Slut-Dropping in the USA

I am the master of the slut drop.

This is not one of those X Factor “I can sing and I’m going to show the world just how good I am only to fail miserably as it turns out I’m not very good at singing in the slightest and I’ve just shown sixty million people how stupid I am” moments. This is one of those “I am so good” moments.

For those who are not in the know, a slut drop, as defined by the urban dictionary, is, “a move in “dirty dancing” involving standing with legs bending the knees, squatting until the buttocks almost reach the floor and standing back up with a body roll.” I have unwittingly been doing this most of my modern life and it wasn’t until recently that I learned that it was an actual thing with an actual name. It’s a little like Stop, Drop and Roll but with less roll.

Having conquered the world of fixing washing machines (erm…), it was only a matter of time before I moved on to the next thing. It had occurred to me that the list of things I am excellent at is so vast I wasn’t sure how I was going to narrow it down. Whatever I needed to do to work it out, it was certainly going to be an all-nighter. And just so you know, it’s very difficult being this accomplished because it opens you up to an awful lot of criticism and jealousy.

So, what does one do when one possesses talents such as these? Sit on them and hope to get famous anyway? Hide in a cupboard? No. I have to take this out on the road and head direct to the heart of the action. The World Slut Drop Championships are held in Kansas City, Missouri each year. Without a shadow of a doubt I am convinced that I can win it. So, with the financial help of the beans massive, I will be flying out in the next couple of weeks to face the creme de la creme of the slut-dropping community.

Can I beat Sophie ‘Um Chuka Chuka’ Candice? Will I be able to defeat the two times winner Bish Bush Cacklewonker? Will I have the strength to take on the Qwindle Twins?

With your money in my pocket, I’m sure I will.

Smidge-tastic Advert Break

After last year’s expedition to Finland, in order to drum up some of our European cousin’s interest in the Beans, I decided that a further visit should be arranged in order to follow up some of the key points of interest. Indeed, some might say it was quite reckless of me to fly out to somewhere I had never been before, without any financial contribution from the kitty, with barely enough coppers to rub together to warm a vole’s index finger with, and so on. To those some what I offer is a non-sensical response, scatted with expletives and a rude drawing done on the back of a napkin.

Anyway, the main point of this was to explain my most recent discovery.

It seems as though our exports are doing much better than we believed them to be. Even though they are quite clearly blatant knock-offs, Smidge Manly has been seen promoting and advertising a wide variety of different items and services. His face has been adorned plugs for veterinary clinics, hedgehog windmills, fussy hooting clocks and even plugs. His viso/volto can be seen cheering on cyclists at the Toot De La Monge in July, handing out beef jerky to tourists by the Fleecox Bantymudge and even yelling for encores at the most recent Scanty Fox Cubs tour dates.

This has been my favourite so far:

Not only are these posters on most of the abandoned buildings in Ivalo in Finland’s town centre but some people have taken to stealing the unblemished copies, framing them and proudly displaying them in their living rooms. An unmitigated honour you’ll no doubt agree. The company even hired a sound-a-like for rolling radio adverts, mostly in broken English, to be wielded about the general public’s ears for the best part of the working week.

If this carries on, who knows? The real Smidge Manly may even be asked to advertise actual real life living things. He could become a local celebrity and have his own midnight questions and answers show. He may even get his certified gold double LP ‘Double Bugger: A Selection of Manly’s Musical Mutterings’ covers album into the European charts.

The word on the street is ‘pumpernickel’.

The Face Update: My Face

After an overwhelming number of requests, it was only fair that I provide an update about my face so everyone can stop pondering their ponders and querying their queries. If you have seen my face recently you may be a little shocked as to the present state and condition of it, so I would respectfully and humbly ask that all of you take a seat before reading the rest of this post.

The Face

As you can see, the majority of my face is now just a nose. This nose takes up approximately 80% of what used to be my face. Can you even still call it a face when most of it is a nose? Nobody knows. All I know is that things have become a lot more nasal as a result of this.

The Nose

The nose continues to grow at an exponential rate. Scientists predict that within three weeks I will have lost my face altogether. It will cease to exist and only one massive, humongous nose, attached to a pair of arms and legs, will walk around pretending to be me. I will resemble Chris the Cheese but instead of a large block of cheese I will resemble a huge conk, and small school children will haphazardly wander into and up my nasal cavity in the hope of finding their lost kites and skateboards.

