Posted tagged ‘Bizzare’

It’s going to be a H2O Halloween

October 27, 2013

Halloween. A time of the year when everyone has a license to thrill by dressing up. Previously, guisers only decked out in ghoulish garb as befit’s the pagan festival that is the dark heart of Halloween. Now you can go to a party dressed as Bob the builder or Lady Ga Ga.

men-s-napoleon-costume

sexy-viking-costume

Our household and close family observe the ritual of Halloween by having a party with all the rites associated with the day/night. Dooking for apples is a treat that even the grown-ups enjoy. Of course, after the event we don’t eat the apples we convert them into cider using home made techniques. Waste not, want not and all that.

This year it was suggested at a recent family meeting that the forthcoming party should be a fancy dress occasion. Sane minds had left the room and the motion was passed. Now it was every man, woman and child for himself, or herself, whatever the anatomy may be. Conversation was in whispers as no one wanted to reveal what would be their costume. This level of secrecy could mean that two Barbarellas might turn up. Too bad. Or too good depending on who was wearing the outfit. If you know what I mean.

Nonetheless, the die was cast and the cast departed to put their thinking caps on. The party had now turned in to a competition to see who could have the best fancy dress. My thinking cap went into over the top mode. Immediately, obvious guises were binned. Cowboys are old hat and I’m too tall to be a Stormtrooper(sic). Something special was required. I surfed the internet looking for ideas. Nothing hit me until it hit me that it was staring me right me in the face. A surfer.

All I need to be a surfer is a surfboard and a pair of budgie smugglers.

silver surferI considered the idea of being the Silver Surfer but discarded it as I’ve seen Goldfinger and know what happens when you cover your complete body with paint. No gold or silver for me I will bronze myself up to win first prize.

With the party scheduled at a relative’s house only days away I can hardly wait to spring my entrance. The surfboard is going to bring the house down. How good is it going to be at a party with a surfboard? I won’t need a taxi, I’ll just surf along the wet pavement, absorbing all the admiration I’m getting from the skateboarders and roller skaters.

Then when I get there the mayhem can begin. Buzz Lightyear will have a job dooking out an apple but I can just jump in the basin with my board and splash those apples out. This might ruin the game but hey, surfs up.

Music will be playing and where there’s music there’s dancers. The other dancers will be in mortal danger when I surf onto the dance floor. The rocking board will sweep everyone off their feet. For the slosh I’ll pick my board up and hold it under my arm. When it’s time to turn I’ll wipe out half the village. So there goes Rambo, Ginger Spice and Hannibal Lecter to name a few.

The surfboard could double up as a huge tray and carry drinks and food to various parts of the room. Balancing the board could be tricky with the end result being inevitable spillage. Wonder Woman wouldn’t look so hot with sauce all down her front and Tarzan, well, he’s just wet.

Wish me luck.

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Soup

August 4, 2013

Hector had reservations about the upcoming dinner date with his eccentric friend, Jasper. Just humour him, said mutual acquaintances, and all will be well. Fine as that advice was, the dinner with Jasper was going to be a long, embarrassing occasion. Hector had to go, it was his turn in the rotation policy of their unit to play along with the madcap antics of an old friend.

The two friends embraced on the steps of the Astoria restaurant. So far, so normal thought Hector. After signing in they were led to their seats. A waiter appeared and mimed holding a bottle of wine. He said.

“Would you two gentlemen like a little wine before you order.”

“Yes, that would be great, old boy.” answered Jasper.

Putting the bottle on the table the waiter produced an imaginary corkscrew from his pocket which he inserted into the cork. Twisting his hand he made a popping sound with his mouth then lifted the bottle and poured Jasper a drink into an imaginary glass.

“When.” Jasper raised his hand to stop the pouring. The waiter then poured Hector a drink. Hector looked on exasperated. The waiter kept pouring then hesitated and looked at Jasper before pouring more tentatively.

“You’re going to need a bigger glass.” said Jasper. The waiter stopped pouring then walked off looking over his shoulder at Hector with an angry frown. Jasper picked up his phantom glass and took a healthy slug then smacked his lips in a satisfied manner.

