I was talking to Tracy Emin about us being working class artists. She started flicking dandruff from my black velvet blazer, and I thought that with my new coal tar shampoo I'd be flake-free! When I ask her what she's doing, she says there were chips on both shoulders and that I was not working class. How DARE you! I says, how not? She says it's cos I eat Avocado. She says that Avocados have been in Britain now for 42 years and only in the last 4 have ASDA stocked them. She compares this to Waitrose's 22 years and Marks and Spencer's 18.
I Am The Reno Christ
Inhumanely hot car interior. Must get out.
I fall on Nevada dust, hoping for a fresh breeze to reverse a surge of gastricky vomit. My composure implodes and I am weak, doggie-style, palms down, pushing roasting desert dust a few millimetres closer to the earth's core. Problem is, the earth's core seems closer to the surface round here.
Mental note to self: sandy dust is actually ginger hues and soft as icing sugar. No cool breeze but dry air does blow fine soil over me. This is the desert beginning to digest me in it's own Cajun seasoning. The desert wants me a baked Englishman, and is coating my dripping palms and forearms. I look like a performance artist.
Ten seconds pass, then I realise that on my dizzy way down to the dizzy dust, I had headbutted a massive cactus and three cactus spikes are now squewered into my forehead, blood streaming all down my face, all Jesus-in-thorns-like.
I really do look like a performance artist now, a good one, too! One who really means it. He'll sweat blood and guts for his art. Well, here's the blood, dripping either side of my nose all red tears, but where's the gu- oh, here it comes. The brown dusty powder-soil and a waterfall of my own sick coalesce to form a revolting soil-y scrambled egg. My vomit. DNA discharge just outside Reno city limits. That'll teach the fucking cactus.
It's cool though, as I've already made my mark on this place. I should really take a picture. A real artist would.
I fall on Nevada dust, hoping for a fresh breeze to reverse a surge of gastricky vomit. My composure implodes and I am weak, doggie-style, palms down, pushing roasting desert dust a few millimetres closer to the earth's core. Problem is, the earth's core seems closer to the surface round here.
Mental note to self: sandy dust is actually ginger hues and soft as icing sugar. No cool breeze but dry air does blow fine soil over me. This is the desert beginning to digest me in it's own Cajun seasoning. The desert wants me a baked Englishman, and is coating my dripping palms and forearms. I look like a performance artist.
Ten seconds pass, then I realise that on my dizzy way down to the dizzy dust, I had headbutted a massive cactus and three cactus spikes are now squewered into my forehead, blood streaming all down my face, all Jesus-in-thorns-like.
I really do look like a performance artist now, a good one, too! One who really means it. He'll sweat blood and guts for his art. Well, here's the blood, dripping either side of my nose all red tears, but where's the gu- oh, here it comes. The brown dusty powder-soil and a waterfall of my own sick coalesce to form a revolting soil-y scrambled egg. My vomit. DNA discharge just outside Reno city limits. That'll teach the fucking cactus.
It's cool though, as I've already made my mark on this place. I should really take a picture. A real artist would.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
The Tail That Broke Off
The Tail That Broke Off
Chris Dooks
Some ignore salamander prophecies.
A mother puts it down to childish play when her child barks "Mummy, today is when the salamander arrives..."
An Alzheimers patient mutters something about the salamander arriving, but the porter just thinks it's that mad old bitch again.
A guy with learning disabilities will simply say "Amanda" because he cannot say "Sal-amander" and his carer will assume it's the name of someone off the telly or an auntie or something. But these people are prophets.
This is why the notion of the salamander, the patron saint of prostitutes often goes unseen. Signs are ignored. Even naming Leith’s nortorious kerb crawling boulevard Salamander Street did little to highlight the amphibian saviour of whores. But it is no coincidence that prostitutes still use a street with salamander pedigree.
Incidently, the term kerb crawling does not come from the speed of the car slowing down to engage with prostitutes. In dirty streets, salamanders would hang around the drains, ‘crawling the kerb’ so to speak- and these were usually the kind of dangerous streets where prostitutes plied their trade, hence it stuck...
