Playing with radiation…

3 10 2008

White lies

So I was expecting a delivery of radioactive pills.  My vast array of medicinal pills just don’t cut it anymore.  I need to crank up the gigawatts somewhat. 

So I was most wonderfully pleased when I saw Geoffrey the postman crawl up the path towards the institution clutching a small pulsating package under his arm.  Strange, I thought when I was signing for the delivery, Geoffrey was looking decidedly perturbed – he was weak, breathing heavily and appeared to have a few less limbs than he normally does.  Glancing behind him I could see at least three fingers, a buttock and a few clumps of hair on the path.  Still… I had my pills and that’s all that matters.

I slammed the door in his face.

I retired to room 87 for a bit of peace and quiet so I could enjoy my new pills in complete isolation.  Well… almost.  You can learn to block out the wails of Elvis if you’re prepared to stick one of his un-eaten hamburgers in your ears.  Poor chap.  He’s been in here ages.  He’s delusional of course, he claims to have been some big rock and roll star.

Idiot.

I hate him.

The reinforced cardboard packaging was like tissue paper in my hands, and within hours, I had before me the glory and splendour of a most splendid pill indeed.  It pulsated softly at first, then violently as I prodded it repeatedly with a toothpick, then it almost exploded when I played it a bit of YMCA from my hi-fi.  But that’s normal – YMCA is potent stuff.

I spent ages playing with the pill.  I rolled it all over my face.  At least three times I had it up my left nostril, just for fun.  But I couldn’t continue for ever, the expectation mounted and I had to taste its magnificence…

 

At first, nothing.  It was mildly slimy and tasted a bit like Bovril.  I was close to picking out the invoice and phoning up Pills Rn’t Us. 

…But that’s when everything went white and my eyebrows started reciting Shakespeare.  Then I had brief out of body experience where Joan Collins was eating a large pink blancmange in the shape of a Fiat Panda.  I vaguely remember returning to my body whilst she gorged on the passenger airbag.

My mind was glowing.

 

Then Elvis shot me clean through the head with his gun.  He was sat on the toilet and had “apparently” missed himself- the bullet ricocheting off Joan’s blancmange and hitting me squarely between the eyes.

 

Bummer.

 

Dead again.

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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.