Tuesday, July 15, 2003

Conjoined Blogs

Ninety-five: J. K. Rowling. Born 1946, the only daughter of a simple black smith in Kensington, Jasmine Kipling Rowling refused to follow local tradition and take over her father's furnace when he burnt to death in 1972 and turned her dainty fist instead to plagiarism.
By the age of forty-eight she had penned her first piece of shit novel, "The Worst Witch" which was immediately recognised for being the complete rip-off that it was.
One name change later, accompanied by one transsexual operation for her lead character, and Harry Potter was unleashed on an unsuspecting public. Unsuspecting and unsupportive. It flopped in the same massive manner than Christopher Biggins' teabag flops during anal intercourse.
In 1997, however, J.K. acquired herself a new publicist. Maximus Cashicus Cliffordarski. At which point she never looked back, except to use her knowledge of the finer points of plagiarism to take every children's book author in the world to court for stealing her ideas. Even the rotting corpse of Roald Darhl was dug up and dragged through the assizes.
Harry Potter had now become an instant, over-fifteen-year-night success, earning the once council-estate dwelling harridan enough money to bankrupt several small countries and buy up the ITN News for a blaze of publicity.
Harry Potter himself died tragically in 2003 when his broomstick was sucked into the engine of a Boeing 747, whilst the little girl who played his companion in the films, unfortunately survived.
J.K. Rowling has recently bought the rights to Ronald McDonald and his bollock burgers and is now suing God for stealing the idea of children from her.

Seeing as Nancy's blog doesn't appear to be working, rather than waste a good five minutes of literary composition I thought I'd post it here instead.
So...Britain is undergoing a heatwave, (94 degrees in the shade...it's even hotter if I stick my head in the oven) which is, all things considered, about as likely as a gerbil sitting a degree course. Fortean Times, however, has verified the occurance and, in consequence, everybody's turned purple, blistered violently about the shoulders and neck and started to sizzle. The whole of Fleetwood smells of bacon and Ambre Solaire!
Most of us have now melted, forming a large, collective pool of sweaty blubber outside the post office. Such a sight hasn't been witnessed since Fergie last bought herself a stamp.
I'm not very good at heat. Every so often I have to stop typing and tilt my head to one side to allow my brain to trickle back down my ear canal. Unfortunately it keeps sloshing into my sinuses where there are currently three barges, one painted bucket and a large, red and white skinned woman with her elbows on display wedged at the top of my nostrils.
At this rate I'll have to remove one of my sweaters and consider buying some air conditioning. I believe Herbal Essences is quite good...crap for curly hair, like mine, but it brings you to orgasm in thirty seconds and gives you an annoying American accent.
I might even be forced to open a window but I'm worried in case the seagull on the ledge outside stumbles in. I don't mind seagulls in my bedroom but its little licks and panting have been keeping the window clean this last fortnight.
In the meantime I have telephoned God to tell him to turn the volume of the sun down as he appears to have gone on holiday and left it on full blast. Unfortunately Van Gogh was manning the answering service.