Salamanders. Mind-blowing. Paradigm shifting amphibians, dwelling in water, land or both. Species diversity is so varied it’s hard to tell if they are all the same genus. Google the Mexican albino Axylotl (which a friend claims looks like a dead man’s penis) for the cutest one.
Holy scriptures fail to mention that salamanders have supernatural skills at least as astonishing as Biblical miracles- if not more so. This begs the question why don’t we hold the consummate book ‘Newts and Salamanders of Europe’ by Richard A Griffiths up as scripture?
Pay attention to these top three salamander facts before middle America says I made it all up, reverses evolutionary research for good- and bans amphibian exposés like this.
In at number three. Many salamanders breathe without lungs in both juvenile and adult state. External gills like pink feather boas allow them to receive oxygen. No need to inhale or exhale like other crude wheezy creatures.
Holding steady at two. Other salamanders display ‘autotomy’- the ability to discard part of one’s body when attacked, such as a wriggling tail, distracting a confused predator. Jesus may heal lepers but only a handful of creatures can shrug their shoulders and say “yeh, but see what I can do.” Contact prophet Attenborough for proof.
For the second millenia! Still at number one! Perhaps the Virgin Mary was a Salamander. Perhaps her name was really Sally-Amanda, for some salamanders parthenogenesize- meaning they can reproduce without the sperm coming into contact with the egg. In other words, they can have virgin births. The offspring are clones of their mothers.
Anyway. Leith, Scotland 1794.
Lindsay Seafield, a tough wee hoor, toils with violent despicable clients – especially those of cloth like ex-Reverend Iain Galloway.
Galloway appeared before Leith Parish Council to appeal against his excommunicating from the church after some other scandal with a local woman of ill repute. The Parish rejected his plea.
Displacing personal anger and shame onto prostitutes, he felt whores had already gone to hell anyway- so what’s the harm in a little fun? So, filled with drink and adrenaline after staying awake for days, he staggered down a slimy passage that would one day become Salamander Street, bawling for “whores to end his bores.”
Because Lindsay had a wee bairn, she’d developed essential bottle to cope with the most neandethal of men. Such was her insight of blunt testosterone, there was almost a thin streak of compassion in the air when she serviced clients. Almost.
Galloway paid well, but he expected total cooperation for acts that left women worse than dead. Acts the church shrouded. Lindsay both challenged Galloway’s tastes and allowed him to indulge them- within ‘reason.’ He would, for example, make Lindsay weep over his feet and then dry the tears with her hair.
“Ah wan nun o yer mischeif the nee’ Galloway, Ah’ve hud a hard day an nought tae show. Ach, could ye huv no had a wash at least? Jesus, what’llit be?”
He scowled at her- “A kiss from they lips” (Galloway had a habit of asphixiating women by kissing them full on the mouth and holding the nose).
“You ken ah dinnae kiss Galloway. You ken dae whit yer will bit nae lips”
“Ah’ll pay mair ferra kiss and thit’s it. Ahm rich.” (It was rumored that the kirk had given him money to keep quiet about his indescritions)
“Nae kiss”
“Gisssa kiss wee bitch.” Galloway pinned her arms to the wall preventing her from reaching a knife stuffed beneath her bodice.
“Aye, aye, aye git affa me soas I kin dae it right”
Usually this tactic worked. Show no fear and hint that it would be more pleasurable if he followed suit, but Galloway sussed cod-psychology.
“You’ll nae run fae me the neet”- he shook her against the wall. An earring fell out, dropped in the gutter and floated down the street.
“Ah’m nae kissing ye if ye dinnae let go I cannae”
He relished causing her steely bravado to slip, tearing through her blouse- but she competently booted him in the bollocks. As he recoilled, she was able to let out a whelp and grabbed a bottle from the gutter, crushing it on his skull.
She freed the dagger from her bodice. She wasn’t going to kill him, more... maim him perhaps- maybe emancipate his stinking manhood from the loins and toss it in the gutter?
Now.
Take your mind to gutter level. Imagine a small amphibian covered in a thin film of mucus. Imagine going about your amphibious day in your own amphibious way. Imagine licking the side of the gutter where moss attracts flies. Imagine flicking your long tongue to eat the fly. Imagine being very grateful to have satiated a little hunger. Imagine relief as you survive another day avoiding the huge local rat.