The Eye

In addition to this, another shocking revelation is that one of my eyes has been replaced by a BBC news presenter in the middle of reporting an interesting piece about China. This article repeats every seven minutes and whilst it has become a repetitive and somewhat annoying inclusion, it is very informative and has won several awards. Seeing through it is no longer an option; I have taken to wearing an eye patch, much like pop chanteuse Gabrielle, to cover my iron shame.

Conclusion

… I should probably go see a doctor.

Dear Beans… Considerate Companion Conundrum

Dear Beans,

It’s been a while now since my last letter and things have not gotten any better. As life does drop many a hindrance in my way, so too does it reward me in such bounteous ways. For instance, my friends are far too generous. Why during the last couple of months I have received a plethora of items through the post. These have included my favourite film on DVD, on no less than five occasions, as well as numerous other DVDs and CDs containing music the likes of which my ears have never heard. Each time I come home from work there is always something waiting for me in the post. The day that I return and my letterbox is empty is the day I utter a large, “tut tut tut” to the sky.

But how does one repay these gifts of kindness? How can I hope to ever give back that which has previously been given to me? What can I give to them to try and redress the balance?

I mean it’s hopeless. I could attempt a similar feat but when it comes to this extreme level of thoughtfulness you have to offer something more otherwise it will just come across as hollow and meaningless. This is a conundrum that requires more consideration than most.

If there is anything at all, any piece of advice that you can serve like a ring of crackers on a silver platter, then please send it my way.

Yours faithfully,

Mr/Mrs/Dr X

What did you just say about beavers?

Reuben approached me last weekend because he had recently had a dream that had perplexed him and needed to know what it meant.

This is mostly his dream with details but with a smudge of embellishment on my part:

“Reuben is walking around school with his new fictional best friend, Daniel. They had decided to walk back home through the woods once the school day was over. The woods, though dark, were still light enough to be unthreatening. They had gone halfway through when they heard a strange noise and a bright blue flash, and stood at the base of a tree was a beaver.

They tried to get near but each time the beaver disappeared and reappeared in a different part of the woods. Sometimes the beaver would appear in different attire, and in particular as a Mexican. Reuben and Daniel split up and in doing so, one of them managed to grab the beaver. As the other approached, the bright blue light flashed and they had magically been transported to ancient Egypt.

It was at this point they realised it was a magical, time-travelling beaver.

The animal was tired; time-travelling is a very tiring experience. The only way to re-charge the beaver was to feed him a particular type of wood. Once this was done, Reuben and Daniel had to try to convince the beaver that they needed to go home, which was difficult because the beaver was worshipped as a God in this period of history.

After a fair amount of tussling, the beaver accidentally transports them to the post apocalyptic world of 2704. Then, through a series of mishaps, they also take in the sights of the Jurassic era, the Romans, pirates, Aztecs, Victorian era Britain, World War II and the 1980’s.

Eventually though they get home and decide to keep the beaver as a pet. It turns out he is called Harold. His full name is Harold “Carrot” Bevoid. In his time he drives a Beaver Delorean. His time is not specifically mentioned so they do not know what year he has time-travelled from.”

…

Something to do with puberty perhaps?

Gaffer Tape Adventures

Are you bored of walking home from work the same way? Sick of seeing the same sights as you trudge to your girlfriend’s house? Have you had enough of using your eyes and witnessing a monotonous, predictable series of events every day of your life but can’t afford a holiday to sweeten the deal?

Then we have the product for you.

Gaffer Tape Adventures is the newest of the new. All it takes is a simple idea; covering your eyes, and possibly your ugly mug, with gaffer tape. Now the whole world is a brand new place.

No longer do you face boredom as you leave the office. No longer do you tire of the familiarity of the way to your significant other. You see nothing; every day is a new challenge as you shuffle slowly down the street, attempting to avoid hitting people and falling over objects. Each road is a potential death trap. Each moment could be your last.

Our impressive kit can start you out on the road to adventure. We will provide you with everything you need to get started with your own Gaffer Tape Adventure. Our easy ONE – TWO – THREE step program will get your up and away within minutes.

