Piglet wants Hitch campaign

News just in. Lilith's puppy Piglet has joined an international campaign to find The Hitch, who disappeared from the blogosphere at around 10pm last night. His parents and friends were having a meal down the road when the Hitch disappeared without a trace. Interpol have been working round the clock on the case and as yet there is no news of the Hitch's whereabouts, although there have been rumours he may be in Morocco.

Pictures of the Hitch have gone up at every major world airport, together with the public plea from Piglet to bring the Hitch back. Anyone with any news concerning the Hitch's whereabouts should contact the Piglet on lilithstuff.blogspot.com

ode to a lilith

Lilith, the Storm Demon

Oh first wife of Adam!
Oh Lilith divine
You've gone and deleted
All access of mine

Your blog is a haven
Enshrouded in mist
Your posts like a memory;
So terribly missed.

Has Adam recalled you?
Has the storm run its course?
Will you open your blog,
Let us in through its doors?

Take note fellow bloggers,
Offend not this power
Or she'll spike all her posts
And turn your milk sour...


EJ Thribb, 6,500 1/2,
Descendant of Adam and Lilith

Finger-lickin' good!

A bargain bucket of joy

For several weeks I have been craving a bargain bucket. To the uninitiated this is a cardboard tub of crispy KFC bits in that finger-lickin good crispy coating. A rotunda of joy. A barrel of golden spicy-scented edible fine-tasting beastliness that you just shouldn’t and yet… yet it is so so good. Oh it is goooooooooood.

But I have not had any for a long time. I have not even thought about it since at least April, when I began going in earnest to the gym and eating healthily. I have passed by the Colonel’s smiling face on the local KFC “restaurant” without so much as a glance. But recently I have craved that meat like I have rarely craved anything. I would give up all my staplers for one mouth-watering box of chicken-lite delight.

I started seeing his face in my dreams, in trees, even NASA images picked up a KFC satellite image of the Colonel on the moon



But I overcame. I did not give in. I picked up some goujons from Sainsburys’ instead as I did not want to start down the fast food route again. And I was glad I did, for in searching for a picture of a bargain bucket - this was when I was still in the middle of deciding to get a tub - I came across some horrific images. It cannot be said that I believe all of these allegations - after all, what is online is largely unpoliced and therefore the laws of libel and slander are much harder to uphold when dealing with cyber-space. That hot chick whose only train of thought seems to centre around sex may turn out to be a balding, scab-encrusted mass murdering man serving time in a state penitentiary. The man who seems to be a wonderful, charming brainiac turns out to be Neo-Nazi who wears tight pink lederhosen and rubber ducks on his strong and Aryan nipples. Things are never what they seem, that’s all I’m saying.

So with that caveat, I bring you the KFC hall of shame, courtesy of Peta, the animal rights campaigners…


A typical KFC chicken coop

PETA image


Open letter to the chairman of KFC From Peta Director Ingrid Newkirk, states:

'Each bird whom KFC puts into a box or bucket had a miserable life and a frightening death. People would be shocked to see our footage of a KFC supplier's employee who walks through a barn, lighting lamps and letting flames fall on the terrified birds. The air inside these filthy barns reeks of ammonia fumes."

Another indictment on we over-indulged westerners who cant be bothered to stick a carrot in a kettle and boil it up for a healthy, low-fat treat.


So if that has not put me off having any KFC ever again in my whole entire life, then the threat of the chicken wing… the flabby chicken wing that awaits all the unwary fast food eaters in the world should have put the final nail in the coffin of the Colonel’s spicy chicken box of delights… too much KFC and you will look like this:


UK teenager on a diet

Am I dead?

no, but my internet connection at home is taking 600 years to finish. Still at least I have realised that all my home maintenance problems are not really my fault - it runs in the family....
Old Tarf has building rage

RADIO SILENCE

Sorry.


Posts on eggs, bargain buckets and rainbow shoes to come...

Been a mad couple of weeks. I've even broken two nails.

Sigh.

oh, but I found an electrician by the way.

Here's one John G prepared earlier

John G John's in the pub instructed me to do the following:

Write a coherent(ish)story that must contain 10 words designated by the Tag-er. Our posts [John G and Spanish Goth] are done... These are yours:

CAT
MERMAID
SEX
WINDOW
POO
RECORD
DRAGON
FART
SOUP
HELP.

So... that was it - I've used the words. Hopefully this will keep Mutley happy as he's been bugging me to do a new post for a few days now.

Phoey. I've been told I can't cheat like that. Botheration! John G's one is MUCH better than mine as well. Condarnit fella!

Copy:

