Labyyyrinth- Whispering Woods
By Him
Whissspering Woodsss
Laura stands, panting and bloody, in a courtyard. All around her lie still nuns and gore.
.
(Him: I suppose you’re right, Laura. We can continue onwards now- but I still don’t think they were Banshees.)
L.: Must’ve been.
(Him: No...)
L.: They were screaming.
(Him: They weren’t carrying knuckle-dusters, though.)
L.: Medusas? Harpies? Ffwitches?
Laura gropes forward until encounters a corpse. She kicks it, perhaps to check if it’s alive.
(Him: No...)
L.: Dead now, anyway. All too dead.
Laura stoops and frisks corpse –a crucifix stabbed into its back.
(Her: Anything good?)
L.: Just some wine... bit of bread...
(Him: Any regrets?)
L.: ...Not that I can feel...
(Him: Anyway, just keep side-stepping to your front ‘til you reach the exit.)
Laura walks toward exit, stuffing bread under her over-large, horned- helmet. A lung falls from the horn.
Loading environment
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Room 17,C
In Seeing Chamber, He and She are at unicorn torso table -Him dressed as an exact Harry Potter replica, his pencil a wand, a limp dick hanging from his forehead:. She’s wearing taped-together NHS granny-specs, a dirty brown-beigy fleece. Master and Slave in background on their black-leather, hoofed chaise-longue.
Master: Take a side-step right, Laura!
(L.: Where am I?)
Chamber 17, C is a room with a holiday-snap of a deep chasm pasted to the floor.
Laura is now stood on the only super-imposed square of solid ground graphic.
(Him: You’re in a room, in front of you there is a bottomless pit)
(Master: Mmm, m’yes, the Giants Grave Yard. On the other side lies the Whispering Woods! Think carefully, and think fast, my fine and fancy changelings, and...)
(Him: ... ...Yes?)
(Master: ... ... Hurry!)
In Seeing Chamber Slave stops licking the Master’s thigh-length fur and metal boot, he moves over to Him and Her like the Child Catcher and pokes his head between theirs. They stiffen in distaste and stare fixedly ahead.
Slave: (Violent sibilance) Yesss! The hhh-Whissspering Woodsss! A fell and deadly place, a dell and feadly place, a pell and deadly face, a dell and paedly face. They say that the Woods are full of fear, full of whissspersss!
Master: M’yes, Slave. And quickly, what does the Lore of the Labyyyrtinth tell us of whisperers?
Slave: They’re always whisssperin’ ‘bout you.
Her: How do we get across to the door, Games Master?
Master looks insulted, Slave snickers.
Master: Hurry, heroes, hurry! You have in your possession a spell which Laura received for services rendered to a cartel of pterodactyls. And did you know? ...
Him and Her regard the Master.
Master: (Raises his eyebrows enquiringly)...?
Him: ... NO!
Master: Well perhaps you should try listening for a change, stop butting in, answering what are obviously rhetorical questions?!
He and She turn away, shaking their heads and tutting in disgust.
Master: M’ah, they learn.
(Laura: So what’s going on? Where am I?)
Him: We’re gonna use an incantation
L.: Go on then.
(Him: Have you still got the scroll?)
Laura pats herself down.
L.: Can’t feel it. Are you not sure we’ve used it already?
(Him: No.)
L.: “No” you’re not sure, or “Yes” you’re not sure?
(Him: No, I’m not “Not sure”, and “Yes” I’m certain, Laura.)
L.: ...Have we used the scroll or not?
(Him: She’s bloody lost it!)
L.: Found it! I had it locked into my Pink Princess Flashing Trainer Secret Compartment.
Laura bends to unlock her remaining left shoe, her helmet over-balances her to the extent that her helmet is on the ground and Laura is bent double.
L.: Though what secrets a princess might have need to hide I’ve no idea. And a pink princess, even less... And why’s a princess wearing trainers?
Laura brings out a scroll: rolled and much-much too large to have come out’ve a shoe. She unrolls it...
L: ...
(Her: Well, c’mon!)
Laura: No, I can’t read that.
(Him: Why? Isn’t it in English? Can you not read it?)
(Master: (Tutting) English? What d’ ye mean, English?)
(Him: (Sighs) Sorry, Realmsian.
L.: No, I can read it, but I’m not gonna.
(Her: Hurry up! Just read it!)
L.: No!
(Him: But, I mean, you’ll have to eventually.)
