LEPRECHAUN LUNACY

"Hit it," said Lulu, right before the power cable electrocuted James' brand new Raybans.

As Rex punched the cow the first time, his hand began to bleed. By the seventy-second brutal swat, his hand was marrow pulp scattering in the wind. The three of them sat and had a smoke while the beast took its revenge on Pram, who had been the one to warn, "Cattle will turn on you if worked too hard. Buffalo are different, they'll take anything like a docile Stalinist." How Rex wished he had picked on a buffalo.

But what was done was done. He could sense it would be considerably late by the time the duel coloured beast finally fell to its side, its life force spent by the collaborative of a man-child with excessive testosterone levels and a girl whose only means of amusement centred on the death of bovine entities through use of excessive force.

"I never liked those shades anyway," said James, his shirt scorched and reaking of fried bacon.

"Oh...My...God!" screamed Pram, hesitantly and with dramatic pause at first, since she wasn't basing what she saw on anything resembling concrete evidence. "Is that a group of homophobic cacti or am I just suffering peyote withdrawal again?"

"Neither," said James. "You've lost too much blood. Just kill the beast, do him in. Kill the beast. Do him in. Kill the beast. Do him in." Soon enough Lulu and Rex joined the Fly-Lord chant, slow at first, then a medium stroke. Within minutes it was a fevered pitch and soon after that they all shared Pram's vision.

"It's cathartic, man," sighed Pram. "No, it isn't," contradicted James. "You're on the verge of death and undoubtedly seeing shit that isn't real, like Geoffrey Dahmer over there." " Who invented him to this sitting?" "Who doesn't know how quotes go?"

Pram, Lulu and Rex looked to where James was pointing. The goat which James was pointing to was dining on blades of grass at the time of the accusation.

"James?" enquired Lulu. "Are you all right?"

"We're all going to die!" offered James as he unzipped his pants.

The shared vision was taking a turn for the worse for Pram when she saw the size of James' wang chung; an offputting three feet of steel with a hook at the end.

"You can ring my bell anyday," offered Rex with a smerk.

At that moment, as the goat began its charge towards the quartet, the heavens opened up and dropped bloody tears of uncertainty onto the impending fracas. The normally surefooted mountain goat slipped on the bloodrain and impailed himself on the homophobic cacti as Daumer licked his lips and scratched his bum. Rex had stood all he could stand and was sitting in the corner tattooing Popeye just above his bizarre appendage.

"Is there no escape from this lunacy?" asked Lulu with a sigh and a sip of champagne.

Juggling street performing kittens, Rex wept at the precocious nature of humanity's slide down a bottomless paper cup of mediocrity. Expecting an exclamation point in the form of a momentous, solid wall of excrement to arrive at any moment, Rex concluded the potency of the drugs was beginning to fade.

"Hey, buddy," Rex said to the goat.

"What in the name of the sacred hellish father's perky red eyes do you want?" the goat demanded in response to Rex's advances.

"Cigarettes, nitrogen, a chocolate Easter bunny's ear, and seven bottles of Muskoka cream ale," said Rex, reminding the goat of his ex-sister-in-law's deadbeat pool cleaner's chinchilla cat. "And I need some help juggling these kittens. I'm afraid I'll drop one."

The goat looked at Rex. The goat followed the flying kittens as they moved from Rex's hands into the air. Disgusted, the goat backed up to rush Rex with a head butt. One of the kittens landed on Rex's head. As the kitten's tiny claws sank into his bald pate, he screamed with pain. The goat stopped, he was laughing too hard to get the muscle tenseness needed to knock Rex over.

Then the phone, which had been resting on a stool in a central part of the heather, rang. Rex eyed it suspiciously, expecting another tricky-dicky situation to eventuate. His giant strides took him with great purpose towards the phone.

"What!" he said into the 1940s model mouthpiece, distracted in his periphery by a glimpse of the goat stuffing three kittens into its mouth.

"You are killin uss-all!" said the voice on the phone in a thick Irish accent.

Confused, Rex popped another pill. Nothing seemed as ordinary as a misguided space module consuming carbon paper copiously. Or did it? Rex drop-kicked the phone and wrestled the goat to the ground, put it in a full nelson, and begged it to beg for mercy. The goat responded with an act of ingenius trickery: it played dead, dangling its lifeless tongue from within its bleak coloured lips while emitting an eerie sound which resonated from deep within the bowels of its sacrilegious chest cavity. It sounded not too dissimilar to a jaded bleat, extended in synchronicity by a high-pitched flapping of its anus that greeted Rex at the base of the nose, which instantly disintegrated into pixels aligned too far to the left. The asynchroneous vibrations probably would have killed Rex on the spot had James not speared the goat with his 3 foot hooked appendage. [As it turned out, Rex would outlive them all and not die until a 43-hour absynthe binge did him in at a Shanghai karaoke bar after one too many Celine Dion numbers.]