And imagine seeing a prostitute’s earring float past your nose. Imagine it reminding you that you are no ordinary amphibian. It reminds you that there is a story behind the earring and that you must investigate further. It reminds you of your role. You obtain the earring with a flick of your sticky tongue. When the cheap alloy touches your tongue you are able to connect with it’s source. You feel anger at the plight of the prostitute. Such anger and sadness causes a momentary blip in the metaphysical structure of the universe- (at least the bit around Leith) and the ground starts to shake. You run as fast as your slimy body allows, earring in mouth and you arrive at the scene of the crime. You are a supernatural metaphysical salamander. You have special powers. Humans will soon ken you for your tail-regrowing prowess, virgin birthing and lungless powers, but tonight you have even more to offer...
You see a drunken man slumped on the ground regaining consciousness. You see a woman standing over him with a knife. You drop the earring!
“Don’t do it!” you shout at her.
Lindsay turns around and drops the dagger. It clanks to the ground. No one around.
I’ll spare you the Stuart Little moment where a human being comes to terms with a talking creature. All you need to know now that Lindsay is having a conversation with the Salamander.
The Salamander speaks (on his hind legs and with his sticky palms together as if to pray).
“This is Proteus, old man of the sea who tends the seals of Posiedon. I can shape shift to any shape I choose, and I thank the gods for the salamander option, full as it is of miracles, but tonight I call on Lord Posiedon to shape shift not I, but this man before me! Make him rattus by your power, so I may deal with him agreeably.”
And it was so. Galloway became a rat. A dazed drunk rat. We’ll skip the bit about Lindsay being stunned at this, it was becoming just another day of miracles.
The Salamander (lets call him Proteus now) continued his prayer.
“I now call on the Salamander who goes by the name Waterdog, and the Salamander who goes by the name Mudpuppy to manifest themselves here to eat Galloway the rat and have him sin no longer and to have Leith’s whores sleep easier at night.”
A surge of compassion entered Lindsay’s heart causing her to blea “Dinnae kill him Proteus!!!”
Proteus looked stunned “But that’s what you were going to do! I am just doing the deed so it’s not on your conscience”
But as they were arguing, Galloway the rat woke from his daze and realised he was now a rodent, still full of drink and hungry now. He would eat that slimy thing in front of him. Just then, he lunged into Proteus’s tail, who kicked in his supernatural skill of autotomy- dislocated it, and began to scarper.
Waterdog and Mudpuppy arrived and the three of them cowered behind a stone.
Proteus was stressed. “Now what are we going to do? Posiedon is going to be pissed off if we don’t carry out the deed. He hates having his power misused.”
“I have an idea,” grinned Waterdog. “If we can get the whore to hold Galloway the rat on his back, we could just maim him a little so it will put him off troubling these street lasses again.”
“Lindsay! Grab the rat, put him on his back!!!” She did as told. “Hold him down!” screamed proteus, and she managed to do so.
As she held him down, Galloway’s tail lashing around, Waterdog instructed the other two salamanders.
“Mudpuppy, you take the right testicle, I’ll take the left. Proteus, only you can take the penis. We bite off his organs and get Posiedon to make him human again to suffer out his punishment.”
“OK Salamanders, lets do it!” and they all did a high-five in a precursor to what became known as the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in the 1980s. I might have gone too far at this point. I mean no disrespect.
Galloway the rat screamed, howled and bawled and screamed some more as the amphibians tore at his groin. And then it was over.
The Salamanders ate and digested the anger, transmuted it, absorbed it, contained it. Lindsay let go. Galloway the rat was wincing.
Proteus then stood on his hind quarters once more, sticky palms pressed together.
“Lord Posiedon, by your power Galloway has been emasculated. We now ask to have him turned back into a man and banished from these parts forever.”
And it was so.
Galloway was no longer a rat but was now a man- without genitals. And from that day on he repented his sins and was accepted into the priesthood where he lived close to Rosslyn chapel before they bollocksed the whole thing up in the Da Vinci Code. Meanwhile, Lindsay’s bairn grew up to look after mum and become something called a naturalist or a new word- biologist and learned about natural miracles.