L.: Maybe, maybe not maybe.
(Him: It’s the only way to get across, Laura. C’mon, do it for the quest, do it for the Labyyrinth! You owe it to the Labyyrinth!
L.: ... I’m raising an eye-brow.
(Her: Move it! There’s no other way.)
L.: Well. Maybe something great will happen if only I hang around doing nothing for a while? ... Yes.
(Him: The only other possible thing that could happen is that one of those failed actors might show up- not that that’s a good thing- and anyway, they’ve usually turned-up by now! So they obviously aint a-comin.)
L.: There you are! That’s one good thing that aimlessly hanging around has achieved for me: peace of mind. If only I just use my patience, well! Who knows what I could achieve?
(Him: Why don’t you just say the incantation, Laura?)
L.: I don’t want to!
(Her: You’re a cow, Laura.)
L.: So’s you’re mommy!
(Her: At least my mother‘s still alive.)
L.: ...What do you mean?
(Him: C’mon, Laura. All you have to do is say the spell and then we can get across here and get into the Whispering Woods!)
L.: I don’t wanna say it! Mommy said never to use language like that and I promised never-ever to, again, and she’d be ever so angry if I did.
(Her: Not where she is now.)
L.: Cow!
(Master: I understand your feelings, hale and hardly adventurette, some sorts of language are disgusting, but your mommy will understand if it’s only this once.)
(Her: So get incantin’, Laura.)
L.: Fine! “Abracadabra! Abracadabra! Abracadabra!”
A graphic of a golden span appears. Laura walks across it and appears to be walking thro’ the graphic.
(Master: You mommy doesn’t like magic, Laura?)
L.: That’s Hebrew, Master.
Loading Environment
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Room 97, W.
There are stepping-stone graphics,leading to a darkened doorway.
L.: Where am I?
(Him: You’re on another stepping-stone graphic, there are more in-front’ve you, so...
In Seeing Chamber the Master and Slave are having a whispered conversation, the chatter of Him and Her becomes faint.
Master: M’aaah, Slave, stepping-stones.
Slave: Mmmmm...
Master: We first met on stepping stones... Do you remember our first meeting?
Slave: I remember my first meating!
Master: When first mine eye put the clap on you, you were on a stepping-stone. ... You were doing your nails...
Slave: Well, I wasn’t doing my nails, Master: they were far too sharp for that.
Master: Yes, you were filing them.
Slave: ...First.
Master: Oh, thee! Thou and thy double-entendres, thy of the dual meanings! That is why I love you so dearly: being able to fit two into where only one should go.
Slave: (Very sibilant, again) Yesssths, I love ssslipping two meanings into where only one meaning shhhould ssslide, and meaning hasss ssso many meaningsss.
They snog: their lips pucker into a tiny ‘o’ and repeatedly peck each other while making a ‘kiss’ sound. Master breaks off and stares into Slave’s eyes.
Master: No... Meaning has only one meaning, surely?
Slave: ...Meaning?
Master: ... Innuendo?
Slave: Yesss! Deep in my endo!
In the meanwhile He and She have been directing Laura across the stepping-stones. Their voices now become distinct.
Him: ...And-now-side-jump-right!
Him and Her give-out a couple of “Yes!”’s, and turn smiling, proud, expectant faces to Master and Slave.
Master and Slave both curl their lips at the children.
The children’s faces fall into angry disbelief; they look at each other and shake their heads in hatred...
(Laura: ... Where am I?)
In Seeing Chamber Him, Her, Master, Slave, all curl their lips, shake their heads at one-another regarding Laura.
(Laura: ...Hello)?
Labyyyrinth- Onwards!
By HimOnwards!
A young girl and a young boy are sat at a desk carved from a unicorn torso, behind them stands the Master.
M.: M’aaah, good evening-tide to you again, Laura, Daughter of Eve.
(L.: ...Yeah.)
M.: All is as it was before, courageous avatar- thou must awaken the Spectre of the Gate and answer his three riddles. So, onwards!
Master flourishes arm saying that. The Master is wearing a coat of fur, large furry thigh-length boots, and a ball-gag necklace. His voice is theatrical.
(L.: Where did you all just go? You were only away for ten minutes this time. Where did you all just go?)
M.: ... Onwards!
Master shakes his fist past cam. Him and Her look in same direction. With their exercise books and quills poised.
(L.: Where did you gooo? Tell meee!)