After a short while they ordered their meals and normality resumed with mature conversation. Hector hoped that the little aberration early in the evening was going to be the only peculiar event of the meal. Although, Jasper was continually taking sips from his nonexistent glass.

The waiter came over with their starters: two bowls of soup. These two bowls of soup were invisible. Jasper lifted his soup spoon and delved into an imaginary bowl of broth.

“Tuck in Hector, before it gets cold.” said Jasper while breaking imaginary bread into his soup and stirring the intangible liquid.

Hector surveyed the room. No one seemed to be bothering about the strange goings-on at their table. And although all the patrons were eating real food, and a neighbour even gave him a friendly smile, there was nothing to suggest anything out of the ordinary was happening. I can’t believe I’m going to do this, said Hector to himself. He picked up his spoon and slowly scooped up some imaginary soup.

“Whoa, Hector, you’re spilling some.” said Jasper with a little grin on his face. The grin of a pantomime villain.

The first course successfully navigated the next three followed the same ritual. They were pretend eating. Jasper and the waiter both acted completely natural as if nothing was amiss. Humouring him, Hector also played along, receiving a lot of barbs from Jasper along the way.

-I hate it when you scrape your knife along the plate
-Wipe your chin, Hector, it’s full of sauce
-Try some of this banana fritter, here, take this piece on my spoon. Don’t worry, I’ve no germs

Hector was almost tempted to fight fire with fire and hit back with a choice cut of his own. He resisted as he didn’t want the insanity to be infectious and thought that all in all this was not too bad a gig compared to what the others endured. The only annoying thing was that Jasper kept ordering more wine and then acted as if blind drunk. So much so that the waiter came over and gently ushered Jasper outside to an idling taxi.

Phew, thought Hector, thank heavens that’s me back at the end of the rotation. Just as he was about to leave he could see that the charade was not over yet as the waiter appeared with a, more than likely, imaginary bill. But no, it was a real receipt and it was handed to Hector.

“One hundred and eighteen pounds and forty pence!” exclaimed Hector.

“That’s correct, sir. Excluding, of course, the tip.”

Luftwaffe descending

August 26, 2012

It was my birthday. My wife always had a surprise gift for me on my birthday. She told me to close my eyes and she led me up the garden path. When we reached the frontline she said “you can open your goggles now” and dangled a set of keys in front of me. There, parked on the driveway was a Messerschmitt 109. Just what I’ve always wanted.

“Danke.” I said to her.

“Well go on, take it for a tailspin.” she said.

Leaping into the cockpit I searched for the slot for the ignition key. There didn’t seem to be any. The control panel had a mind-boggling array of switches, dials and buttons. I grabbed the steering wheel and pulled it back the way. A roar grunted from the engines. Chocs away, way-hay.

I turned into the road, managing to avoid hitting any of the military topiary figures my Polish neighbour had cut into the hedge. I was particularly wary of the air to surface missile shaped decoration but the Me-109 manoeuvred past the obstacles. We hit the road running, powering along the tarmac.

Gaining altitude was a problem as no matter what I tried I couldn’t get off the ground. I put the flaps down, I put the flaps up, I shook the flaps all about. I pulled levers, I pushed levers, I left levers alone. I shouted at the controls, I caressed the controls, I pleaded with the controls still we were kissing the asphalt. The altimeter read: 0 MSL (mean Sea Level). This meant we were level with the sea. Down here with the ants the clouds seemed so far away.

Then I had a fuselage moment. Fuselage! I remembered I once played flight Simulator on the Spectrum ZX console. I hoped I could use this experience of flying to pilot the plane into the skies. Trouble was there was no QWERTY keyboard on the dashboard. There was no shift/control and up/down buttons to push. And no space bar for cruising. Of course, I had forgotten that the Spectrum ZX was an obsolete format and not as modern as the Messerschmitt 109, for Focke-Wulf.