Today, some will not know why the image of a salamander comes to them. Why it enters one’s life.
When dogs in Leith bark longer and louder- and Lothian and Borders police get reports of alarms going off in factories and warehouses and they'll put it down to a tremor because we get earthquakes all the time in the uk, we just don't know it. But it is because the Salamander is working for good, and is enraged, this causes the ground to shake.
If you spend time with a prostitute from Leith, you may find a tattoo on her body of a flat oval face and six external gills. Women- and Men- of the street, wear these marks as protectors now. You can find the image on chains round the neck, on the skin,- even on the inside of a cheek. I have no idea if it is effective.
Chris Dooks
Some ignore salamander prophecies.
A mother puts it down to childish play when her child barks "Mummy, today is when the salamander arrives..."
An Alzheimers patient mutters something about the salamander arriving, but the porter just thinks it's that mad old bitch again.
A guy with learning disabilities will simply say "Amanda" because he cannot say "Sal-amander" and his carer will assume it's the name of someone off the telly or an auntie or something. But these people are prophets.
This is why the notion of the salamander, the patron saint of prostitutes often goes unseen. Signs are ignored. Even naming Leith’s nortorious kerb crawling boulevard Salamander Street did little to highlight the amphibian saviour of whores. But it is no coincidence that prostitutes still use a street with salamander pedigree.
Incidently, the term kerb crawling does not come from the speed of the car slowing down to engage with prostitutes. In dirty streets, salamanders would hang around the drains, ‘crawling the kerb’ so to speak- and these were usually the kind of dangerous streets where prostitutes plied their trade, hence it stuck...
Salamanders. Mind-blowing. Paradigm shifting amphibians, dwelling in water, land or both. Species diversity is so varied it’s hard to tell if they are all the same genus. Google the Mexican albino Axylotl (which a friend claims looks like a dead man’s penis) for the cutest one.
Holy scriptures fail to mention that salamanders have supernatural skills at least as astonishing as Biblical miracles- if not more so. This begs the question why don’t we hold the consummate book ‘Newts and Salamanders of Europe’ by Richard A Griffiths up as scripture?
Pay attention to these top three salamander facts before middle America says I made it all up, reverses evolutionary research for good- and bans amphibian exposés like this.
In at number three. Many salamanders breathe without lungs in both juvenile and adult state. External gills like pink feather boas allow them to receive oxygen. No need to inhale or exhale like other crude wheezy creatures.
Holding steady at two. Other salamanders display ‘autotomy’- the ability to discard part of one’s body when attacked, such as a wriggling tail, distracting a confused predator. Jesus may heal lepers but only a handful of creatures can shrug their shoulders and say “yeh, but see what I can do.” Contact prophet Attenborough for proof.
For the second millenia! Still at number one! Perhaps the Virgin Mary was a Salamander. Perhaps her name was really Sally-Amanda, for some salamanders parthenogenesize- meaning they can reproduce without the sperm coming into contact with the egg. In other words, they can have virgin births. The offspring are clones of their mothers.
Anyway. Leith, Scotland 1794.
Lindsay Seafield, a tough wee hoor, toils with violent despicable clients – especially those of cloth like ex-Reverend Iain Galloway.
Galloway appeared before Leith Parish Council to appeal against his excommunicating from the church after some other scandal with a local woman of ill repute. The Parish rejected his plea.
Displacing personal anger and shame onto prostitutes, he felt whores had already gone to hell anyway- so what’s the harm in a little fun? So, filled with drink and adrenaline after staying awake for days, he staggered down a slimy passage that would one day become Salamander Street, bawling for “whores to end his bores.”
Because Lindsay had a wee bairn, she’d developed essential bottle to cope with the most neandethal of men. Such was her insight of blunt testosterone, there was almost a thin streak of compassion in the air when she serviced clients. Almost.
Galloway paid well, but he expected total cooperation for acts that left women worse than dead. Acts the church shrouded. Lindsay both challenged Galloway’s tastes and allowed him to indulge them- within ‘reason.’ He would, for example, make Lindsay weep over his feet and then dry the tears with her hair.