M.: There was a tea-break, avatar. We were on a mystical tea-break.
Him: We had a warming draught of tar-bean tea, it’s the Elves’specialty.
Her: I had diet tar-bean tea.
(L.: I want some Elf tea! Some water...)
M.: Wouldn’t thou rather hither thyself thither? Thence, wither shalt be the Mystic Pff-Four Seven Form, avataaar?
(L.: I wanna ‘av a tar-bean tea, too, though! And I don’t really think I wanna go to Onwards. I don’t even think I’ll even make it to Level Sixteen, H. I’ve got no Spells, no Health, no friends... nothing.)
Her: You’ve got your one shoe!
M.: Onwards!
(L.: Yeah, one shoe. That blimesome Rogue Pope stole me other one. Blimey mummy-blitherer.)
Him: That’s ’cause you blasphemed him, Laura.
(L.: How in holy hell’m I s’posed to spot which of the Major World Religions he belonged to?!)
Him: By the cut of his jib, Laura.
Slave: By whether or not his jib was cut, Laura.
Him: Anyhoo, Laura, let’s get on with this.
He stands and walks to a lectern carved from a mermaid corpse, decapitated above the bust, hacked and bloody, the backs of its palms cup the vanished face; on the neck sits an enormous black patent-leather ledger. He opens it.)
Him: It says “You stand in clearing Three, C: a pair of beauteous silver gates bars your entry onwards. You stop and marvel at the beauty of the wrought silver filigree gates and the grace with which they are chased.”
On-screen now is seen Laura- big horned helmet, flashing pink trainer, chainmail- in a virtual reality, in-front of her in the blank room are a few basic grey stripes which could
be the bars of the Gate.
Her: ... Oo! Get a load of the wroughtings on that one!
Him: “But beware! To open these gates you must first summon the Spectre of the Gate with the following incantation, colon, open brackets, Do not be alarmed by his sudden teleportation, close brackets.
Right, Laura, repeat after me: WOOOOO! Woooooooooooo!
Laura repeats it. *BANG* Smoke arises in-front of Laura... An old man in black robes plods on, sandles slapping, from Left.
Spectre: Be thou not alarm-ed, for I am the Spectre of the Gate, I guard the way into Onward.
L.: Well-met, my name is Lorna, and I’m a Labyyrintheerer, I quest for...
Sp: I will ask ye three Entrance Questions which you must answer, or...
L.: Correctly?
Sp.: ...Yes. Or, er, or woe will betide thee! For thine shall be the head in which I shalt bury mine scythe.
L.: Question Number One, Sceptre.
(M.: Laura! Do not anger the mighty Sceptre; he is old, and unreliable, and not really allowed to work with children.)
Sp.: Yes, my tale is a dark and a terrible one, young ace adven-ture-er, it requires a blazing fire and much mead, it is not a tail for thine ears, ye intrepid young questionnaire.
L.: Onwards!
Sp.: I have a horrible tale: an affront to the senses, uncomfortable to sit on...
L.: Just say your lines, and leave.
Sp.: Question the First: What was the name of King Ethelred’s sword?
L.: Eureka!
Sp.: ... I meant to say King James’s sword.
L.: Oh.
Sp.: So no, I’m afraid that’s the wrong answer, moppet.
L.: I meant to say Excalibur, anyway.
Sp.: Oh... Then, we’ll just waive Question the First.
Question the Second: I breathe fire, but am not a dragon; I can fly but I am not a dragon: and I rhyme with ‘flagon’ but am not a dragon.
L.: ... Not a question.
Sp.: What am I?!
(Him: I could tell ‘im what ‘e is!)
(Her: Yeah, and it doesn’t rhyme ryme with ‘banker’.)
(M.: Don’t you dare, you naughty young brave orienteerlings!)
L.: Are you a dragon?
Sp.: And Question the Third: How many are there in one furlong?
L.: Hmmm... erm, do you know?
Cam back in Seeing Room. He and She confer.
(Sp.: Yes.)
(L.: Not you.)
Him: Didn’t we get taught this in Year Three? There was a thing we were taught for the better rememberant for the metric system, Mrs. Gren taught us it... Was it ‘anachronism’?
He flips thro’ his excercise book; his novelty pencil is a huge wand, his wizard’s outfit is silly.
Her: (To Master) Is it anachronism?
Master: Well think, childers: if he’s asking you the question then why would he know the answer...? Don’t you see? If he doesn’t know the answer then he won’t know if it’s wrong or not.