William was busy eating his soup when he thought he heard a noise outside his window. At first he was too lazy to investigate, but he could not shake off the nagging feeling that someone was shouting for help. "Poo", he said, not being a man given to stronger or fruitier epithets. Putting down his spoon, he stood up and walked towards the lighthouse door, pausing only to emit a thoroughly satisfying fart, which rumbled down his trouser leg and echoed up the stairwell. "Nice", he said. "That should have been registered by the Guinness Book of Records."
He slowly unlocked the door, subconsciously wafting the fresh salt air into the hallway, which was still fuggy with his gut-rottingly foul butt-breath. On the step was Lucifer, his bat-eared cat, who was staring out to sea and growling like a hungry dragon.
"'Ello Luci", William said, scratching the furry black beastie on its back. "What's out there?"
"Help"... the plea carried faintly now upon the ocean breeze. Being a calm day, William walked to the edge of the rocks and peered out into the briny mass. A hand? Was that a hand waving by the abandoned jetty? He squinted. Yes... Quick as a flash, he unmoored his rowing boat and headed out past the rocks, carefully, slowly, but with a sense of purpose. As he neared the tumbledown jetty, he could see a beautiful woman, seemingly entangled in some wire netting. "Help me" she said as she struggled to free herself.
The nearer he got, the more he realised this was the woman of his dreams - flowing black hair, eyes the colour of the sea after a storm... He reached out with the oar but she seemed scared of him. "No, just release me" she pleaded. He stopped, puzzled. As he hesitated, he looked down and realised with shock that she had a tail. A fish tail, shimmery with myriad rainbows in the shallow salt water.
"I cannot leave the sea" she said, "Or I will die".
Numbly, he nodded and, as if it were an everyday affair, he set about cutting the enmeshing wires that were pressing painfully into her flesh. Five minutes later, she was free.
"Thank you" she smiled, and with that, the mermaid was gone, back into the deeps and back into legend.
Broken-hearted, he returned to his lighthouse. Picking up Lucifer in one hand, he opened the door. "No sex for me again tonight," he muttered.

THAT'S IT... Now I tag MUTLEY. Your Words Are:

Lightbulb
Marmalade
Cheam
Pudding
Flossing
Cavity
Varnish
Bead
Lemur
Astronaut

Good day, bad day…

Someone once asked me whether everything I wrote was true. Sadly, it is. This is my life. This stuff happens. I may be nutty (Hitch!) but at least every day is a mini-adventure with me.

This blog is an account of my Tuesday this week.

Good Day: I wake up, relatively refreshed, ready to face the tube strike

Bad Day: I have woken up refreshed because I slept through the alarm

Good Day: But I am still in time to catch the dustmen, as I throw a coat on over my jammies and run downstairs with my bin bag


Bad Day: Shutting my door behind me,locking myself out

Good Day: I know I can climb up my downstairs’ neighbour’s drainpipe to get in (Having done so three times before in my life, see: Blinds and moet

Bad Day: My bathroom window is shut

Good Day: My downstairs neighbour is in, and lets me into the garden, gives me a table and a ladder and helps me into my kitchen window

Bad Day: Once inside, I head to the bathroom where I see lots of stringy things on the floor. On closer inspection, they are evidently jointed, thick, and hairy. And there are eight of them scattered about. This means that the arachnid monster was snargling* in my bathroom all night long… eeek!

Good Day: I realise that Monty has saved me from the lang-legged beastie by eating it, although he may have tortured the poor creature to death. Monty is the Defender of Female Bathrooms! Huzzah!

More Good News: I am on time for work!

*Snargle: The noise a spider makes when it sits in its dark corner, alone, brooding on its black thoughts, contemplating wickedness, and shaking its mandibles ruefully at society.

General hatred - content caution

WHAT is the point of ANYTHING? Why do we exist in this meaningless, vain universe!? Why? Why I ask you? Dammit, WHY?

Various such questions and accompanying epithets nudged my sensitive nature over the weekend when everything golden that I touched turned to dust and ashes in my fingertips. No, I had not suddenly developed a rather macabre superpower although I DID wish for super-human strength so that I could pussy-whip the "electrician" into a bleeding mass with my bare hands.

Last week, I over-enthusiastically pulled the light cord on my ceiling fan/light and the cord broke, leaving me bathed in permanent unnatural light. The only way to prevent increasing my carbon footprint (and the risk of fire) was to take the bulbs out.

So I called an electrician who had been recommended by my mother. Well, I do like to try to do things myself to save myself the hassle of waiting in for someone, but there was no way I would deal with electricity myself, especially after I offered to help mum do her lights last year and got stung by quite a few volts, which she thought was funny.

The conversation went thusly:

"Hello - is that Barry?"
"Yes, who's asking?"
"Oh, my name is ********* and my mother ******* recommended you to me as you recently did some electrical work for her."
"What do you want?"
"Well, I've broken my ceiling light and I cannot replace it myself - it is on permanently and there is no light switch on the wall for me to turn it off."
"Can't you use the light switch on the wall instead?"
"No, there isn't one. It's a ceiling fan/light and I pulled the light cord too hard."
"Well I can't fix it."
"Oh?"
"No, the part's too small. It's gone. You can't fix it. What, did you expect me to fix it?"

At this point, part of me wanted to say:

"What the fling flang jang did you think I was ringing you for, you butt-wipe? You're a bloody electrician, aren't you? Of course I wanted you to fix it! For the love of mercy!"

However, I did not. I merely replied in a clipped tone worthy of Helen Mirren:
"Yes, actually, I did."
"Well I can't. If you buy a new light from Homebase I can fix that for you. Go out, buy the light and I will fix it for you this afternoon."

I thanked him, and decided to take his advice. After all, mum had said he was a bit old and crotchety and I thought maybe he was not used to phone conversations or had not had any lessons in basic civility.

However, a tense and fraught trip to homebase later (during which I argued with my mother, fell over on the bus and got chatted up by some bloke while his wife was standing in the queue in front - ew! Icky, icky man!) I called him.

"The person you are calling is not accepting calls from this number. The person you are calling is not accepting calls from this number."

EITHER he has the best sense of dark humour in the world, like the Cable Guy, or he's a complete and utter freak. I DO NOT STALK ELECTRICIANS.