SAUSAGE LIFE 328

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column which ties its own shoelaces together then tries to run away

READER: What about those lionesses!
MYSELF: Lionesses? Where? Did they escape from a zoo?
READER: No you fool, the lionesses….the Women’s international footballers. They just won something.
MYSELF: Excusing your accidental oxymoron, what did they win exactly?
READER: What did they win? Are you serious? WHAT DID THEY WIN?
MYSELF: Yes. What was it? And who were they playing?
READER: It was a cup, or a trophy, and they were playing….er…
MYSELF: I see. Since you’ve never exhibited the slightest interest in football before, you will forgive me for suspecting a slight, no, make that enormous hint of virtue signalling at its worst.
READER: I think you may have revealed yourself as a misogynist.
MYSELF: Well excuse me. Look, I like a Sunday afternoon kickabout in the park as much as the next ma…..person, but I wouldn’t go out of my way to watch it and furthermore, the facile commentary during the men’s game, rife as it is with clichéd hysteria and puerile schoolboy nonsense is hard enough on the ear as it is. Cranking up the volume and raising the pitch an octave and a half simply makes it unbearable. If that is misogyny, let’s cancel everything below middle C.
READER: You really do take the biscuit sometimes.
MYSELF: I know. When I’m having a nice cup of tea, my favourite biscuit is Huntley & Palmers Blood Curdling Creams.
READER: Spain! It was Spain!
MYSELF: You Googled it.

DIARY OF A SOMEBODY
Compiled by Patrick Carabine
An occasional series in which we randomly browse the recollections of an anonymous diarist

MONDAY 13th:
I agree to meet Twollet the Greengrocer in town for ‘a cup of coffee’. He insists we rendezvous at The Sheep & Squaddie,a squalid public house frequented by roughnecks, countering my temperate objection with “You don’t have to drink alcohol old boy, they do splendid coffee in pubs these days”. Much to my regret, I order Irish coffee, not realising it contains whiskey, and after my fifth, begin to feel a trifle woozy. Twollet shows me his recently acquired tattoo, Antelope Being Pursued by a Jaguar executed in the style of Tracy Emin, which I, in my now rather inebriated state, fancy to be rather tasteful. The next thing I remember is sitting with Twollet in the waiting room of a particularly salubrious tattoo parlour, looking through a catalogue of designs. The rest of the afternoon occupies a gaping black hole in my recollection.

TUESDAY 14th:
Awake from a terrible nightmare in which thousands of ants are marching over my belly wearing tiny spiked running shoes. Bleary-eyed, I pick my way through discarded items of clothing to the semi-wreckage of the bathroom, where I am confronted with an unimaginably terrifying reflection in the mirror. I see, on my lower abdomen, a large, raw and still bloody tattoo of The Eiffel Tower, which emerges from my pyjamas and points obscenely at my chest. What happened? Myriad thoughts pass through my head at an alarming rate, not the least of which is: I will never be able to go swimming again.

Later that same day, Celia Badwig calls, and tells me I look as though I am coming down with something, but I have not the heart to let her in on my secret. I telephone Tarquin, my eldest, who lives in London and knows about such things, and explain what has happened. I hear him come dangerously close to choking, and when his guffawing and snorting has eventually subsided, I reluctantly ask his advice. This sets him off again. “Twollet! The Eiffel Tower! Hahaha!” he giggles, almost weeping with mirth.
“Never mind that idiot,” I shout, “You have to help me! I must have this monstrosity removed, before anyone sees it.” He tells me to “keep my hair on”, as he knows someone “who knows someone”, and is going to “make a couple of calls”.

THURS 15^th:
I have been housebound since the tattoo incident, for fear of anyone finding out, although I suspect the loose-tongued Twollet has already let the goose out of the sack. At last the telephone rings. It is Tarquin who says he’s been put on to a man who can “sort out my problem”. As instructed, I catch a train to London, and make my way to the Tutankhamen Café in Paddington, where a man wearing a camel coat and reading The Racing Times is waiting for me. His thin pencil moustache does not fill me with confidence, nevertheless I allow him to escort me to his ‘clinic’, a shabby looking place with a threadbare carpet in the back room of a betting shop. He instructs me to lie on a stained velvet chaise lounge, and lift up my shirt. After a long whistle, and what I took to be a supressed smirk, he tells me it’s a major job that will require a general anaesthetic. I find a cheap hotel nearby and agree to turn up early next morning with an empty stomach and £500 in cash.

