Disposed of…

24 09 2008

Apparently I'm not worth recycling...

So it wasn’t long before I had to devise a cunning plan to avoid a perpetitude of eating chocolate.  It was clear that this wasn’t going to be easy, for Matron is indeed a matron of almost godly powers and revered above most matrons that I know of.  And I know two matrons.  There’s Matron and then there’s Matron.  I think there’s a bit of rivalry between the two, since Matron dresses exactly the same as Matron – not wishing to be outdone, I would imagine.  And then there’s the way they style their hair the same and the way their noses are the same too.  Matron even sounds exactly like Matron.  It must be hard to have someone spend so much effort and intent on trying to attain the standards that Matron sets.  But somehow Matron always seems to be able to raise the bar and show Matron how much of a pale imitation she really is.

So if I was to stand a chance of escaping my predicament, I’d have to maybe catch the imitation matron out whilst Matron is doing something else.  This could prove tricky as they always seem to be around at roughly the same time.

My plan was as simple as it was devious.  I would pretend to eat seven chocolate bars of various types and sizes, and then, behind my back, I’d construct them into a life-size model of Michael Jackson.  With a little ventriloquist magic, and knowing that Matron truly adores every pore of Michael, I’d lure Matron into the promise of a lusty night with my chocolaty effigy.  Whilst distracted I would whisk myself away from this chocolaty hell and begin a new a life of freedom in cell 29f.

This was surely the bestest plan I’d ever concocted, so when I found myself minutes later unceremoniously stuffed into a waste paper bin, I have to admit to being a little surprised that things could unravel quite so quickly. 

It was all a bit of a blur really.  The chocolate effigy making went well I thought.  OK so, maybe it was a little smaller than I was hoping, and yes, I think trying to pose mid-moonwalk was a little optimistic, but my rendition of “It doesn’t matter if you’re black or white” was faultless.  But… somehow Matron clearly saw through it.

And then it hit me.

Dark chocolate.  Why did I use dark chocolate?

*sobs*

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Not without its problems…

23 09 2008

More, more and a bit more. It's only wafer thin...

With 1,337,000 tins of Spork failing to sell, I was left with a predicament.  I could feed them to the snails, eat them myself, or use them as weaponry in my ongoing battle with the guy that smells of Marzipan in room 9.1b. 

As tempting as it is to put one over on the little guy with a surprise Spork related attack, he’s too easy to maim with far less valuable artillery.  Now the snails… they’re tempting.  You might think snails wouldn’t go for a meaty product like Spork, but the snails here are feisty and have been known to take down a cow if they get looked at a bit funny.  This one time, when Matron was hosting cow camp, 13 cows were slimed to death when the annual “Do your best Zoolander impression” contest turned ugly.  So anyway, whilst the snails could be fine recipients for my Spork, I didn’t really fancy encouraging their meat lust.  So that left me with just one option… I’d just have to eat them all myself.

Tin one went well.  I marvelled at the exquisite flavour.  My last minute decision to omit the Marmite was possibly my finest, though I did begin to question my sanity over the inclusion instead of the maggots.  No wait.  I definitely didn’t put any maggots in.  I remember now.  That is after all why I sing my maggot song everyday, reminding me not to put maggots in my food.  Hmmm.  Most odd.  Oh well.  Just more meat I guess. 

Tin two was less pleasing.  I was getting a real wriggly sensation in my stomach.

Tin three and my head was getting all spinny.

Tin four, someone was at the door.

It was Matron.

She didn’t look happy.  She took one look at my pile of tins and the maggot encrusted Spork around my mouth and she ordered me to head straight for room 102. 

I was to stop my stupid ways.  I was to embrace the way of the chocolate.  I was to lick it, lather it and digest it.  I was to consume vast quantities for her pleasure.

And so it began again.

I may never get to deplete my Spork mountain.

One day… one day.  So help me Gosh, one day.





Spamtastic…

22 09 2008

Spam

I decided I needed to rebuild my strength after my death.  I needed top quality sustenance.  Tip top loveliness.  Something super splendid…

Nope… actually super splendid isn’t enough… 

Something meaty.  Initially I was thinking pork, then I had a moment of deliberation where I thought… no wait… ham…

But then, miraculously, I thought, what if somehow I could mix the joyous splendour of ham… with pork? 

This could work… I could be onto something…

I needed to apply my marketing skillz.

Need a catchy name.

Hork?

Pham?

Hark?

Amrk… that one needs some work…

Hamork… maybe.

Porkam… but was slightly worried about the connotations of that one.

Then Matron said What about Sperm?

 

No, I said.

 

No.

 

Silly Matron.

 

No.