Him: Right, Laura, it doesn’t matter anyway, cause we can just say anything, cause we don’t care what happens, so, say ‘anachronym’.
( L.: Anna Chronic!)
(Sp.: Incorrectum. Goodbye! BANG! (Spectre shouts that last word, then plods off Left.
(L.: ‘Bye.)
Him and Her turn to regard the Master, reclining in a black leather hammock. Master regards them blankly. He shakes his head in disbelief at Master, She regards him so, too, then She begins writing in her book, with a nasty facial expression, using her massive peacock-feather quill. She wears an earthy beige dungaree, white blouse underneath and wooden jelly shoes
(L.: ... Why do I bother?!)
Labyyyrinth
By HimThe Weight of the World,
Erm,
Realms
The Master stands in shot: he holds toward the cam. an ornate hand-mirror, in which his face is super-imposed, badly. While the Master in the mirror speaks, the Master listens attentitively.
Master: Mmm’well! So thou art returned to the Labyyrinth, art thy? Need your mystic fix of what we’re sellin’ verily, aintcha? Weeell, goo-evening song to you, and welcome to the dreadmas and perile Realm of the Labyrrinth, where reality, and fiction, are utterly fact. ‘pon my honour, this is, in earnest, the very best place for all you die-hard dungeoners-and-dragoners, for whom the word imaginative is the most imaginative you can imagine, y’ bunch of sojourners, y’.
Art ye looking for excitement? Art thy looking for adventure? Thou art, art ye? Weeell on this show we’ve more thrills and spills than a rollercoaster crammed with geriatrics.
Master begins pacing back and forward, holding the mirror to the cam.
Master: The Labyyrinth’s wide range of puzzles, traps, and out-right attacks are faced by a brave Labyyritheer-er, who must perform feats of heroism to win through the Labyyrinth, or, or die in the attempt. And so, Laura! Our brave and intrepid young wunderkind, Laura? must battle all the horrosities of said Labyyrinth in order to complete her Quest to retrieve the mystic Pff-Four-Seven Form from the top of the Tower of Murder, in the depths of the Forest of Evil, and she’s only nine! Using this mystic Form, Laura can save our Realm by ordering financial ruin the blood-thirsty United Unicorn Emirates who have recently mobilized a mighty one-pronged attack force with which to decimate to literally ribbons all the folk of all the Realms.
In the hand-mirror the Master gestures with his index-finger for the viewer to come a little closer. The standing Master obligingly puts the mirror next to his ear.
Master: (Whispering) Well, it seems that the Unicorn Emirates were angered by the near genocide of its race at the hands of hunters, who can sell the Uni’s corn for literally large amounts. This is due to its miraculous properties such as granting wishes and coping with erectile dysfunction, oh yes! But not in that way, of-course, it has to be ground down first. If Laura can complete her Quest, the Oonicorn Nation will fall! We won’t live in fear! And we can all get on with our decoratin’.
Master indicates a mounted Unicorn head, some of its horn is missing.
Mirror-Master: But shh! Act normal! Someone’s scrying on us!
Master: Hoh! M’well, and guiding the little adventurina through this a-maze-ing hyper-reality are her two “Brave Advisors”.
Master physically apostrophises those words.
Master: (Gestures) Him, and her.
At the Unicorn desk are sat a boy in a pointy wizard’s hat and a bran-flake for a wart, and a grubby ginger girl in cheap plastic NHS spec’s.
Master: What can you tell us about this absolute pair of, then, Slave?
Slave scuttles over to Him and Her.
Slave: Edgar Bedfellow, and Maaaud, both nine,
Slave is going through their pockets.
Slave: Both hail from Promptly-in-the-Mouth, in Middlesexxx. Their Labyyrintheer-er is Laur-er, er, also nine. They’ve somehow reached Level Fourteen, B, and now they are heading for the Wizard’s Tower. Laura carries with her: Gold? None. Magic Spells? One: “Suicide”. Her Health Rating? Poorly-ill. They were frozen in time just after Laura’s noble bare-knuckle fight with a Vicar.
Master: Come.
Master gestures for the Slave to unzip his thigh-length rubber-and-fur boot. After Slave has removed it from the Master the Master chucks it off-cam. A metallic collision is heard then an electrical hum starts up.
Children are un-frozen and speak to Laura.
