Thursday, December 18, 2014

When Santa Lifts Off


    Santa’s sleigh lifted off into the night, bells jingling, reindeer cheering.

    One by one, the elves returned to their igloos to rest their weary heads.

    The moon followed Santa across the horizon — and the North Pole fell silent.



    The writer leaned back on his chair, irritated that a whimsical festive story about Santa’s abandoned pet trout had become embroiled in evident shittiness after only three lines.

    The whole trout thing was a masterstroke, a flash of inspiration, but something about ‘returning TO their igloos TO rest their weary heads’ annoyed him.

    And in any case, if this was to be a story about an abandoned pet trout, looking on forlornly as Santa disappears, and the elves depart for their beds, then where — in THE NORTH POLE — would a trout call home?

    Any pond or stream or river would be frozen over.


    “Perhaps,” mused the writer, ready to edit all he’d written so far, “perhaps the fish is frozen in ice, and therefore trapped in addition to being abandoned.  It’s certainly a cool dynamic.”

    But the rules of fiction are harsh and unyielding.  Any fish in that predicament would be dead without the aid of magic or some kind of thermally heated all-body sock.

    So the writer began afresh.


    Santa’s sleigh lifted off into the night, bells jingling, reindeer cheering.

    (Yes, that’s a decent opener.  Nice image, and non-committal about anything fishy.)

    One by one, the elves bedded down in their igloos, snug and snoozy after weeks of toil.

    (The elves never featured much in the original vision of the story, but this line infuses them with such character that the scope may be on for a standalone elf-themed mini-series after the trout story is finished.)

    But Santa’s trout was filled with sorrow.


    (BAM!)


    Sure, there was now plenty of explaining to do, but the writer felt content with the precocity of his edits and poured himself a pint of coffee.

    As he stirred the brew, images formed in his brain, as if beamed onto a cinema screen.  Was this a potential CGI family Christmas blockbuster movie in the making?

    “So beautifully rendered you can see every fibre of the trout’s technicolour sock.”
New York Times???


    Now, the writer had the makings of a plot to rival Finding Nemo.  This was no longer some run-of-the-mill weepie about an abandoned fish who reconnects with its milieu: here was a fish on the run from a vile, sheep-eating demon whose lust for flossing with the hair of its victims knew no bounds.


    Finny (because that’s the name of the trout: eureka!) flapped his fins as the demon unravelled his sock.

    “Please stop,” he cried, “for without that thermally heated technicolour miracle, I shall surely freeze to death!”


   
    A grin played on the writer’s face like the All Blacks stomping over the Twickenham turf.  Here was an idea that could run away with itself.

    The coffee cooled in its cup as words flew onto the writer’s page.  The trout’s plight, the demon’s surprise arrival, the elves’ mutinous sublot: all was here, and more.

    For days, weeks, months, years, decades, the writer wrote, turning out quadriplegic trilogy after nintupletic heptapentathingummaserial.  He tapped every emotion, renewed every possible plot, sent shares in anything trout-related SCREAMING with every new release.


    But in spite of their dreams, all writers are mortal, and one day the writer awoke to find himself dead.
   
    He stood at his writing lecturn with pen in hand, another pulse-pounding Finny spectacular poised to leap from brain to nib to parchment, when an angel grabbed him full on round the neck and barked, “you shoulda been here in 2006 with influenza, pal, but this writing bug has been keeping you alive better’n vitamins, steroids and viagra.  But it’s time to go, now. Lemme take your arm and flap you up to Heaven.”
   
    A look of incredulity rippled over the writer’s face like a day old bowl of custard on the Orient Express.  “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

    The angel coughed.  “Yeah...uhm...and...great fish stories, btw.  Even Satan loves ‘em.”


    The air swilled like snow in a Santa sleigh slipstream.

    And the writer was gone.

Monday, December 15, 2014

Gruel Log


     The gruel of the festive season is upon me.

    I’m not kidding: it actually is.

    So mucusbound have the other inhabitants of Whirl Towers become that even the spray of their infrequent animatory effuse is as poison.

    So I’ve taken to my bed with a sausage sandwich, the better to be better off than Scrooge at this stage of the game, at least.

    I happen to like sausages.

    They are lifebouys of phallusness afloat in a gruel sea of uninviting mucusy nostrilations of oblivion.

Thursday, December 11, 2014

Joyeux Noel etc christ is it the 11th already?


My veins are a-pulse with tinsel,
my man-boobs are festooned with globes.
Soon I don my gay apparel
and dangle golden rings from lobes.



Monday, December 8, 2014

Christmoosey Musings


    I love the way software installs so easily these days.

    With the exception of iTunes, today's computer progs and apps have fewer seams than a voodoo doll stitched by a frugal witch.

    Gone are the days of DOS commands to rival a chapter from War and Peace.

    Instead, we have blissful instantaneousness of a kind only dreamt about by porn film directors in the flopdown moments between key shoots.


    What a shame our newfound app-titude for user friendliness can't yet be applied to Christmas.

    Please, Lords of MisYule, get your shit together and deliver me the perfect Figgy Pudding and Fully Operational Fairy Light Set combeau.

    I want all the flavour of a firm, rich pudding AND no fiddling about with piddly light bulbs, HERE, NOW, on the same festive plate —  along with a trained squirrel to write out all of my Christmas cards and an internet of things plugged in to Noddy Holder's bonhomie glands.

    That!

    I want THAT!


    I guess what I really want is for Christmas to be like it was when I was a kid.

    Back then, everything was laid on, and just happened, from Santa arriving dead on schedule (and looking uncannily like my Dad) to that surreal “New Hamster For Old” offer my Mum discovered when Fluffcheeks choked on a Malteser from the advent calendar.

