Wednesday, 30 May 2012

Planet Nedward

Nedward sit on their inflatable couch, flicking through the channels.
“Oh look Ned, were on telly they’re doing a replay of us performing Waterlone, our brilliant new song, on the Eurovision” Ward says in his irritating girlish voice, his Rs rolling over each other.  Neds face jolts to the television screen.
“OMG OMG Ward we look so good! I especially love our badassness””
 “...and the winner of Eurovision Song Contest twenty twelve iz *drumroll* Sweee-den.”  The crowd cheers, the lights flicker and Ward switches the channel.
“It’s only a load of poo anyway Ned, don’t mind them, they don’t realise who we are, wait until next year! Third time lucky eh! “

“You know what you’re right Ward, next year we will show them people from Europe how out of this world we really are,” Ned winks at Ward and pulls at the zip on the back of his neck. Pulling his face, his skin stretches like elastic from his skull and his brown tentacles emerge. His eye snaps back to place in the centre of his head. Coughing and spluttering he reaches back his mouth and pulls out his ‘voice box’.
“Thats better,” Neds raspy voice is unveiled yet again to his brother. He burps like a ribitting frog. “Get me some jelly and ice-cream Ward I’m like sooo hungry,” he orders.
“OMGOMG, like its waay to early to undress Ned, like what if someone comes to visit are you stupid?”
“Seriously Ward, chillax bro, no one’s going to travel all the way to Planet Nedward to visit, do you realize how many gazillion light years we live from earth?”
“Yeah I suppose like but I just love looking this cool! Like up this high we don’t even need wax for our hair to stay up! How cool is that isn’t that sooo cool Ned?” Ward asks his brother while he sucks some helium from a balloon and jumps around doing somersaults.
Ned turns his attention back to the television. “Three giant alien spaceships are again heading for Earth!  Scientists predict the new ships will arrive in November of  2012,” the man on the television  announces. Neds jaw drops to the black spots circling his chest. He looks up toward his brother.
“Aliens?” He asks... “But were the only aliens allowed on earth, like were the ones that are heading for world domination”
“Yeah and were going to lotsa cool stuff like hand out loony shots and give everyone free jelly and ice cream and stuff,”  Ward exclaims, still in the same high pitched voice. Ned rolls his eye and turns over the channel. 

Wednesday, 23 May 2012

What Goes Up Must Come Down

‘Mirror mirror in my hand, who’s the fairest of them all?’ Beckie stares into her gold encrusted hand-held mirror. Eyes blinking and lips pouted, she waits for her name to be announced.
‘Well not you anyway’ replies the evil ghoul reflection. His laughing ‘mwahahaha’ fights its way around the stifled air of the room. Startled by his evil groans, her hand falls to her side and with it the mirror drops to the floor, shattering into millions of pieces.Her hands rush to her head as she grabs hold of her red curls.
‘How could this be?’ She wails and throws herself on the concrete floor, barely missing the shards of glass that now lay beside her.  

In the fragmented glass on the ground her reflection is cast around the dank room: orange overalls, to match her scarlet hair, a protruding nose and like most other witches a massive wart to accompany. From her corner hovel she rises, blurry eyed, and makes her way to the bed. A shard of glass glints in the corner of her eye and unveils the fat lump of extra skin on her nose. In a fury she scrambles through the unending shards of  broken glass to find the one that caught her eye. Success .In triumph she holds the piece in her bloodied hands high above her head, as a thank you to the gods. Squinting into it she laughs at her silly relapse and turns her head admiring her beauty from all angles.
‘Why, I am the most beautiful thing the sun ever shined on,’ she reassures herself.
            Meanwhile, outside an angry mob assembles itself, pitchforks at the ready and blazing torches to scorch the witch that hacked their telephone lines.
            ‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let your hair down sweet Rapunzel,’ one man shouts from the back of the crowd.
            ‘Yeah so we can set it on fire,’ another jeers and the crowd shakes in unison with laughter.