“Ah wan nun o yer mischeif the nee’ Galloway, Ah’ve hud a hard day an nought tae show. Ach, could ye huv no had a wash at least? Jesus, what’llit be?”
He scowled at her- “A kiss from they lips” (Galloway had a habit of asphixiating women by kissing them full on the mouth and holding the nose).
“You ken ah dinnae kiss Galloway. You ken dae whit yer will bit nae lips”
“Ah’ll pay mair ferra kiss and thit’s it. Ahm rich.” (It was rumored that the kirk had given him money to keep quiet about his indescritions)
“Nae kiss”
“Gisssa kiss wee bitch.” Galloway pinned her arms to the wall preventing her from reaching a knife stuffed beneath her bodice.
“Aye, aye, aye git affa me soas I kin dae it right”
Usually this tactic worked. Show no fear and hint that it would be more pleasurable if he followed suit, but Galloway sussed cod-psychology.
“You’ll nae run fae me the neet”- he shook her against the wall. An earring fell out, dropped in the gutter and floated down the street.
“Ah’m nae kissing ye if ye dinnae let go I cannae”
He relished causing her steely bravado to slip, tearing through her blouse- but she competently booted him in the bollocks. As he recoilled, she was able to let out a whelp and grabbed a bottle from the gutter, crushing it on his skull.
She freed the dagger from her bodice. She wasn’t going to kill him, more... maim him perhaps- maybe emancipate his stinking manhood from the loins and toss it in the gutter?
Now.
Take your mind to gutter level. Imagine a small amphibian covered in a thin film of mucus. Imagine going about your amphibious day in your own amphibious way. Imagine licking the side of the gutter where moss attracts flies. Imagine flicking your long tongue to eat the fly. Imagine being very grateful to have satiated a little hunger. Imagine relief as you survive another day avoiding the huge local rat.
And imagine seeing a prostitute’s earring float past your nose. Imagine it reminding you that you are no ordinary amphibian. It reminds you that there is a story behind the earring and that you must investigate further. It reminds you of your role. You obtain the earring with a flick of your sticky tongue. When the cheap alloy touches your tongue you are able to connect with it’s source. You feel anger at the plight of the prostitute. Such anger and sadness causes a momentary blip in the metaphysical structure of the universe- (at least the bit around Leith) and the ground starts to shake. You run as fast as your slimy body allows, earring in mouth and you arrive at the scene of the crime. You are a supernatural metaphysical salamander. You have special powers. Humans will soon ken you for your tail-regrowing prowess, virgin birthing and lungless powers, but tonight you have even more to offer...
You see a drunken man slumped on the ground regaining consciousness. You see a woman standing over him with a knife. You drop the earring!
“Don’t do it!” you shout at her.
Lindsay turns around and drops the dagger. It clanks to the ground. No one around.
I’ll spare you the Stuart Little moment where a human being comes to terms with a talking creature. All you need to know now that Lindsay is having a conversation with the Salamander.
The Salamander speaks (on his hind legs and with his sticky palms together as if to pray).
“This is Proteus, old man of the sea who tends the seals of Posiedon. I can shape shift to any shape I choose, and I thank the gods for the salamander option, full as it is of miracles, but tonight I call on Lord Posiedon to shape shift not I, but this man before me! Make him rattus by your power, so I may deal with him agreeably.”
And it was so. Galloway became a rat. A dazed drunk rat. We’ll skip the bit about Lindsay being stunned at this, it was becoming just another day of miracles.
The Salamander (lets call him Proteus now) continued his prayer.
“I now call on the Salamander who goes by the name Waterdog, and the Salamander who goes by the name Mudpuppy to manifest themselves here to eat Galloway the rat and have him sin no longer and to have Leith’s whores sleep easier at night.”
A surge of compassion entered Lindsay’s heart causing her to blea “Dinnae kill him Proteus!!!”
Proteus looked stunned “But that’s what you were going to do! I am just doing the deed so it’s not on your conscience”
But as they were arguing, Galloway the rat woke from his daze and realised he was now a rodent, still full of drink and hungry now. He would eat that slimy thing in front of him. Just then, he lunged into Proteus’s tail, who kicked in his supernatural skill of autotomy- dislocated it, and began to scarper.