For James and Pram, the celebration ended all too early when the internal bleeding in the cow's brain forced its head to explode, saturating each member of god's numerous races with a thick layer of red waste product that an endless numbered measurement of anti-stain remover couldn't handle.

"That's a great big fucking mess we're in," sang Lulu, wiping numerous substances from her modelesque facial features, ably backed by the lads and the bleeting goat. The cow outtards proved astonishingly useful when the hooded clansmen arrived, and in retrospect contributed the lion's share to eventual world peace.

THROW ANOTHER BRICK ON THE SALESMAN

Corey and Candy were discussing the finer points of urinating from a moving vehicle.

"No no no!" Corey said, "You have to aim AWAY from the direction you're travelling, or else you won't hit the destitute kids lying in the gutter."

It made sense to inform Candy of the finer aspects of moving urinary projection. After all, she was a novice and required as much help as the next girl in ensuring that perfectly good piss didn't go to waste. Corey was more than happy to prop Candy up against the window, using the might of his back against her's while Candy's legs protruded from the window like two illuminous white flag poles. Luckily for Corey, he was able to divert thoughts of an intimate nature by having his mouth so close to his own erect penis that he could virtually taste it.

All was not lost as Candy displayed the prowess associated with those of a quick learner, having shown all and sundry her aptitude for mastering the abacus in her third year of schooling and, perhaps even more memorably on the calendar of memorable stuff and so forth, her ability to flex and extend every muscle in her heavily aerobicised body.

Candy took a deep breath and coughed a wad of phlegm pragmatically into the lap of a passing cyclist.

Lance Armstrong looked down at the snot missile that plopped onto his lycra shorts and smiled to himself, admiring the girls accuracy. He looked on appreciatively as she urinated on a passing tramp, her vectoring nigh-on perfect. The vagrant waved gratefully, hoping the jet of wee that had arced so gracefully into his mouth without further soiling his clothes would contain some of the special magic that made Candy so beautiful. As the tramp shed a single tear, Lance thundered passed him, musing that she was actually passing on something by pissing on something, or someone in this instance.

Lance's own excretion technique was one of his few weaknesses. His soggy derailer often left him the laughing stock of the peleton, so he decided to purse Candy to learn her urinary wisdom.

Armstrong accelerated hard. Too hard, so hard that his urine-soaked derailer derailed all the way down the Versailles mountainside, landing on a flock of travelling salesmen headed north for Suomi. Their chants of support for female Republicanism were rudely interrupted by several spokes, loosened and hurtling at breakneck speed through the cosmos following Armstrong's gaff several kilometres in arrears. Jean-Luc, the best dressed and head and shoulders the most successful bachelor at weddings of his fellow work colleagues, copped the brunt of the travelling martial arts sideshow: three spokes had found their way into both eyes and into his crotch, the simplest of the targets to hit should one be so inclined, each protruding half its length from Jean-Luc's notoriously tanned body and spilling, by the proverbial bucket load, a diluted substance his colleagues assumed falsely to be a vintage specimen of cabernet sauvignon.

Jean-Luc would exact his revenge on Armstrong in another life, but for now the well-hung life of the party was fading before he had time to pay his last respects to a world that had appealed to his outlandish sense of moral meandering.

Jean-Pierre and Jean-Reno, Jean-Luc's closest friends through proximity in space, learned from Jean-Luc's misfortune. They ducked then parried then weaved and finally kissed the cobbled road to avoid a spate of bicycle parts from Armstrong's inferior contraption.

"Zis iz not ohver by ze long shot, Mizzeur Arm-zdrong," Jean-Reno spat, waving his hairy forearm and clenched fist to inspire others into action.

"Yez, yez, Mizzeur Arm-zdrong," Jean-Pierre insisted, following in his colleague's footsteps, with one eye trained on Jean-Luc's limp body as it sat propped up against a cheese dispensing machine. "You will suffer ma pungent gallic revenge soon enuff"

Lance, unaware that he had set in a motion a chain of events that would lead to his death 30 years later on the slopes of Space Mountain, picked himself up off the ground and tutted. Peering over the cliff edge, he saw what looked like a huddle of work shy continental folk lazing around a FettaVender, poking at the shattered remains of his wheel.

Idly wondering why the frenchman below had looked so irritable, Lance fashioned a replacement wheel from a nearby boulder, using branches as spokes. He set off in hot pursuit of Corey and Candy in their trainee pissmobile, the wild light of urinary success burning into his over achieving retina.

"Corey!" screamed Candy sensing her bladder draining to dangerously low level. "What?" came the reply, muffled by Corey's knees, which had steadily tightened their vice-like grip on Corey's head. "I'm running out of liquid gold. Any bright ideas?"

