From: andrewc@spider.co.uk (Andrew Cannon)
Newsgroups: rec.humor,talk.bizarre,eunet.jokes
Subject: Re: And Still the Moon
Date: 6 Nov 92 13:46:47 GMT
Organization: Spider Systems Limited, Edinburgh, UK.

Part 5.

		     Sunday
		     ------

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 civilised countries ten years
ago)

Never mind.  I finish off my emergency 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 decided 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 benefit 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 existing 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 banana 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 unbelievers
and making a total, graphic tit of myself in front of the entire
civilised 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 proves 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.
-- 
And Still the Moon is Copyright (C) Andy Cannon 1992 but that probably 
won't bother anyone.
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