The next problem was an everyday one. I was approaching a red light. I could have taken a cyclists mentality and steered through were it not for the fact that a little old granny was crossing with her wheelie bag. Where’s the brakes, where’s the brakes, where’s the brakes, I rat-a-at-tatted for all I was worth. There was nothing else for it but to stick one of my legs outside the cockpit onto the road and use it as a brake. My shoe was burning rubber. Friction forces were slowing the fighter plane down but not nearly enough. The lights and the granny were upon us. She was shouting something about “boy racers” and disappeared under my wing. Checking the mirror I could see she had survived. She was saved by her stoop.

Onwards and upwards, though not literally, I flew along the street.

Mein Gott! Up ahead was something very rarely encountered today as it has its roots in the medieval age of chivalry. A fraulein in distress.
She wasn’t tied to the tracks of a railroad though she was in some discomfort. A beautiful young lady wearing a tight T-shirt and a mini-skirt was lying down on the ground holding her shapely thigh as if hurt. Her helplessness made an appeal to my gentleman courtesy. I parked the Messerschmitt into a tree.

“Guten tag, have you broken your leg, Madame?” I asked.

“Only a nail when I scraped it on the kerb. It’s all Hans fault. He owes me big time. This better be worth it” she remarked.

“I don’t understand.” Suddenly, from the bushes emerged the aforesaid Hans with a gun in his hand, a Luger if I’m not mistaken. He was smelling of cologne. It was overpowering, I couldn’t resist. Hans gesticulated for me to sit down. As scent rises this was a good thing.

Hans and, I don’t know her name, Gretel or something jumped into the Me-109’s cockpit closing the canopy behind them. She was going on and on about her broken nail. I felt sorry for Hans. One quick reverse from the tree, a burst from the engines, a swift exit down the makeshift runway, a lifting of the undercarriage and they were airborne. Hans knew his stuff. This wasn’t good for me. I had been carjacked.

Trusting in the local constabulary I phoned the police outlining the details of the crime not overlooking the fact it was my birthday to which I received a many happy returns greeting, thank you very much. Much mirth was going on in the background as I narrated my tale of woe of the stolen Messerschmitt. I overheard one officer quip “the Red Baron has been the victim of a honey trap.” another said “Did he lose a dogfight?” I hung up on them.

Stranded as I was in no-man’s land I had to get home somehow; there was a big party planned for me tonight. Not being a larcenist I would not copy the German stunt of Grand Theft auto. Hitchhiking is a safer option. I could hear a rumbling from around the corner making the ground shake. We weren’t on a fault line, why are the Teutonic Plates moving?
Karl Heinz Rummenigge! Looming into sight was a Tiger tank. That was what I wanted for Christmas.

“World war 4 will be fought with sticks and stones”

October 27, 2011

While peering out the rear window I noticed that a minor mishap had befallen my neighbour with his automobile. As it was a cold morning he decided to warm up his car and started the engine. Running into his house to fetch a coat when he returned he noticed the central locks had come down; he was locked out. Unfortunately, he told me before that he did not have a spare key. Luckily, he had “breakdown” cover and presumably that was who he was phoning. I watched Paul go inside and settle himself down near the window in his lounge.

Paul was a nice young man finding his way in the world. He would know better next time to buy a car that had two keys as part of the deal and one that doesn’t have a faulty locking system. The worst thing wrong with his car, for me, was that it was green. This “go green” nonsense has never washed with me. An hour passed before the breakdown engineer arrived. Paul went out to meet him. I spied through the blinds.

A few minutes chit-chat between the rescuer and the stranded one ensued. The engineer went back to his vehicle. I heightened in my room eager to know what modern instrument would be used to help my distressed neighbour. What sort of implement could pry the lock? Would it be an unusually structured piece of metal or perhaps, some kind of magnetic device?

The engineer reappeared with a coat hanger. He bended the hook to 180°
and picked the lock like a common car thief.

Tidal Wave

July 25, 2010

(Warning: The following tale has been nominated for a bad sex in fiction blog award. Reader discretion is advised as the plot is not much better)

It was a great afternoon session. Pints after pint of Furstenberg’s were going down the hatch in the lusty bar that soaked with Teutonic testosterone. Boris was enjoying this lunchtime tipple and had held fast to one of his father’s dictums: Go to the loo only when it’s really due. The reasoning being, your first visit is a starter for ten. Everyone else had relieved themselves bar Boris when it was time to leave.