Him: Right, after that fight with the Vicar, Laura, you’re now standing in a thing, I think it’s supposed to be a... garden or a graveyard...
Laura: Hello, Edgar! How are you?
(Him: Yeah, well the fight decreased your Health- in fact, on your Ceefax Factfile Info Page it’s got your Health down as one of the quite low ratings: Polio. So before you go any further you should eat something in order to get your Health up.)
(Her: What about those two fishees she fought the Vicar for?)
Laura: They smell bad!
(Her: Just eat them, Laura. That should increase your Health Rating to high enough to satisfy Social Services.)
Laura: So ‘dead’, then?
(Her: Do it!)
Laura, in a huge horned-helmet, baggy chain-mail jumper, filthy, bloody, ripped lime leggings, and one flashing pink trainer. From the Thundercats lunch box she pulls out two green pieces of slime.
Laura: Errr! Eeeerrr...
Laura retches as she forces them under her Helmet.
Harp-strings are plucked magically, then abruptly and unskilfully silenced.
(Him: That means that you’re healthy again, Laura, you feel better now.)
Laura: I don’t.
(Her: Right, Laura, we’ll guide you to the exit now, so: take two side-steps right, then turn to you front left.)
Laura does so.
(Her: And now just keep side-stepping to our North-East.)
Laura walks through the darkened doorway, and the screen is blank.
“Loading Environment
20%-40%-88%
Chamber 2, Z”
Her (Together)... You’re in a...
(Laura: (Together)...Hello?)
Pause.
Her: (Together)...In a...
(Laura: (Together)...Sorry...)
She angrily taps pencil, mutters. Pause.
Her: (Together)...In a...
(Laura: (Together)...Hello?)
Him: You stand in a large, flagstoned, mullioned, crennalated scullery, Laura, a classic example of neo-realmsian architecture, it has three exits.
Laura: Which one shall we take?
(Him: Well, if we call the door to your left ‘door one’, and then the door dead-facing you next to the door one ‘door two’, and etcetera, etcetera, etceteraaah... and the door to your right ‘the door to your right, then it’ll all be a lot easier for us to guide you.)
(Her: How’s that a scullery? There isn’t even a maid.)
Laura: Well, I think a person should always choose the right path, don’t you? Because, of course, just in case it’s a trick question, in so far as they might have made the right door the right door, and, and, three is a lucky number, and, on the right hand of go-od sits Jesu’ itself.
(Him: Well, what advice did the fair fairy Spoin Groonerism give us after she told us about how to find the fabled Verdigris Filigree Non-descript Key?)
Him and Her consult exercise books.
(Her: She saaaid, “The Key’d lead us to the Magician’s Tower”.)
(Him: Then she said, “That’s all I know.”)
(Her: Then she said “Please, please, just end it.”)
Laura: Then that thing about her having a family, noble lineage, cursed me to never take the right path... Then she... Then she...
There is a guilty silence as the children remember what happened then...
(Him: ...The right path, the right path! Don’t you see?! Didn’t you hear her?!)
(Her: ...Yes... Yes! ... Did you?)
(Him: Then let’s do it!!!)
(Her: (Excited) Right, Laura- chaaarge!)
(Him: No!...)
Laura charged, Laura falls to an epically graceless heap on the floor as she encounters the unmentioned rotating dais which guards the exits.
Laura: Wha’ in hell?!
Him: Right, Laura, you’re on a sort of rotating dais...
Master: Mmmmmmmmmm’ah! Mmyes! M’rotatin’ dais, m’eh?
Slave has been fanning Master with a stiff, dead fairy. Master stands, dropping Slave to heap on floor (“Ow! Mmmm...” )
M: This rotais could be alot of trouble in the wrong hands; a very tricky situation for you, young adventure-scouts. For if Laura were to fall off the rotais and into the surroundin’ bottomless pit she could die, or lose an eye!
Her: ...How?
Master: M’yes, I can see your points, m’ vienetta. Well, know this: there exists in the Realms a race known as Sword Elves! Elves shaped like swords, d’ya get it? Prolly made of metal, too, I reckon. They are peace-loving and shun man-kind, living by themselves in bottomless pits, which is unfortunate for so peace-loving a race, and for those unfortunates who plummet.
Her: ...But where do they live in a bottomless pit?!
Master: ...Why, at the bottom.
Master walks toward a dresser, piled high with things: crystals, manuscripts, butt plugs...