You will be awash with fear and excitement. Not only can you bite the bullet big time but you can also look forward to these other thrilling activities:

* Muggings
* Stabbings
* Groping
* Wedgies
* Nuggies
* Unexpected Conga Lines

We can guarantee you the time of your life as soon as you put your life in the hands of Gaffer Tape Adventures.

£49.99 from your nearest aviary.

The Timps Chea Party

It was a small gathering, but it was enough to garner interest from the highest rungs of society’s ladder. That was always the case for the Timps Chea (pronounced “Chi”) Party.

Bolderville sniffed at the contents of his cup and scoffed; a little noise emanating from the back of his throat, “Is this what counts as an acceptable blend these days?” Emmental peered up from the book she was sifting through, mid-sip of her own drink, and shot a daring, lacklustre look in his direction. This was not the first time Bolderville had interrupted her book, her story, her line of thought. His opinions could be heard from the other side of the room, even through the most heated of debates. Once something upset his tastebuds, or his stomach, he was first to announce it and always at the top of his voice.

“If you don’t want it you are more than welcome to try to find something more to your tastes in the back of Nanny’s cupboard. I think she still has some Oakenfold Harbinger from her trips to the Ivory Coast. It goes remarkably well with civilised company,” she quipped, hoping to dismount his verbal attack before he even had a chance to regroup his efforts. Bolderville didn’t even bother to acknowledge her remark; he was too preoccupied with the flavour rolling around his mouth. Usually he had ripped the drink to pieces by now.

Could it be that he had changed his mind and the chea was growing on him?

“I’ve tasted better down the crack of even the most slimiest, more repugnant shops in the sweatiest districts of Backgammon. In fact, the last time I threw up I’m almost entirely sure it had the texture of this!” That was more like him. Those were the words of a blunderbuss, a person botherer, an unpleasant, parsnip-twitching, egotistical hammock of a man.

Emmental sighed. Her own chea, a blend she had cultivated herself after long afternoons in the portland stiles, was as light and bewitching as the eyes of the black kitten Nanny had given her just the other day for her twilight birthday. Between the two of them they had enchanted just about every member of the Tripod Dynasty, even burned out Haggard McPondPoodle. The chea reflected her personality. It gave good lips and a savage grace. There was no point wasting any on Bolderville though; he would not understand the subtle nuances, and fake a gagging noise to attract attention from the clot of Susan beasts in the courtyard.

No, today was her book and her chea. Let him with his he and his ho waddle in the puddle of his own discontent. Let him dampen the air with foul language and disharmony. Crash away, my good man, Emmental thought, for you have no business here.

Only one problem but remained; nobody knew what a Timp was.

Chris’ New Favourite Song – ‘Broiler’

In ancient Latin a ‘broiler’ is a broken boiler. So many people have been brought to their knees because of a lack of hot water.

In accordance with Beans law, so it was requested that a song be written to accompany Christopher’s anguish at no longer being a Big Man (TM) and having to resume his role originally handed to him in a sock over a year ago.

I was the person handed that task and I am the one who has furiously sculpted the song that lays before you. There is no joy to be had in this post. If you are looking for sunshine and pickles then I would suggest you look elsewhere. Only doom and gloom permeate this blackened tune.

If only the National Whinge Line was still up and running. Keep your next of kin on speed dial.

Broiler

It was a Tuesday night,
I wasn’t feeling alright.
I knew I’d felt better,
As I clung to my sweater.
Inclement weather in May,
Added to my disarray.
Kettles wearing a frown,
My boilers broken down.

I think it’s the flue,
Problems, I’ve got a few.
The warranty’s out of date,
Got there two days too late.
Now that the meters teasing,
Everything’s slowly freezing.
Oh, there is just no pleasing,
Shunt’ be this cold this season.

(Instrumental break)

Glow worm, Valliant, Worcester Bosch

So, I am left this way,
In this cool month of May.
Engineer can’t come by
‘Til 3pm next Fri.
Over a week like this?
Fiddlesticks, ladles and whisks!
Combi’s left me so blue,
Tell me, what can I do?

Diddle diddle dee dum de dum de babaaaa badum

I hope this is sufficient for everyone’s purposes. Whilst this tale may not be true, it easily could have been.

Pouring
Beans

Author: Ian “Air Travel Regulations” McIver