From: andrewc@spider.co.uk (Andrew Cannon)
Newsgroups: rec.humor.d
Subject: And Still the Moon
Summary: Paranoid illusions of a mispent world.
Date: 5 Oct 92 16:20:44 GMT
Followup-To: God
Organization: Spider Systems Limited, Edinburgh, UK.

Sunday.

I hate Sundays.

All the good shops are shut. The pubs close at funny times. Harry Secombe is
shown singing on the TV at Tea Time (even though Harry Secombe was declared 
illegal in most civelised countries ten years ago)

Never mind. I finsh off my emergancy vodka supply and eat the solidified, half
eaten donner kebab thats lying in the sink. Some people would call me gross, I
think I'm just ecological.

I flick through the channels on the TV and deceided to watch 'Pro-celebrity
farming'. Ten minutes later and the competition is hotting up. 

Terry Wogan has got a nice little crop of potatoes growing in his wig, Bob
Hope is struggling to clear up after the pig had an accident and Shaun Connery
has shot 33 Russian spies who were cunningly disguised as horses. (and they say
I have flash backs....) (see note 1)

"What to do now" I ask myself (out loud, in German, trying to sound like J F
Kennedy did when he declared himself to be a doughnut that time in Berlin)

I flick through my copy of "1001 Ways to Entertain Yourself on a Sunday"

Ah ah, Number 529 :- 

"Many people find Sundays ideal for completing those little DIY jobs around
 the home. Do you need some new shelves ? How about a jacuzzi ? I'll bet the
 front door would really benifit from one of those fake carriage lights next
 to it !"

OK, DIY it is. I grab my tools.

One rusty junior hacksaw. Three large flat blade screwdrivers. One pair of
industrial bolt cutters with bits of someones nose sticking to the jaws (he'll
never call me "Psycho" again....He he he....) One slightly blood stained axe (I
wish I could remember how it got that way. Maybe one of the neighbours borrowed
it .....?)

Well, the jacuzzi is out (Well I do live in Britain...I'm mad, but not that mad)
I still hav'nt filled my exsisting shelves yet (my collection of used nose hairs
is not quite complete as yet)

Sod it. I'm off for a walk. I open the door and blink rapidly as the search 
light hits my eyes.

"OK, we know you're in there" shouts the over amplified voice. "Come out with
a frozen chicken on your head and a green bananna up each nostril"

(I've been wondering about this new police tactic. I mean, what happened to the
days when all you had to do was put your hands on your head and let a large
policeman fondle your genitals ? Now they have to humiliate you. I suppose
thats what happens when you let your children watch 'Beadles About' and
'Candid Camera')

I throw myself back through the door and bolt all sixty-five dead bolts.

"You have 60 seconds to surrender yourself or we send in the Attack Rabbit"

Oh shit. Not the attack rabbit. Those genetic monsters will hump anything !

"I hav'nt done anything" I yell through the letter box

"You told the Green Golf Ball Joke in public" Comes the savage reply. "You
must be punished. You know what that joke can do in public"

So, they discovered my plan to bring humanity down to my level through careful
use of the GGBJ. They'll never take me alive.

I strip of my clothes and climb the chimney. The searchlight lights up my 
goosepimpled body as I begin to throw petrol bombs on to the watching crowd.

Then I remember.....

I'm sitting at a terminal, in a darkened room. Tapping away at the keys. I
remember when I used to believe that attending an American University would
improve my mind. 

But then I discovered the News Server and my dreams were dashed on the rocky
pit of Internet. Maybe I'll recover.

Maybe I'll just sit in my Paranoid fantasy, flaming the un-believers and
making a total, graphic tit of myself in front of the entire civelised world.


Note 1:- Terry Wogan is a horrible little Irish man who used to be on the
	 BBC. He used to hideously annoy great stars of TV film and Music by
	 touching their knees and wearing a crap wig.
	  He was replaced a number of months ago with a new soap opera that
         shows proves that bad acting should be a hanging offence. The irony
	 is that the BBC will sell it to the American Networks and the Americans
	 will think it's brilliant.
-- 
|      Andy Cannon       | All spelling and grammatical mistakes portrayed |   
| Misplaced Yorkshireman | in this post are my own. Any resemblance to any |   
|   Spider Systems Ltd   | other mistakes, both living and dead, is purely |  
|  andrewc@spider.co.uk  | coincidental.                                   |