Master: If only someone brave and wise could do something to help you. If only someone wise and handsome could give you a talisman to aid Laura in this, her half-hour of need...
Master selects something from the dresser and furtively puts it into his pocket.
He turns and scowls at the watching children.
Master: (Angrily) M’yess?!
Him and Her turn away.
(Her: Get up, Laura, this rotais is gonna be a bit tricky on your balance, so I think we should have a quick practice, just so’s we get our bearings.)
(Him: Or we could just...)
(Her: (Whispered) No, watch this!
Okay, Laura? I’m gonna need you to practice your balance, so take a side-step forwards... Now a side-step sidewards...Take a side-step back... That’s it: forward, sidewards, back...)
Laura is waltzing.
(Her: Now put your hands on your hips...)
(Master: Childers, childers, there isn’t time for this! The Banshees control this part of the Labyyrinth, and you know that they swore a blood-oath to take revenge on you because of how Laura ruined their picnic.)
Laura: Can I stop now?
(Her: You’ll continue until I’ve finished explaining the plan. Right, well, you know you’re on a rotais. Right?)
Laura: (Still broadly waltzing) Yeeeah?
(Her: And you know that to get to an exit you’ll havta step off the rotais and onto the path that leads to the door?)
Laura: (Arms held out for balance) Yeeeah?
(Her: And you know that if you put a foot wrong you’ll plummet to your...)
Laura: (Stops waltzing) Right.
(Him: So when I say run, you run. So just concentrate cause this is an epic moment.)
Slave: (Shaking the children) Yesss, h-whiper-sssnappersss, Laura is in a grave of danger, en it? Loss of limb and innocence, if the Banshees catch up with you, they always forget, but they never forgive. Make hassste, Laura, make hatsss!
(Laura: Er, why’s he talking to me? Just tell me when to move.)
Him: ...Okay...
Slave: (Shaking children’s shoulders) Hats, childings, the time isss ripe for the plucking!
Him: (Shaking Slave off cissily) Okay, Laura...
Slave scuttles over to Master, paws at him.
Slave: Master! Master! Matser! The time, the hecking tiiime...
Master: M’yes? What is it?
Slave: It’s ripe, Master!
Master: ...Right?
Slave: MATSER!
Master: What is it??
Slave: Plucking!
(Him: ...Now!)
Laura runs as directed, veers off the intended path, walks across bottomless pit graphic, and through the left door.
Screen goes blank.
Your mum
By Wrathnar the UnreasonableThe best 'your mum' I ever heard of was when a cricketer was being barracked by another player, who said "How did you get so fat?" He replied "Every time I fuck your mum, she gives me a biscuit."
###
There's a guy at work who never learns. He thinks he's a comedian, and persists in telling mouldy old jokes which weren't even funny when they were fresh.
Him: "What's big and hairy and goes up and down?"
Me: "Your mum."
(The punchline is supposed to be 'A gorilla in a lift', in case you've been living in a cave.)
###
One day, a bunch of us were gathered in the pub after work, and the lame-o decided to inflict a 'joke' on us. It was a particularly tasteless one about a women's Olympic team who'd drowned after their ferry sank. (I don't mind bad taste jokes as long as they're funny, but this one sucked ass.) I've forgot some of the exact details, colours and numbers, but it doesn't really matter, so I'll just fill in with any old thing.
Lame-o: "I've got a good one!"
My mate Steve (in Sid James voice): "Aren't you lucky."
Lame-o: "No, listen. What's red and purple . . . no, what's orange and purple . . . er, purple and orange . . . I'll start again. What's orange and purple, and has got fourteen tits . . . no, twenty-eight tits . . . I mean, fourteen pairs of-"
Everyone: "Start again!"
Lame-o: "Okay, I've got it this time. What's purple and orange, has got fourteen pairs of tits, and floats in w- . . . no, I mean, doesn't float in-"
Steve: "I'm losing the will to live."
Lame-o: "No, shut up, this is a good one. I'll get it right this time." Assumes a look of intense concentration. "What's orange and purple, has fourteen pairs of tits, and doesn't float in water?"
Me: "Your mum."
General hilarity ensued.
###
The best 'your mum' I ever perpetrated was in Cornwall. There was one particular school down there whose pupils every driver dreaded picking up. Their particular thing was witty put-downs. Some of our drivers just couldn't take it; Pete would beg us to swap duties when he was due to pick them up. Swervin' Mervin (so called cos he once turned left instead of right out of the service entrance of the Eden Project, and had to drive for miles and miles and miles before he found a place where he could turn his bus around) got a good dose of it. He thought he always got on well with kids, but even he couldn't get on with these little horrors. They were having their O-levels or whatever, and as they got off the bus, he called out "Good luck with your exams!"