    Adult Christmases are just SHIT.

    Organising everything is like a high-stress carb-busting de-tox workout —  of DOOM.

    And the kids these days are so fucking ungrateful it's untrue.

    I'm tempted to forgo the selection boxes and annuals this year in favour of miniature air pistols and a mash-up of famous TV and film suicides uploaded to their iPods, the bastards.


    It's been a while since I feigned constipation and earned a luxury pamper day, and if truth be told, I love all the fuss and palaver.

    Christmas isn't just about getting shedloads of presents.

    It's great to receive, but the best part is giving, saying THANKS.


    The great pity in this world is that precisely the same people who have no-one to receive gifts from are also likely to be those with no-one for whom to buy them.



Thursday, December 4, 2014

Taking A Run-up


    It’s been a long Autumn.

    Leaves have remained fixed to trees like summer-lovin’ larvae had glued them in place with squirty stuff from their backsides, and all shades of green have hung on to their greeniness despite the mix n’ match yellow and brown allure of every womens’ fashion catalogue from Next to Clad-a-Trollop.

    But now, Winter’s gloves are off.

    Or on.

    Hmm, not sure here.

    All I know is, the Autumn burlesque is over, and Winter has cast aside its feather, the better to goose our eyeballs with its bleak and barren genitals.


    It makes sense for this to happen right now (uhm, yeah, Whirl — like you have a choice).

    The run-up to Christmas wouldn’t be the same without a little bleakness.  Or rawness.  Or darkness.  Or misery.

    It’s not bad right now compared to (say) 2009 or (say again) 1980, but 24 days from now, when the bleakness and rawness and darkness and misery has really set in (along with even cheesier adverts and the zillion bugle fanfare for the New Year sales), I’ll be more than ready for my roaring fire, my port and Stilton, and my inflatable Noddy Holder.

    This year, I plan to manifest as the Anti-Scrooge.






   

Monday, December 1, 2014

Thursday, November 27, 2014

Vault Face: What To Expect From Saturn's Journey Through Scorpio


   You got two posts on Monday, so technically all that bonus material ought to mean you get nothing today, in a "pup eating two bowls of chunki-meet — and throwing up" kind of a way.

   But let it not be said that this blog lends itself easily to podged pup regurgitation scenarios!

   No way is Abysswinksback any kind of Two Bowler!

   So here's a predigested morsel from the vaults, still relevant, current and hip thanks to the movements of the heavens above.

   It's been a long time since I read people's horoscopes or divined futures from arrangements of leftover breakfast cereals.  Also, a long time since I was exposed as a con man — and threatened with violence.

   Truth be told, astrology is productless advertising, a feel-good narrative spun by seasoned dupers.

   And for me, this guy is the tops...


 
    Saturn began its journey through the murky depths of Scorpio in October 2012.  Wherever Saturn goes, he slows the world right down and challenges us to take a good hard look at ourselves.  When his heavenly motion is retrograde (as it has been since February 18th) it can seem as if the whole world has come to a standstill.  Nothing can move forward, nothing can be resolved — and for those who practice meditation, nothing can even come of nothing.  This challenging landscape is where most of us will find ourselves stuck until the latter half of 2015, and thanks to the influence of Scorpio, the difficulties presented to us will be of the life and death variety.  If we are to survive this phase, to grow and change and prosper, we’re going to have to get used to the idea that the time has come for many of our cherished beliefs and ideals to be abandoned.

   That’s why I’m giving up pork.  It’s been my favourite meat since I was a kid, and ever since I saw Burt Reynolds in Deliverance I’ve had a craving for the stuff.  Squeeeeee!  Squeeeeeeeee!  Hell, I hear that sound every time I bite into a pork rib or a naked piglet.  BUT SATURN SAYS I GOTTA STOP!  It’s a cherished ideal — BITE BITE BITE — and I’m crazy without it (16 GODDAMN HOURS NOW!!!)  But I have to grow I have to change I have to prosper I have to destroy and I’m giving up talking to my neighbours, writing my weekly astrology column for Transit In Vans, anything to do with wood BURN TABLES BURN CHAIRS BURN TREES THEY’RE OUT TO GET YOU and so then I can get full Saturn power, full Scorpio power to CRUSH THE INSECT HORDES UNDERFOOT they’re not laying eggs in my brain those ANTS in their hills crawling all over my face but I GET BIG POWER and destroy — oh, yeah I’m taking out the sausages too, all the beef ones, then its BIG TRANSFORMATION TIME BIF SATURN SCORPIO POWER TO CRUSH ALL THE ANTS DESTROY THEM BEFORE THEY EAT OUR CHILDREN AND RAVAGE OUR WORLD

    *

Jacuzzi Spakkert is an internationally renowned clairvoyant and mystic.  He has written scores of bestselling self-help books including The Zodiac of Love, How The Stars Can Get You What You Want and The Coming Age Is Yours.  His latest book, DESTROY THEM DESTROY THEM ALL hit bookstores in May 2012.  Jacuzzi lives in a self-built temple in Virginia with his wife, Maureen, their two children, Izaak and DEATHTOTHEBASTARDCRAWLINGHORDES, and four thousand devoted followers/mercenaries.  The Spakkerts famously sponsor a neglected donkey called Tony.

2 comments:

Evil Editor said...
I knew nothing of this. Can I watch televised golf the next two days without causing a war or a plague?
Whirlochre said...
It's debatable. If Woods isn't playing then you might be OK, but if he's out on the green while the Syrians are arming missiles with bubonic warts then you'd be better off switching over to snooker or goat racing.