SAUSAGE Life 297

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column which believes there’s only a fine line between mumbo and jumbo

MYSELF: Are you watching YouTube again?

READER: Yes as a matter of fact. Where else would I find out the real truth about everything?

MYSELF: Where else indeed. Did you hear that Russell Brand has found religion?

READER: Praise the Lord! Where was it in the end?

MYSELF: Down the front of his pants, like everything else.

READER: No but really……

MYSELF: Yes but really. Unlike Narcissus, his own reflection just wasn’t enough.

READER: Exactly what I would expect you to say. But even you have to admit, he’s got a massive vocabulary and he uses it to say a lot of things about stuff.

MYSELF: A lot of things about stuff. Yes he does. And let’s not forget about nonsense. In fact he’s got a lot to say about everything, even stuff that there’s not a lot to say about. I mean, why use a sentence when a 46-verse epic poem will do?

READER: What do you mean? Are you saying he’s loquacious? Verbose? Long-winded? Garrulous?

MYSELF: No, I’m just saying he’s a wanker.

GOD FINDS BRAND
Russell Brand, author of “My Cocky-Wock” and “The Leather Trousered Philanthropist”, appears to have discovered religion in the most unlikely of places. Here’s what he said on his YouTube channel ‘Moron Magnet’.
“I woke up one morning and, lifting the duvet, embarked on my usual pre-breakfast wank. You can imagine my surprise when who should pop up out of my bulging budgie smugglers but the Baby Jesus! I felt like a Netflix version of St Paul on the road to Damascus, but believe it or not, even with the holy infant nestling in my undies, I carried on wanking, because I somehow knew that The Lord would have wanted a major cultural and spiritual ambassador like yours truly to finish what I had started.
After we’d shared a cigarette, I tucked Him back in, got out of bed, dressed up as a pantomime pirate and once I’d had myself inoculated against all the major diseases (except Covid!), I arranged to have myself baptized in our very own sacred river, Old Father Thames”.
“Naturally I am disappointed to discover that David Icke, the dribbling schizophrenic whom I have always admired as a beacon of insightful rationality, has seen fit to chastise me about my latest swerve into religious poppycock. Of course David is entitled to his opinion but let’s face it; he doesn’t have teams of lefty criminal lawyers breathing down his neck!
To all my faithful followers: my words are like ear-piercing truths, tattooed with angels. Only God can save you now. See you in church, chicks half price Sundays.”

BOOK REVIEW
Tales of the Expected by Lars Spünbender
Spünbender author of 2012 blockbuster BOMBOJUMU-Legacy of the Gods, (Gullible and Naive £14.99) has published yet another episode of this popular franchise.
Fans of mumbo and jumbo have already sent Spünbender’s 50th Gods book, rocketing to the top of the conspiracy charts. Packed with sensational claims and fuzzy, blurred photographs of ancient engravings, Bombojumu ticks all the boxes, and invents some new ones along the way. Some of the questions raised, such as Was George IV an Egyptian hologram? and Could Hitler levitate? are hot topics in the metaverse of nonsense-based alternative facts. Nonetheless, Spünebender’s claim that World War II was faked in Elstree studios by the foreign office is not really backed up by convincing evidence.

SOCCER BALLS
With the influx of foreign players into the Nuclear Waste Disposal Solutions League (South) communication is becoming increasingly difficult, particularly if you are Hastings & St Leonards Warriors’ new Serbian manager Glaxo Zmiticov. Local inventor professor Gordon Thinktank has come up with an ingenius way of solving the problem. A tiny earpiece worn by the player prompts them to replace embarrassed pauses with these key words or phrases: Obviously, hopefully, as I say, as the manager says, we done good, we set our stall out, , it’s been a learning curve, all day long, in the end it’s results that count. More words and phrases will be added as they come on stream.

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF HOLMES & WATSON
By Patrick Carabine
With a respectful nod to Myles NaGopaleen’s Keats & Chapman

353. The Golden Earwig of Rangapanga
Dr. Watson sulked moodily as he flicked through the 1875 edition of Simpson’s Almanac of Churlish Revenge for ideas. He was still bristling from an incident earlier that day, when he had foolishly described to Holmes his attendance at his favourite niece’s drama school, where she was appearing in an end-of-term nursery rhyme-themed pageant.
He winced as the afternoon’s events once more paraded mockingly before his mind’s eye.
Holmes had been studying an application from Mr. A.G. Bell for the patenting of his long-distance speaking tube, when the distressed doctor burst in to their lodgings at 221b Baker Street, clearly upset.
As his companion’s story unfolded, the famous detective’s soot-belching cherrywood pipe (containing Tutankhamen’s Fine Olde Pharoe No.2 Shag – the noxious mixture specially prepared for him by Simpson’s of Piccadilly), waved from his firm jaws like the antennae of a praying mantis, causing thick evil-smelling clouds to gather ominously around his deerstalker hat as he tried, unconvincingly, to appear vaguely interested.
It transpired that the school governors had voted that Dr Watson, because of his background in amateur dramatics, should be responsible for the aquisition of stage props for the production, an appointment he was delighted to accept. But come the day the forgetful doctor had omitted to source the most important prop for the first piece, Little Miss Muffet, the one in which Polly, his niece, played the lead.
“Can you imagine my embarrassment Holmes?” pleaded Watson, “I mean, everything was going swimmingly, but as the offstage narrator recited the rhyme’s second stanza, poor little Polly glanced into her bowl and saw….nothing, whereupon the dear girl simply burst into floods of tears”.
Holmes’ lids drooped and he appeared to drop off momentarily. A heavy boot ‘accidentally’ scraped his exposed shin, as Watson raised his voice and continued.
“Meanwhile Holmes, the spider, played by a ten year old boy who had just spent 3 hours in makeup, deflated like a balloon and had to be helped offstage. I myself was escorted out of the theatre via an emergency exit, in order to avoid the ire of the angry parents!”
Holmes’ eyes, until now veiled in the grey patina of stultifying boredom, lit up for a split second and darted about briefly, like mating fireflies. Finally, removing the filthy pipe from his face, he leaned forward, looked Watson straight in the eye and with a look of feigned surprise, detonated his deadly sarcasm bomb.
“No whey!” he stated simply.
Watson, feeling a familiar twinge in his back, slackened his braces and tried desperately to remember the calming mantra given to him by fraudulent yogi Vishuddhananda Ranjit Singh, during The Baffling Case of the Indian Rupee Trick.  

Sausage Life!