FRI 16^th
As I regain consciousness, surprised to find I am not in too much pain, I look at my wrist to see what time it is. My watch, along with the ‘surgeon’ and my wallet, is gone. Nevertheless, I dash eagerly to the mirror, and lift my grubby nightgown. No……! The dreaded thing is still there! The only discernable difference being that The Eiffel Tower has had the word CANCELLED tattooed over it. Livid with rage, I decide to erase Twollet from my address book altogether, and unfriend him on Facebook.

DICTIONARY KORNA
Ebola (n): an electric cricketer
Artistry (n): The history of art

New series
KANGEROO COURT
Real cases tried by Judge Schkippi a Supreme Court qualified talking marsupial

JUDGE SKIPPY (Hopping into her chair):
Announce the next case!

VO:
The Plaintiff, Ms Hermoine Marigold, a professional soup waitress from Des Moines, is claiming that Mr Benneton-Yahoo, a freelance content creator from Queens, NY, moved into her house, dumped all her furniture and belongings outside in a skip, and shot her dog. The court will rise.

JUDGE SKIPPY:
Sit down! I’ll tell you when to rise! Now then Ms…(consults notes)… Marigold, if that is indeed your name, what do you want from Mr Benneton-Yahoo?

PLAINTIFF:
Ma’am, I just want to move back into the house where my family has lived for the last 200 years. And as for my beloved dog Wizzywig…

JUDGE SKIPPY:
Enough with the dog! Mr Benneton-Yahoo, what do you have to say sir? I’m sorry you’ve been inconvenienced by the way; would you like a chair?

DEFENDENT:
No, I’m fine thank you ma’am, I love your gown by the way.

JUDGE SCHKIPPI:
Why thank you – it’s just something I threw on. Now then sir, is it your contention that the plaintiff, Ms… (consults notes) …Marigold, if that is indeed her name, is a member of a vile, subhuman species the likes of which is clogging up the arteries of natural selection– something sir, which all decent folk have striven so hard to perfect?

DEFENDENT:
That is my contention your worshipful ma’am, and furthermore I have it on the highest authority that the house in question, including the land upon which it is built has always belonged to me and that I am simply claiming what is rightfully mine in the first place.

JUDGE SCHKIPPI:
I see. And what exactly is this high authority you are referring to?

DEFENDENT:
God ma’am, aka Jehovah, who instructed Moses to carve it on a stone tablet on Mount Sinai.

PLAINTIFF:
That’s a lie, she’s just making it up!

JUDGE SCHKIPPI:
Shut up! One more word out of you madam and I will be forced to give Mr Benneton-Yahoo a loaded gun and turn the other way, is that clear? Mr Benneton-Yahoo, do you have the tablet?

DEFENDENT:
Yes ma’am.

JUDGE SCHKIPPI:
Let me see it.

Five burly court officers wheel in an enormous stone tablet and place it upright in front of Judge Schkippi, who adjusts her wig, puts on her legal spectacles, leans forward and peers at it.

JUDGE SCHKIPPI:
Yes that appears to be in order. This court finds in favour of the defendant Mr Benneton-Yahoo and awards costs of $200,000. As for you Ms (consults notes)…Marigold, if that is indeed your name, I order you to go and find somewhere else to live, allowing Mr Benneton-Yahoo and his family to reclaim their ancestral home, which, from the evidence I have seen, clearly belongs to them. Sir, I wish you luck with the long task of cleaning up this neighbourhood so that your friends can move in.

PLAINTIFF: And the dog?

JUDGE SCHKIPPI:
Take her down!

VO: Next week on Kangaroo Court…Celia Kanth, a retired glove inspector from Albuquerque is sueing her unemployed neighbour Mort Scullery for the return of a borrowed ride-on lawnmower from which he fatally wounded her husband in a drive-by shooting.

Sausage Life!

ATTENZIONE!

‘Watching Paint Die’ EP by Girl Bites Dog is out now and available wherever you rip off your music.

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Photo credit: Alice’s Dad (circa 2000)

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JACK POUND: JESUS WANTS ME FOR A SUN READER aka PASS THE INSTANT YOGA

CHEMTRAILS ON MY MIND
MORT J SPOONBENDER

On September 11th 1958, José Popacatapetl, a retired tree psychologist who’s father was head gardener for the CIA during the cold war, was hitchiking through the Alberqueque desert when he was picked up by a black sedan driven by J Edgar Hoover’s ex-boyfriend André Pfaff head of FBI underhand operations and extra-terrestrial banking who once worked as a quantum mechanic for the KGB under the direct orders of the zombie reincarnation of Josef Stalin whose mummified corpse was kept in a secret underhand bunker in the basement of the Vatican.

https://vimeo.com/user129836501

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