Waterdog and Mudpuppy arrived and the three of them cowered behind a stone.
Proteus was stressed. “Now what are we going to do? Posiedon is going to be pissed off if we don’t carry out the deed. He hates having his power misused.”
“I have an idea,” grinned Waterdog. “If we can get the whore to hold Galloway the rat on his back, we could just maim him a little so it will put him off troubling these street lasses again.”
“Lindsay! Grab the rat, put him on his back!!!” She did as told. “Hold him down!” screamed proteus, and she managed to do so.
As she held him down, Galloway’s tail lashing around, Waterdog instructed the other two salamanders.
“Mudpuppy, you take the right testicle, I’ll take the left. Proteus, only you can take the penis. We bite off his organs and get Posiedon to make him human again to suffer out his punishment.”
“OK Salamanders, lets do it!” and they all did a high-five in a precursor to what became known as the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in the 1980s. I might have gone too far at this point. I mean no disrespect.
Galloway the rat screamed, howled and bawled and screamed some more as the amphibians tore at his groin. And then it was over.
The Salamanders ate and digested the anger, transmuted it, absorbed it, contained it. Lindsay let go. Galloway the rat was wincing.
Proteus then stood on his hind quarters once more, sticky palms pressed together.
“Lord Posiedon, by your power Galloway has been emasculated. We now ask to have him turned back into a man and banished from these parts forever.”
And it was so.
Galloway was no longer a rat but was now a man- without genitals. And from that day on he repented his sins and was accepted into the priesthood where he lived close to Rosslyn chapel before they bollocksed the whole thing up in the Da Vinci Code. Meanwhile, Lindsay’s bairn grew up to look after mum and become something called a naturalist or a new word- biologist and learned about natural miracles.
Today, some will not know why the image of a salamander comes to them. Why it enters one’s life.
When dogs in Leith bark longer and louder- and Lothian and Borders police get reports of alarms going off in factories and warehouses and they'll put it down to a tremor because we get earthquakes all the time in the uk, we just don't know it. But it is because the Salamander is working for good, and is enraged, this causes the ground to shake.
If you spend time with a prostitute from Leith, you may find a tattoo on her body of a flat oval face and six external gills. Women- and Men- of the street, wear these marks as protectors now. You can find the image on chains round the neck, on the skin,- even on the inside of a cheek. I have no idea if it is effective.
The Manatee's Orgasm
The Manatee's Orgasm
Chris Dooks
Oh Dear. A six-hundred and seventy-seven pound female manatee* lodged itself in a swimming pool flume in Sea World, Florida.
This particular flume (a fun twisty tube with running water!) had been nicknamed "ski jump" because it projectile vomited children from it's opening at a sharp angle like a winter olympic sport.
The manatee had swum from it’s compound through a malfunctioning gate to a holding pool. From here, she vaulted over to the children's pool complex, surviving both chlorine and clouds of child pee.
Marine Biologist Dr Edward Piphany claimed the situation arose because this particular manatee had an extremely rare genetic gift- or curse! He claimed our manatee, or "Sea Cow," suffered from "aquaticus perpetuus voluptarius," which roughly means "perpetual orgasm by water."
Sea Cows have advanced sexual organs that can be stimulated by sea kelp forests in warm coastal waters. With the right currents, a manatee's orgasm can easily last up to seventy-two hours. But in some manatees, a rare gene mutation means they risk becoming "locked" in orgasm, spending much of their life burdened by bliss.
Leading biologists have risked personal reputations by stating a thesis- that some manatees actually commit suicide because the pleasure centres of their brains are overloaded by constant sexual ecstasy. Apparently, our manatee intended to throw herself from the 100 ft high flume platform. Dr Piphany claimed that the flume-blockage-by-manatee was in fact a botched suicide attempt.
There was, however, a counter-claim that famously blew up into an argument on US show 60 minutes. Dr Piphany's nemesis, Dr Emma C’Pation stated “the manatee had actually ceased to orgasm, immediately going into cold turkey. Like an addict, the creature had severe cravings, located the nearby flume’s rushing water, and hence made a Herculean break for it.”