Some of the party made a detour into the bookmakers for a quick punt. Boris gambled on Leek Soup in the big race. The gelding pulled up lame as the basin that was Boris’s bladder began to irritate. He willed away the notion to urinate as one pee will lead to another and he had no time for a flood as he had to go back to work in his office block.

The friendly doorman always conversed with Boris and today was no different. The guard spoke about the dribbling skills of Littbarski as Boris hopped from one foot to the other in a fake impersonation of the bow-legged footballer, then he reminisced of the swimming ability of Michael Gross.
“He splashed the water like an albatross.”
Boris crossed his legs and gripped his flies anxious to be relieved of any more small talk. At a stroke the postman arrived and Boris seized the advantage to flee.

Now encumbered with bulging bladder and bursting appendage Boris bounded to the toilet to be greeted by an out of order sign. At that moment he heard the noise of a floor cleaning machine being switched off. Turning round the corner in the desperate throes of agony he saw the cleaning lady, Minnie in a pinny, and a startling metamorphosis took place in his loins. For ages he had wanted to get this woman alone and have a rally with her. He knew she knew he wanted her and she knew that he knew that she knew this. This was their chance for consummation.

A broom cupboard happened to be situated on this landing and they entered with their tongues locked in a stringed saliva kiss clinch. He whipped off her pinny and she whipped out his racquet. The engorged Boris was caught in a cataclysmic dilemma and wondered if it were possible for one type of fluid to bypass the other as his urinal tract screamed “man the lifeboats”.

“I don’t want a love child. Take this.” Minnie handed Boris a rubber cleaning glove. “Pick a finger.”

While Boris mulled over the choice of thumb option or forefinger Minnie wrung out a wet mop that was in the cupboard. The trickling water pushed Boris to breaking point and he seeded a bright yellow stream into the mop pail. Boris’s biblical starter for ten was unrelenting and put the pinniless Minnie in a Paxman mood. “Hurry up.” Soon bored with waiting Minnie went back to buffing the floor.

There’s a psychic in the kitchen

July 2, 2010

For as long as he could remember Basil Table-Manners had tried to predict the future. He was going round the bend trying to know what was around the corner. There was fame and fortune for famous fortune tellers.
  
He had tried most of the theories without success. The reading of tea leaves left him bone dry. The porcelain was pristine as Tetley tea bags don’t leak. The residue at the bottom of the mug was soggy digestive droppings and nobody reads much into them.

Looking for inspiration in the fridge, he found eggs. Taking six eggs Basil walked toward the hall mirror. I will read the signs in the decay, he said. He hurled the eggs at the looking glass and although they were free range he missed with one and hit the door.

The yolk and gloop dripped and congealed into an ugly Dorian Gray mush, making bizarre new landscapes with every slither of egg white. The augurs came upon Table-Manners auspiciously. And now enlightenment shined. The broken eggs had laid out, plain as bread, what would make his life better. From this day forth, he was to read The Guardian.

Wild celebration was put on hold as it dawned on him his wife would be home from work soon. Table-Manners saw dark visions of the future, a spouse as mad as mustard. He eyed the dishes in the sink and searched for the Fairy Liquid and rubber gloves.

Dei of the Jackal

May 7, 2010

This would be the Jackal’s most ambitious target to date or would it be a prey too far? The previous crimes had been so effectively perpetrated that the press were pressed to call them assassinations. He had now upped the stakes and the next man on the hit list was the Pope.

His last victim, Simon Cowell, with his plentiful security entourage gave the Jackal problems. However, as you’d expect, it was the high waisted trousers that Cowell wears that was the most challenging part of the assignment. The Pope is slightly better known and if the Jackal could pull this one off or more literally pull this one up, infamy forever would be his legacy.

The Jackal took extreme pride in his handiwork and his hand speed was that of a boxer. In the manner of all career criminals, gloves were the norm, although in the Jackal’s case this was for hygiene reasons. In this line of work you can come across some expelled waste residue. (more…)