 

But the seed of ‘S’ lodged in my 30% of brain and I had an ephifony…

Spork!

I rallied the minions and we produced 1,337,00 tins of Spork.  We were euphoric in our plans.  With a profit margin of -7p per tin we were well on our way to global domination. 

I bought a gold plated Sedgway in anticipation of the riches to come.

 

But they didn’t come.

 

Some other foo had had the same idea.  But he’d called it “Spam”. 

How stupid is that?

I feel weak.

How will I regain my life eccence after my death…

*sobs*





Recharging…

21 09 2008

Recharging...

You know when you have one of those near death experiences and you see a big floating parsnip strangling a poodle?  …well, last month I went one better and actually died.

I was playing around with my lawnmower, trying to turn it into a powered toothbrush when one of the brushes I’d attached to the blades fell off heading directly towards my foot at the speed of gravity.  In fear of lightly bruising my foot I recoiled in abject terror and hit my head hard on a piece of Imperial Leather soap.  Death was inevitable and mercifully quick.  Maybe not the best way to go, but at least it wasn’t one of those namby pamby “scented with the organic blossom of baby elderberries” bars.

So anyway.

My soapy injuries were naturally horrific and not helped by Matron not discovering me for five and three quarter weeks.  Apparently it was only after she’d got through 17 cans of Febreeze that she thought it might be prudent to investigate the source of the rancid odour. 

I digress.

Not wishing to lose her license to Matron the institution, she set about reconstructing my failed body with some domestic strength wood glue.  Apparently it took her quite a while, and she tells me she only had a few bits left over. 

I think she did a pretty good job, although I’ve yet to try out all bodily functions.

Anyway.  After a quick jump-start I was left with the arduous task of recharging my brain back up to 30 percent.  Any more than that and things can go horribly wrong.  You wouldn’t like to see me when I’m 31 percent, let alone 32.

Splendid.





Got the bone…

16 08 2008

Give a Flibble a bone

2 months. 

 

You know when you throw a dog to a bone… you know… it’s meant to be pretty quick that you get the bone back, dog survival withstanding and everything… ?

Yup?

Anyway… in a slight variant to the theme, when Matron got me back she decided to play with me.  We went into room 47D because of it’s vast expanse and she hurled me off into the distance to find the bone.

2 months.

 

It was meant to be fun.

 

I nibbled many bone-like objects that invariably turned our to be disappointing or palin facinating.

But they weren’t bones. 

 

Day 47.

Got the bone.

 

Woot!

 

Now to find my way out…

 

… you are meant to throw the dog, right?





And so it dawned on me that I was not for this life…

13 06 2008

30 seconds earlier it seemed like a good idea

I was scared.  I was unsure.  Matron had always been so supportive; so understanding… but here I was thinking that she had somehow fooled me into a life of servitude – the recipient of a feeder… 

 

So I ran.

 

Not very far.

 

It took 83 minutes to nibble through the door of my cell.   But once that was done I was kind of on a roll.

 

Until I encountered the next door 3 feet away.  That only took 37 minutes to lick through though.

 

And then I was free…

 

The wind was in my hair, there was only a mild smell of sewage, my lungs were full with the air of freedom…

I was heady.

I won’t listen to her gorgeous stories anymore.

She lies.

She deceives.

 

She’s….

 

That was the moment, running chaotically as I was, that I realised I was no longer paying attention to basic life skills.  Things like don’t try to eat live crocodiles, don’t lick electricity and don’t fall off high bridges.  I did well on the former two life skills, but failed miserably at the bridge thingy one.

I knew I shouldn’t have gone out by myself.  Matron warned me of such perils.  How foolish of me to not heed her advice.

Silly me.  Silly me.  Silly me.  Silly me.  Silly me.  Silly me. 

Matron knows best.

Once I get myself out of this predicament I’ll never leave my Matron.

Never.

 





Moving slowly…

14 05 2008

Moving slowly

Hmmm…

Well…

You see…

Things are moving altogether a lot more slowly since I suspended my highly calorific confectionery consumption.  You could even be so bold as to say that things have stopped entirely.  I don’t want to be caught out though – it’s best to remain at action stations just in case the torrent suddenly returns.  Wouldn’t want to be in the fish hook storage room when the bottom contractions begin.  Nosiree.  I’d surely catch a Mustad Model 91715D O’Shaughnessy Jig Hook in my elbow in the rush to the nearest toilet.  No.  It’s best that I remain sat here.

It’s been ten days though.  There’s not a peep of a poo and I’ve lost most of the weight I gained.  Matron won’t be happy.

I’m going to need to find some way to make it up to her.  I just don’t think I’m meant to make it as a feeder’s passion object.

*sigh*