Goodballoon's paunch

"Goodballoon! You're back!"
"Captain Goodballoon, if you don't mind." I said as I stepped from the gangplank of the HMS Krakatoa. The land felt strange beneath my feet; foreign and sordid. One of these was literally true, the other: figurative and sexy. She looked like she had when I had left eighteen months ago, although I hadn't remembered her being quite so pregnant.
"How was the war, my darling?" she breathed. "The papers are calling you a hero."
"The papers are only partially right, Helen. Sure, I'm a hero, but there are so many others too."
"None like you, Jasper."
"No, you're correct." She had been the light and love of my life. She had swept me off of my feet (figurative) back in 1937 in Paris when I was a slip of a lad. I was bright-eyed and naive, she was the charitable young woman that had relieved me of the dead weight of my virginity. It was like an albatross around my thighs and she cut the ropes and tugged it off. I loved everything about her: the gleam in her blue eyes, the bounce of her blonde hair, the way she smiled as I gave her the money for the services she performed.
"Jasper, it is so nice to see you. You have been gone so long." She smiled sweetly but meekly. Something was up.
"What is it, my dear?" I muttered.
"Don't mutter." she said.
"Sorry. It's something nasty I picked up in Singapore." It wasn't the only nasty thing I picked up in Singapore. My open sores would testify to that.
"I have something I need to tell you, Jasper. Now promise you won't be mad."
"I promise my dear." I spoke in earnest, unaware that those self-same open sores would help me on my way to insanity within six months.
"Jasper, I... we are having a baby." She blushed feintly as she said this. I was in shock. I had been away for a year and a half. I was not expecting this.
"Oh darling..." I was dizzy with a miz of happiness, error and antibiotics. "Oh darling, it will be the biggest baby in the World!"
"Yes! Yes!" she was giddy like a schoolgirl. Being thirteen she was giddy and a schoolgirl.
"Hold me, your majesty." I whispered as I squeezed her right royal frame.

Next week: It came after dark!

I don't know how long she'd been standing there, but her disgusted expression said it had been a while. I stood up, did up and tucked myself in, all the while trying to give the impression I hadn't meant to be doing what I was doing by tutting at my penis.
"Mr Goodballoon?" she said. I didn't want to commit.
"Maybe. Who's asking?"
"My name is Gretchen Mounten. My husband is Lance Mounten."
"The millionaire oil baron?" I asked, "Yeah, I'm Goodballoon." I'd probably jumped the gun a little at that. She smirked and looked me up and down, or maybe it was the other way around. I looked her up and down and smirked a little myself. We smirked a couple o' minutes more, our heads rocking up and down like the pump-jacks her husband owned. I took her in, or at least as far as you could take a broad of her size in. She had curves for two and she knew it.
"You like what you see, Mr Balloon?" she asked.
"It's Goodballoon, sweetheart." I hardballed. She wasn't getting me on the hook so easy. I'd known broads like her before. They always wanted one thing; when they realised I didn't have much of that thing, their attention wavered. I knew one who had actually asked after it the first time I met her. She drove straight off as soon as I described it. Rude, I'd call that.
"Sorry, Mr Goodballoon... or can I call you Jasper?"
"Let's keep it civil for now, Mrs Mounten. What can I do for you today?"
"It's my husband, Mr Goodballoon." She quivered slightly, her eyes darting to the floor. I followed them and realised house slippers with a suit is not the image I was after.
"Your old man? What of him?" I was getting sick of this phony act of hers. She wanted something and wouldn't ask for it. When I want something, I ask, like that time I wanted a spare tyre at the garage. "Can I have a tyre for my car?" I had asked.
"No." They had said, but at least I had asked. Anyway...
Mrs Mounten piped up.
"My husband... he's very much alive, Mr Goodballoon."
"Uh-huh. Good for him."
"Well that's my point: I want him dead." I looked her hard in the eye as her baby-blues drilled straight back at me. What the hell was she thinking? Why me? Why now? This broad was something else. Her bust was something else again. At that moment the door to the bathroom swung open. A figure stood in the doorway eyeing us suspiciously.
"You two gonna be long, I need to clean the cubicles before four?" she said. We left quickly.


Next episode: The assassin wore a tabard.

This is an unbridled pleasure. Jesus Christ! I'd like to add more but at this point words would be pointless.

So the Marines and sailors that have been released are suggesting that they were ill-treated by the Iranians during their 13 days in captivity. Acording to reports they were blindfolded, kept in isolation and questioned at random times.

Sky News is today reporting that Captain Chris Air, the commanding officer of the fifteen marines, admitted to their journalist that they were gathering intelligence on Iran whilst on patrol.

So the Iranians were right.

Britain was lying.

Oh. We're the bad guys, aren't we?

Bad news! Awful bloody news actually. Take a looksee here. Go on.

Have you ever heard anything quite so stupid in your life? Now I am not Pepper's biggest fan; it is an album so over-rated it makes Coldplay look like a much maligned gathering of musical geniuses (rather than the plodding nursery rhyme shite-stream that they actually are) but it is still significantly better than anything that all of the other people mentioned in that article combined will ever produce.

Would I like to hear James Morrison's version of 'Lovely Rita, Meter Maid'? Would you like me to push a hacksaw blade down your urethra? The Fratelli's doing 'Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds', you say? Excuse me whilst I cut my ears out with some pointy chipboard and freed them to Bono's chimp.

Listen up all involved: you are all worthless, second-rate, indie sing-along wank stains who couldn't write a decent melody if it came up and shat in your overly coiffured hairdo. Don't touch, look at or even gesture towards any of The Beatles cannon without first genuflecting in front of a picture of Saint George (of Liverpool) and deeming yourselves unworthy of his postmortem attention.

We live in sick and twisted times where an arched eyebrow posturing as a band (Kaiser Chiefs) can consider itself a decent replacement for the greatest entity that has ever stepped on the Earth (and that includes you Mohammed).

God! This has made me angry. It's taken the edge of my Good Friday torture party.

Hello children. Come on in. That's right, come in. Don't cry now, I'm not going to hurt you. Sit yourselves down 'cos it's time for a story.

And that story is this:

And it goes likes this:

Which is:

The Stabbing Robot is dead. He died over the weekend. He went to a better place with Inca inscriptions on the wall and low fences for his sheep to jump over. I shall miss that stabbing robot but not as much as I miss his dream machine with it's magical pictures of wizards and bowling alleys. Here are a few memories I have of the robot and all his high-jinks (the dead bastard):

- He once got a robot disease which meant he shat and puked at the same time. Good job that bath was near the toilet.

- He once laughed very hard at the thought of two brothers having sex with each other.

- I once saw his testicle. Huuuuuueeeeeerrrrrrkkkkkkkk!

- Muppets running.


RIP Stabbing Robot. You big cock.