Corey reached blindly with his right arm towards the chauffeur, a fellow they knew only knew as X; on loan to the pair for the weekend from Corey's brother's drug dealer's best client's former boss's laser treatment technician's girlfriend's next door neighbour. Corey tapped X on the shoulder, then said: "Do you have any cartons of prune juice left?"

"What if I do?" asked X impudently.

"Well, we'd really appreciate one right about now as it's far too early to end this escapade of ours. We haven't scored any direct hits of the rich or the famous. What do you think, X?"

X mulled it over, then sang, somewhat surprisingly for a man with his considerable lack of musical ability: "Stop, you can't touch this," jiggling his shoulders like a naked femme prancing about on stage at a bachelor's party with only tassles to cover her silicon flash bulbs. It was quite a sight for Corey and Candy, who had only seen X in straight-faced work mode prior to this newly displayed openness for exhibitionism.

"You wanna hit Hammer's pad?" X enquired following a moment's uncomfrotable silence through the use of the rearview mirror. "I hear from my man in the Riviera that he has a small villa stashed in a quiet valley not too far from here."

The offer sounded too good to decline. "Shit yeah!" replied Corey and Candy harmoniously. "How's about that prune juice, X?"

X smiled through his gold teeth. He tossed a carton of prime prune juice over his shoulder as though giving the peeing twosome a lifeline.

Little did any of them know that Armstrong was quickly gaining on their yellow Citroen or that the businessmen were equally as determined to avenge their colleague's death by pursuing Armstrong. Having stolen a hot air balloon stacked with packets of yoghurt from the lawn of a church, Jean-Pierre and Jean-Reno twirled their bicycle mustaches as they cursed at one of America's contemporary sports icons.

Best described as yogurt madness, a band of tzazika wielding Greek ninjas intercepted the balloon just as it was descending upon Lance's crooked kneepads. Fortunely for the twin Jeans a barroom brawl simultaneously spilled into the cliffside street, with half the urine-soaked drunks taking their side, the other half applauding the ninjas voraciously and projectile puking like a lawyer on a tour of India.

Carl and 'Leaping' Lou Brock, proprietors of the most illustrious brick farm in Europe, Scantily Clad Bricks, were in the middle of proudly showing off a ton of their new season glass and barbed wire range to the Benevolent Stargazers Association of Id when, amidst the scuffle of the day, Jean-Reno accidentally brushed past 'Leapin' Lou's shoulder with less than a 'scuse me' or apologetic glance. Carl, respectful of his brother's short temper, one which culminated with the creation of a life-sized bronze statue commemorating the unsolved disappearance of his first wife, Clarice, which he had unveiled at the stroke of midnight using only his raw and bloodied elbows and triceps out of respect, declared to the brawling throng: "Your geese are cooked, Frenchies!" diving with supersized paws into the stack of bricks as if his life were at stake.

Four by four, bricks transcended space, time and dimension as the Brock brothers hurled bricks at the rate of a machinegun on the verge of ejaculation. The danger zone lay somewhere in the general direction of the twin Jeans, flooring anyone and anything in the way.

Filing his nails absently, raining what the uneducated thought to be snow upon his favourite creation, God decided that enough was enough.

He watched the brick warfare besieged balloon chasing the lone Armstrong chasing the 3 miscreants bound for hammers house and decided he enjoyed that screening of 'It's a Mad Mad World' that St Peter had organised much more than this idiosyncratic farce.

Hammers safety could not be compromised.

Not by a bunch of piss addicts, a swarm of angry frenchman and a load of drunken brick maniacs. There was too much work to be done. God drained his Pina Colada in one gulp and smacked his palm flat on the Earth, crushing all the participants in this unfortunate anomaly in one fell swoop.

Hammer looked on from his balcony and nodded in silent penitence to his master, surveying the mashed bodies with quiet humility.

God was indeed wise, he thought.

"Thou shalt permit Hammertime"

He went back to work on his next sindle; 'The Eleventh Commadment' (UTMG)

THE ELLA FITZGERALD LOOK-ALIKE CONTEST

Style was more important than rubber underwear, at least that's what papa's male nurse used to say. Back in them days, looking stylish wasn't about fashion but about deception. People would skin a panther with their bare teeth, drape its pelt around their loins and bask in the glory.

Nowadays, euphemisms were common and style was as subjective as a dog poo with salad dressing. Men preferred skimpy tops to accentuate their stout midriff. Ladies were high on flagwear, sewed indifferently by malnutritioned seamstresses of expansive girth and sparse leisure.

The era demanded that tradition be damned, which is why illegal contests were entered by masses of underground freaks who secretly craved free haggis though rarely got it.