 From the recess of her window, Beckie stares out at the crowd below. Their hungry eyes fasten on her pale fearful face as she clenches the bars of the window in an angry rage.
            ‘No Rupie here to rescue you today my dear,’ they bellow. Unfortunately for Beckie this is no fairytale nor is it one of the twisted versions of The Brothers Grimm. Her fate has been navigated by a supreme court not by prophecy. This rapunzel will not be able to let her long red curls down the tower for her shining prince to come rescue her. From her cell window the only way out for Beckie will be her descent down the wisteria tree, which she fought so hard to climb up Once Upon a Time. 

Wednesday, 16 May 2012

Super Tanning Mum

We have heard it all, anorexia, bulimia but the new trend to spread across America is Tanorexia. According to the Oxford English Dictionary Tanorexia is an obsessive desire to acquire and maintain a suntan, by natural or artificial methods, or as I like to put it the wish to become part of the Simpson clann.  Tanning has always been considered a characteristic of beauty to the people of the western world. Once the sun peeps out from behind those clouds we shed our winter warms for something a bit more scanty, lace some butter on our skin and allow it to melt while the sun burns holes in our skin which makes us beautiful and malignant beings.

Of course there are always going to be those few people who take it too far such as Tricia K an Oompa Loompa mother who has previously starred in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. It turns out Tricia wasn’t actually a native of Loompa Land and spends her days on Sun Beds in order to achieve the orange chocolate brown colouring which adorned her part in the film. I think Mel Stuart, film director, deserves to get a refund from Mrs K.

Not only did Mrs K lie about her ethnicity but also about the mis-treatment of her daughter,  who suffered sun burns while “tanning with mommy”, police believe. It seems that this New-Jersey Mom has taken her tanning expedites a bit too seriously.

Tanning is not only seen as a characteristic of beauty but one of the qualities of a superhero. Yes it’s true Mrs K now stands in the same bracket as our childhood heroes: Spiderman, Superman and Batman. With her ability of turning browner then most other human beings, a trait that can only be connected to her hard-ass super hero skin, she has  been granted the privilege of her very own action figure earlier this week.  This yellow heard plastic figure with its orange beaming face is set to appear on your child’s Christmas wish list next November. Its plan: to take over every home across the world and set up a tanning booth while there.

Wednesday, 9 May 2012

Garden Trolls

Pop stars make more money from their death than they do during their life.  This explains why there is a little white bony man living in the shed at the end of my back garden who goes by the name of Michael Jackson. He sits opposite the 42” inch plasma, laughing his head off at Conrad Murphy whose being trialled for his supposed “death”.
            “I can’t believe the fools buy this,” he chuckles under his breath while two Philippine women shake their palm tree leaves for effect (keeping in mind it’s a frosty Irish November morning). The question that rings out in my mind is ‘Why would Michael Jackson choose Ireland as a place to live his death?’ The answer of course is unknown.
            The court case is adjourned for the day and Michael makes a call from his blackberry curve.
            “Well, Smurf,” he says in a put on bogger accent, that really doesn’t compliment the delicate tone of his voice; although it must be done for fear the neighbours overhear him. “You did well today, I’m proud of ya man. The check is in the post don’t you worry about that,” he winks at his Philippine friend, hangs up and slouches back into his armchair.
            “Turn up the heat Alexandra.” He snaps his fingers and the girl to his right throws more wood on the open fire. Yes this shed is deceiving on the outside. As they say never read a book by its cover.
To think, ‘The Michael Jackson’ is occupying a space in my back garden is a very exciting prospect, or at least was. It didn’t take me long to find out that this great “Hero” of our pop generation is nothing but a fake, a phoney, a money pincher. About two weeks after his alleged ‘death’ an old friend of mine came knocking on the door. Someone I owed a couple of favours to you see, and that is where it all began. Now Whacko Jacko sleeps at the bottom of my garden every night and counts his pennies during the day. It’s often I’ve passed his hut on a dark winter day to hear him counting “33, 35, 36, 38” in that disturbing voice of his.
            It would surprise you to think a man that has earned over $300m profit since the two years of his death is living at the bottom of my garden; it would surprise you he is living at all of course. Surviving on beans and toast and CNN footage of a court case that brings him back to life. They say that he is greater in death than he was in life. From my bedroom window he doesn’t look that great.

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