One of them turned round and replied "Oh, don't worry, if we don't get any O-levels, we can always become bus drivers."
Anyway, you know how there's always one kid who can't do it, but that doesn't stop him continually trying, and every time his one-liners fall flat, he tries to cover it up by just keeping on talking? There's one in every school. Well, the kids were getting on my bus in the morning, and as I opened the doors, the mouthy kid was saying "Ah, yes, but you weren't doing the electric boogaloo all night."
The other kids said "The electric boogaloo?!?!?! What is wrong with you?"
Without pausing for a single beat, he continued "Or you may have some other way of spending your Saturday night, I don't know." He turned to me. "And what were you doing Saturday night?"
"Fucking your mum," I deadpanned.
The other kids howled with laughter. He just stood there with his mouth open, until another kid grabbed his arm and dragged him away. Those kids never gave me any cheek after that.
My then girlfriend said "They probably don't want to spoil it; it will be a playground legend. That poor kid will never hear the end of it. For years to come, whenever anyone mentions anything to do with buses, they'll be like: 'Do you remember when the bus driver your mummed you?' "
It's not clever, but it is funny.
Radio Drama - Can you help?
By Penny LaneWritersworld
By WritersworldAll an agent wants is....
By claraw
Through my research on agents´ websites and interviews, I noticed many said they are looking for a fresh voice. Quite an awful lot of them said so.
Therefore, this idea struck me like lighting.
I know, I don´t understand my humour either...
I started an unpretentious blog about writting and it has some websites and blogs with great tips on the whole publishing process.
Hope it helps you guys on this hard path we all share!
http://www.pomadness.blogspot.com/
Cheers!
You Know You're A Writer When...
By Steve1. You’ve run out of file colours to keep all the hand-written pages of different works
2. Your default template setting in Word is double-spaced Times Roman 12pt.
3. Whilst reading another writer’s work, you find yourself thinking, ‘Too much tell, not enough show’
4. Credit card companies reject you purely on the grounds that you don’t have a fixed annual salary
5. You’ve found yourself using the word procrastination more and more
6. You have over 40 different versions of a document with the same title-beginning: .docs, .txts, edit(7), synopses, opening chapters...
7. Whilst editing, you’ve suddenly thought, ‘Ooh, those socks need pairing’
8. You have a drawer that just contains pens. Some of them stolen
9. Battling with your MS for the past two years isn’t such a conversation stopper
10. Your computer’s Writing directory actually contains more files than your Funnies directory
11. You think you’ve invented a new genre of fiction
12. You find yourself circling words that end –ly in your kids’ homework
13. You’ve stared at a computer screen for more than an hour without actually adding anything
14. Publishing houses have somehow transformed from those great places that print books into fortresses that must be stormed
15. Introduced to an arrogant journalist, a little voice in the back of your mind can’t help piping up, ‘Pfft, not a real writer, then...’
16. A rejection doesn’t make you utterly depressed for a week anymore
17. You cut a lot of slack to a rubbish film because the central character is a writer
18. You’re the only person you know who uses the word conducive in everyday speech
19. Just for a moment there, you thought one of your characters was a real person
20. You know what an unsolicited submission is
21. Quoting someone in an email to a friend, you pause to consider whether to use double speech marks or single
22. You found yourself nodding and smiling at most of these
Please add more of your own...
My thoughts on living, I guess.
By zomb00Do we really need all this useless . . . shit? My apologies for being so obscene, but I cannot think of another word to describe it.
Even after it all(almost two decades of education, then the job hunting) it is still the merest, most basic of pleasures that keep us pressing onward and giving us reason to live. Do we really need to spend days and weeks working arduously in a depressing environment for some disagreeable person; the sole reason of this being the pursuit of currency which will in turn be exchanged for things like clothing, accessories, phone bills, games and DVDs, when in fact the most emotionally appealing and pleasing sensation known to me right now is to simply lie in bed embracing someone I love?
As long as we have sanitation, shelter, food, water and wine; wouldn't that be enough?
No 52" plasma TV has ever hugged me back; in the same way no high-score on Call of Duty has ever professed its love for me. These things don't matter, they're just distractions; obstructions that hinder and deter us from realising what's really important in life . . . to love and be loved.