Either way, once out of it’s compound, the creature shunted up the fifty eight steps to the ski jump flume- no mean feat for a ball of blubber and flipper- and flopped** into the flume opening to the slack-jawed amazement of children and advancing security staff.
Sea World staff decided they wouldn't saw the flume tube as the vibration and noise would stress the poor creature to death. Instead, at 3.45pm (when manatee sexual hormones are at their lowest), they decided to flush her out by diverting the water supply from all other flumes to the blocked one. Like a champagne cork, the pressure eventually shifted the huge beast, popping her out of the ski jump at an amazing speed, so much so that she crash landed onto the beach, just short of the water, and sadly perished.
There are 19 reported accounts of the flying manatee. Martina Lopez who runs the hot dog stand on the sea front said our manatee groaned “a super-sigh” as she arced over the Florida skyline, smiling her way to a glorious little death on the pebbles and sand.
The body is now preserved by Sea World and is on show in the museum. If you are in the area and fancy a giggle, just listen to how parents explain to children this story, describing "a perpetual aquatic orgasm!" to enquiring minds.
* A manatee is bit like a walrus but with a more aesthetically poignant shape and a veggie diet.
** No Running, No Heavy Petting, No Bellyflops
Chris Dooks
Oh Dear. A six-hundred and seventy-seven pound female manatee* lodged itself in a swimming pool flume in Sea World, Florida.
This particular flume (a fun twisty tube with running water!) had been nicknamed "ski jump" because it projectile vomited children from it's opening at a sharp angle like a winter olympic sport.
The manatee had swum from it’s compound through a malfunctioning gate to a holding pool. From here, she vaulted over to the children's pool complex, surviving both chlorine and clouds of child pee.
Marine Biologist Dr Edward Piphany claimed the situation arose because this particular manatee had an extremely rare genetic gift- or curse! He claimed our manatee, or "Sea Cow," suffered from "aquaticus perpetuus voluptarius," which roughly means "perpetual orgasm by water."
Sea Cows have advanced sexual organs that can be stimulated by sea kelp forests in warm coastal waters. With the right currents, a manatee's orgasm can easily last up to seventy-two hours. But in some manatees, a rare gene mutation means they risk becoming "locked" in orgasm, spending much of their life burdened by bliss.
Leading biologists have risked personal reputations by stating a thesis- that some manatees actually commit suicide because the pleasure centres of their brains are overloaded by constant sexual ecstasy. Apparently, our manatee intended to throw herself from the 100 ft high flume platform. Dr Piphany claimed that the flume-blockage-by-manatee was in fact a botched suicide attempt.
There was, however, a counter-claim that famously blew up into an argument on US show 60 minutes. Dr Piphany's nemesis, Dr Emma C’Pation stated “the manatee had actually ceased to orgasm, immediately going into cold turkey. Like an addict, the creature had severe cravings, located the nearby flume’s rushing water, and hence made a Herculean break for it.”
Either way, once out of it’s compound, the creature shunted up the fifty eight steps to the ski jump flume- no mean feat for a ball of blubber and flipper- and flopped** into the flume opening to the slack-jawed amazement of children and advancing security staff.
Sea World staff decided they wouldn't saw the flume tube as the vibration and noise would stress the poor creature to death. Instead, at 3.45pm (when manatee sexual hormones are at their lowest), they decided to flush her out by diverting the water supply from all other flumes to the blocked one. Like a champagne cork, the pressure eventually shifted the huge beast, popping her out of the ski jump at an amazing speed, so much so that she crash landed onto the beach, just short of the water, and sadly perished.
There are 19 reported accounts of the flying manatee. Martina Lopez who runs the hot dog stand on the sea front said our manatee groaned “a super-sigh” as she arced over the Florida skyline, smiling her way to a glorious little death on the pebbles and sand.
The body is now preserved by Sea World and is on show in the museum. If you are in the area and fancy a giggle, just listen to how parents explain to children this story, describing "a perpetual aquatic orgasm!" to enquiring minds.
* A manatee is bit like a walrus but with a more aesthetically poignant shape and a veggie diet.
