Fear of cameras…

27 01 2009

Fear of cameras

 

Matron said I could be the official photographer for the annual egg and frog race.  Opportunities like this don’t come my way very often, and usually fall to that ninkumpoop over in cell 94B.  So what if he’s managed to charm Matron with his perfect physique, Swiss bank accounts full of weak lemon drink and his uncanny impersonations of George Clooney.  It won’t last for long.  Once Matron knows about what he does in the corner of his cell every Thursday, I’ll regain her attentions and once again become her favourite inmate. 

So anyway, something must have twitched in the institution’s space time continuum since I found myself responsible for this most prestigious event.  Matron said I could keep any of the eggs or frogs that failed to make it to the finish line, just so long as I picked them up carefully and returned them to their rightful owners as quickly as possible.  You can’t say fairer than that.

On the big day, I prepared thoroughly.  I discharged my camera’s battery to ensure I couldn’t get electrocuted, used a kitchen scourer to clean the lens of anything that could ruin a perfect shot and dunked the whole thing in disinfectant for 30 minutes to make sure I didn’t contaminate anyone I photographed.  Nobody was going to accuse me of not having health and safety as my top-most priority.

I was at the starting line.  The llamas were prancing around confidently with their eggs carefully balanced atop their frogs;  the Felicity Kendalls were stretching every conceivable limb in preparation for the grueling course that lay ahead; George Bush was giving a truly splendifulous funeral speech to mark the occasion; I was doing finger press-ups to make sure my finger would be in tip-top condition for when the time came to take a photo.  I took a swig of some weak lemon drink to calm my nerves.

And then, with but the shortest of notice, the little girl from section 9 was detonated into a fine red mist and the race was underway.  Ok… so I missed taking a photo of the start… I was waiting for the right moment, but it just didn’t come.  And now all I could see was a crowd of blood coated shapes disappearing off into the distance accompanied by the occasional croak from an encumbered frog and a squeal of delight from Bob Carolgees, I think.

Matron wouldn’t be happy.

So I ran.

I chased and chased, but couldn’t keep up… this race was fiercely competitive, and such was the training that the competitors had put in, not a single egg or frog was dropped.  As I crossed the finishing line panting furiously, I was met with a swift but perfectly effective blow to the head with a defrosted chicken.  I was out knocked out cold for 15 minutes plus 20 minutes per lb.

I awoke to see a very angry looking Matron.  The guy from cell 94b was behind her looking all smug and insidious.  I briefly remember, before the waves of noxious broccoli vapour made my head hurt, the sound of a key being thrown into a very deep well.

And this is how I came to have my fear of cameras.

😦

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He had to die…

26 09 2008

Death bunny

Mr. Snuggles had to die. 

 

To the outsider, Mr. Snuggles might look like an innocent cuddly stuffed toy of almost unbearable cuteness, but he had a dark secret.  Now that he appears to have finally stopped twitching I shall unleash the aforementioned dark secret upon the world. 

…well, if not the world, then at least the first 14 cells of ward B19.

As harsh as the punishment might seem, Mr. Snuggles had it comin’.  Hell yeah.  Whoah.

Crushy neck.

Swingy wingy.

Deathy weathy

Ha ha.

 

Ha.

 

I should explain.

 

I was eating my daily allowance of marzipan when there was a knock against the Kevlar-reinforced security glass window of my cell.  It was Mr. Snuggles.  He was grinning like a maniacal fool.  I saw blood on his delicately woven paws.

It looked like my blood. 

Really.

It was red.  It was a bit gloopy.  Surely that’s no coincidence?

So how did he get my blood on him?

I did a quick search for cuts or critical wounds.

None.

That had to be my blood though.

 

He must have wounded me at some point and then delicately tended me back to full health with my blood kept fresh upon his paws with an ice pack.

Nothing else for it.  I moved like a badger on steroids and he was noosed within 34 minutes of polite debate.

Death to bunny blood spillers!

 

ra.





Juggling judgement error…

18 04 2008

OK... So knife juggling is more complicated than I thought...

Matron suggested that as part of my new rehabilitated life on the outside, I’d need a few life skills.  Now initially I’d thought I should do something worthy, like design software or something – but that’s just altogether too sensible.

In my mind I should aspire to something truly splendid, like mime, clowning or gurning.  Sadly my initial attempts at the afore mentioned skills were marred by controversy.  In my earlier life I once hosted a children’s party where I was performing a death row execution of Biffo the clown.  The children failed to see the artistry and beauty of my excrucitiating death by electricity.

After several law suits I decide to change track… 

Juggling. 

Everybody loves a juggler.

But er… practice makes perfect.