This obviously includes loving yourself. I'm not just saying that we all have to be co-dependant for happiness. Recently I've split up with my girlfriend, and am thoroughly enjoying single life. Though I'm failing at college and have a few social anxiety issues, I still enjoy living. I can sit for hours on end in the sun in the centre of my city, just reading a novel on the steps of St George's Hall and catchin' some rays. It's peaceful, I enjoy it.
Speaking of which, so many tourists come up to me and ask about how to get inside the building, I should start charging them for the information.
Bah, I need a real job.
The 8th of June (Repost)
By zomb00Fifteen minutes later it was ready. Bacon piled high on a plate was placed on the serving-tray, alongside the burnt toast and orange juice. Eddie took a quick look at his watch: 10:15am - still plenty of time. Picking up the tray, he headed back upstairs to his sleeping wife. He wondered whether he should wake her or let her sleep. ‘Let her sleep’ his heart had told him…‘But bollocks to that’ his head had replied. Eddie hurled a pillow in her direction, hitting her flat in the face - sleeping-angel image completely destroyed, serenity removed, moment lost - Dianne awoke with a shock, snarling and throwing the pillow back in his direction. He laughed and shook her gently, nodding toward the serving-tray at the end of the bed. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and a smile of realisation took over her face that he had made her breakfast. Bacon on toast, cooked to within an inch of becoming charcoal, her favourite.
She hugged him tight and kissed his forehead, he smiled and gestured for her to eat-up. ‘What? You thought I’d have forgotten your special day?’ She grabbed his hand and smiled, staring into his loving eyes. ‘Happy birthday, baby’. As he sat and watched her eat, a tear formed in his concealed left eye. She had not spoken a single word since Red, their daughter, had died two summers ago. She blamed herself, which of course was absurd as it was the drunk driver in the black Mitsubishi’s fault, not hers. The bastard.
Eddie and Dianne left their home for the last time at mid-day, June 8th. They never bothered to lock the door, they had seen the newspapers scattered along the floor headlined: ‘The end is nigh! Russia launches nuclear weapons on course for the USA!’ So why bother? The pair had each other, nothing else mattered. They crossed the empty suburban streets and entered the park, where it was quieter now, a lot quieter. The hustle and bustle of the large crowd of people trying to escape into Mexico could not be heard from deep within the deserted park, and the lovers walked idly for a while, until Dianne sat near an old oak tree on top of the hill overlooking the lake. ‘Ok then birthday-girl, I guess we‘re setting down here then? It’s not as appealing as that country pub where we spent most of last winter, but it’ll do, I suppose.’ Eddie winked at her, she smiled back.
They sat silently under the shade of the oak tree, enjoying each other’s company and every now and then throwing a few slices of bread into the lake for the five-or-so ducks to enjoy. The sky grew darker and the air cooled, the sun was now setting, and only an orange cone of light reflected off of some distant cloud remained on the lake. The ducks had left the water now, nowhere to be seen. Eddie glanced at his watch - 8:57pm, ‘Three more minutes’.
Dianne stood, and pointed upwards. The night sky was littered with smoke-streams and burning objects which created the illusion of a natural meteor shower. But they weren’t meteors, and this wasn’t nature - they were missiles; sent by men to destroy this idyllic scene. Eddie shook his head and stood, holding the woman who had been the love of his life since he had first set eyes on her when he was 17. He continued shaking his head and cringed; ‘Fools. Those stupid, stupid fools. They think that this is the answer? A handful of people in a handful of nations deciding the fate of billions of lives? That is not what we're on this Earth to do.’ He held her tight, and through tear-filled eyes he managed to thank her for making his life worth living, and for standing by him for the 30 years they had been together.
Dianne shook her head, and brushed away the tears in her lover’s eyes. ‘None of that now, baby. You’re supposed to be brave! Why do I always have to be the strong knight and you the wet-eyed maiden?’ She smiled at him. Eddie was so shocked at hearing her speak, he had almost forgotten what it was like to feel the warmth which blanketed him from her voice. For a moment, Eddie thought he had imagined it. Until she spoke again; ‘We'll be with her soon.’ Eddie kissed her lips, and through that kiss he re-lived all the previous kisses he had shared with her, from teenagers to parents, he remembered them all. She kissed his lips in return, but hell had arrived.
The End.
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