** No Running, No Heavy Petting, No Bellyflops
Monday, January 15, 2007
The Signet Ring
The loanshark's signet ring is kind of a lord of the rings satire in miniature - you can't take your wealth with you and this is the most pointless of all wealth. Maybe the whole story centres around this element. In a metaphysical swimming pool. Maybe he can be born again in the swimming pool. Surrounded by jeering kids at first and then by Buddhist monks or something.
Not all loan sharks can swim
Not all loan sharks can swim.
They might give the impression they do, what with being hard bastards and all, but when it’s their turn to be in at the deep end and out of their depth, they just flap their water-wings, sploshing around like drowning puppies.
“Your signet ring is weighing you down!” I shout, “you know, the signet ring you bought with my mum’s tears – it’s weighing you down!”
Then I add “That fat gold chain is dragging you under! – the one you bought when you doubled her interest rate just because you felt like it, with a credit agreement written on the back of an envelope!”
“Can I what? – I can’t hear you, you are splashing too violently! It must be the bullion in your back pocket, if you jettison it, you might float back to the surface…oops! too late” I add quietly…
They might give the impression they do, what with being hard bastards and all, but when it’s their turn to be in at the deep end and out of their depth, they just flap their water-wings, sploshing around like drowning puppies.
“Your signet ring is weighing you down!” I shout, “you know, the signet ring you bought with my mum’s tears – it’s weighing you down!”
Then I add “That fat gold chain is dragging you under! – the one you bought when you doubled her interest rate just because you felt like it, with a credit agreement written on the back of an envelope!”
“Can I what? – I can’t hear you, you are splashing too violently! It must be the bullion in your back pocket, if you jettison it, you might float back to the surface…oops! too late” I add quietly…
The Bluebottle and The Tunnel of Love
Before I worked as a loan shark (I prefer the term debt investor) I had no stomach problems at all. Women liked me but when I started the job it was difficult to be honest about what I did, so, to fend off loneliness, I tried a bizarre speed dating launch in the grounds of a castle just outside Glasgow.
The organisers had constructed a roof round the castle moat and covered it over with fairy lights making a kitsch Tunnel of Love. It was fancy dress, which I normally hate, and not appropriate for a hard bastard like me, but I thought I had chosen a good angry costume, which was that of a blue bottle.
We were all paired up as couples, and I ended up with a sexy Spider Woman, who lived up to her reputation, but let me tell you why it didn't come to fruition. I initially thought this was going to go spectacularly well! She was very forward. We must have looked hilarious. so, on our little rowing boat Spider Woman and Bluebottle were on a date.
But when she asked me what I did for a living, this was the beginning of my gastric problems, for I started to feel very nauseous. This was amplified by the fact I couldn't swim. So I told her I was in investment banking which wasn't a lie, but I felt my lunch bubble in my guts. As we charted our craft around the moat, she was attentive and wonderful as you'd expect, but I was gonna be sick.
And sure enough, I threw up all over the side of the boat. But that's not all. I fell in. And the weight of my costume was dragging me underwater, surrounded by my own vomit. Add to this, this loan shark couldn't swim.
The organisers had constructed a roof round the castle moat and covered it over with fairy lights making a kitsch Tunnel of Love. It was fancy dress, which I normally hate, and not appropriate for a hard bastard like me, but I thought I had chosen a good angry costume, which was that of a blue bottle.
We were all paired up as couples, and I ended up with a sexy Spider Woman, who lived up to her reputation, but let me tell you why it didn't come to fruition. I initially thought this was going to go spectacularly well! She was very forward. We must have looked hilarious. so, on our little rowing boat Spider Woman and Bluebottle were on a date.
But when she asked me what I did for a living, this was the beginning of my gastric problems, for I started to feel very nauseous. This was amplified by the fact I couldn't swim. So I told her I was in investment banking which wasn't a lie, but I felt my lunch bubble in my guts. As we charted our craft around the moat, she was attentive and wonderful as you'd expect, but I was gonna be sick.
And sure enough, I threw up all over the side of the boat. But that's not all. I fell in. And the weight of my costume was dragging me underwater, surrounded by my own vomit. Add to this, this loan shark couldn't swim.
Quote from Top Gear
The interior of the vehicle is full of all sorts of material from the far end of the periodic table.
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