Recently however, the guys from Queer Eye had redefined the roles of the fashion police, mostly by whacking large cucumbers where the sun rarely shone, yet always cast a shadow.

In January of '06 a new light shone upon all. Organised and funded by Sir Elton John, the direction of fashion centred on look-alike OJ Simpson. Simpson would regularly dress up to look like many famous celebrites of the past, including Sir Elton John himself, and this trend was now becoming prominent in mainstream fashion. OJ's first costume consisted of leather and hemp to symbolise freedom, equality and other fantasies longing for public attention. Simpson's pants were of course chaps, smothered in butter and seasoned with roadkill. It formed quite the partnership with his cheap cologne.

As if Elton wasn't bad enough to shag, his fashion sense smelled like tripe pancakes. Elephants wrestling in squid love juices, while being peed and defaecated on by recently paroled zoo keepers, emitted more pleasant fashion odours. As did dung beetles, squashed roaches and fat women's shoes worn for more than two decades.

The fashion industry was shocked when Elton announced: "The world needs an Ella Fitzgerald look-alike contest," much like it was with Gaultier's Mother of Pearl encrusted 18" dildo.

Many didn't know of Fitzgerald. Many thought she was the sea plane made famous by Howard Hughes. Some thought she was a sandwich.

The contest failed before it could succeed when three representatives of the entertainment industry set John on fire and passed around medium to well-done shishkebabs to onlookers at no cost.

"The man's a toss-rag," said Vinnie Jones during the arraignment. "Hear, hear," added Jarvis Cocker to quizzical looks from the jury, comprising of hearing impaired orphans on anabolic steroids.

The trio's feelings on the matter were summarised by Liam Gallagher's borderline poetic sentiments when he shouted, "Piss off, you nonce!" before landing a sucker punch to the guard's groin and darting from the court.

Most girl-drink drunks will attest to lifelong admiration for cowboy boots after six margaritas and becomingly Agnostic palpitation crystal boundless frazzle, and whatnot. This is why cocaine is the preferred alternative.

Thank god Chuck Norris was present to sort the fashion chaff white belts from the bona fide patriot missile blackbelts.

Gallagher, Jones and Cocker were left open mouthed as Norris cartwheeled down the catwalk in a miniskirt/fallout suit/gassmask combination made entirely from selotape and polo mints. There was raucous applause as he decapitated a Time magazine representative mid spin with a shoe made of ricicles, following the errant reporter's comments in a pre-show press conference about the validity of Fitzgerald's work. Chuck had vowed revenge, saying that The Great Gatsby was the whole reason he got into "Fist Justice" in the first place. Now he had that revenge and to show it, he wore the journalist's claret like an ironic accessory.

"Ella, not F. Scott," O.J. foolheartedly lamented to the tray of cucumber dip which had managed to catch his randy little goat boy's eye. He leaned nonchalantly with one shoulder against the wall and seductively dragged his tongue from the right side of his lower lip to the left. O.J. inserted his left index finger inside his mouth, secured his lips tightly over it then removed his finger forcefully with a sideways motion to generate a popping sound. He flared his nostrils as wide as his genes would permit and completed his patent pending sexual advance by looking at the tray of cucumber dip through the corner of his eyes before thoroughly sucking his extended middle finger in a bobbling motion, gradually increasing the momentum. He'd been practicing the event in his floor-to-ceiling mirrors at home, often without the encumbrance of clothes as on this occasion, dubbing it 'The Smoulder Technique' out of respect for his two favourite conspiracy theorists, The X Files' agents Scully and Mulder. So far, O.J.'s bed sheets had projected only the smells and stains of an aging African-American Houdini with only a beckoning cabaret singing career to look forward to. Fuelled by a pocket full of Rohypnol and eight grams of ecstasy, O.J. entertained ideas about spraying his bed sheets a shade of green and white veneer that night.

Chuck was halfway through the cartwheel when he picked up O.J's rohypnol musings on the Psychic Injustice Radar built into his knuckles. Silently praising the CIA boys for their handiwork, he leapt through the air and roundhoused Simpson into the cucumber sandwich platter. Naturally, all the sandwiches divided neatly from halfs into quarters and nobody except the NFL legend was injured. He didn't study Shaolin for nothing!

The camera crews present were in uproar, accusing Norris of assualt, GBH and previously undisclosed knuckle modification. They soon shut their cakeholes when Chuck lifted his rowntree/gaultier polo fallout suit to reveal his Thought Display Monitor. The journo's gaped in awe as OJ's sick ecstasy musings were laid out in cold hard televisual evidence on the Texas Rangers cathode ray abs.

The shock publicity brought massive attention to the fashion show, its future assured by the never waning star of notoriety. It would be forever remembered as 'The day Chuck Norris showed us a TV in his stomach with OJ doing bad stuff on it.'