The Well-Built Pie

Spokesmen for Neuremburg Zoo, Germany, today announced that they would be hand-rearing a polar bear cub abandoned by it’s mother, and not leaving it to have it’s tiny fluffy little head popped off after all.

“We’ve consulted the Zoo Handbook at some length, and it turns out that we’re supposed to look after the animals in the zoo”, said spokesman Helmut Barenschnuffen.

“We were quite surprised, we thought that as cutting-edge conservationists and environmentalists, it was our job to just leave the miserable thing to die while we argued the toss about global warming and beat ourselves into a state of sexual frenzy over pictures of Al Gore.”

When asked if this about-turn in policy was as a result of a realisation that the previous position of “letting nature take its course” was a fucking stupid thing to say, given that the animals are in a zoo, where they are unable to feed themselves , roam freely, or in any other way act naturally, Mr Barenschnuffen produced a box of kittens from under the desk and advised us that they would start getting fed to the tigers if we didn’t drop that line of questioning.

“Sometimes, it is necessary that a single animal must die, for the greater good of securing a place on the conservationist lecture circuit”, he said, before returning to crossing off ugly, non-photogenic animals from the “to be saved” list of endangered species.

The polar bear cub was unavailable for comment, but a professional lip-reader watching footage of the bear reported that his first words after hearing of the reprieve were “This never would have happened to the fucking Meerkats”.

Written by Jerome K, in this year of our Lord, Nineteen Hundred and Six - (and another hundred)

Chapter x – Concerning Roswell

At this point in my narration, it would be a good moment to pause temporarily and introduce more formally my travelling companion, Roswell.

Roswell is a large, rather rough-looking cat, of a particularly mean and spiteful disposition. His matted, usually filthy coat makes valiant attempts to be white, but rarely succeeds. He did, when he first moved in with me, have mis-matched eyes – one blue, one brown. However, one day he returned late and looking especially foul of temper. As he glared at me indignantly, apparently contemplating which soft part of my anatomy he would savage first, I realised that the brown eye was simply gone. I never found out what happened to it, but I strongly suspect that the household of one of the larger of the local rat population now has it as a trophy adorning his sitting room.

Roswell came to me several years previously. I was standing in my kitchen, contemplating some deep philosophical issue or other, or possibly about to fry a kipper, I don’t remember clearly now. Suddenly, through the open back door (it was a warm day, and a lively kipper), shot a small brown blur of squeaking flashing black eyes. It was followed immediately by a considerably larger white blur of hissing, spitting death.

Roswell (for it was he), pounced on the rat (for that is what it was) directly at my feet, and with a single shake of his head, not only despatched it, but caused it’s head to fly clean off, and bounce across my right foot – a most peculiar sensation, given that I was in no way prepared for it. He then calmly strutted into the living room, splayed himself out across my chair, and has been here ever since.

He ate the kipper too.

I spent some time asking around the local area, enquiring as to whether anyone had lost an ugly, mangy engine of destruction and rodent genocide, but curiously, none would admit to it. By this time, in any event, he had made himself thoroughly comfortable at my house, and considered the arrangement quite suited to his needs, although he was never happy with the lack of a milkman. The postman would come, and Roswell would saunter out to greet him expectantly. When a manila envelope was proffered instead of cream, the postman would generally leave shortly thereafter, counting his fingers. I think that after the first 6 months, Roswell must have known, but by then regarded it as his duty to keep the postman entertained. Or, postmen I should say, as curiously none would ever stick it out on our round for very long. I did hear, although it may be an exaggeration, that one poor fellow ended up in a soft room, babbling about the “White Demon in the Rhodedendron Bushes”. He was always a rum sort of fellow though.

King Zog - that’s a brilliant name, isn’t it?

Apparently he was president/king of Albania between the wars (i’m not entirely clear on which sort of Head of State he was as I was distracted by an email about cake, but the safe money is on King, unless by some freakish coincidence that was his first name, like Elvis). Not only did he have a cool name, he also survived 55 assassination attempts. I’m informed that Castro survived about 600 or so, but lots of those were really dumb CIA plots, like introducing genetically modified cats into Cuba, on the off-chance that he might get licked by a poisonous kitten. Shit like that.
No, Zog dealt with PROPER assassins, with guns and bombs and shit, and not only did he avoid them all, he actually bagged a few of them himself! Now THAT’S a proper fuck-off King right there. I guess there is the possibility that he was a bit mental:

“Sire, you appear to have shot someone”
“Yes – assassin”
“My Lord, that is the seventeenth this week, are you quite sure? He looks like a milkman to me”
“Yes, they’re getting cunning”

But, like, what are the chances of that?

Anyway, I got to thinking, maybe this is what we need NOW. We’ve all clearly had enough of these immoral, suited liars that we keep winding up with at the moment, so let’s get a proper King in, one who’s ready to go twatting people with a scimitar, give him a shit-hot name like Zog, and then give him the power instead. Then he goes out, tells people what’s what, and generally sorts it all the fuck out. It’s a plan brilliant in its simplicity.

Well, I’d vote for him, anyway.

I seem to have a plethora of pies now, scattered across teh intarwebs, so there will shortly be an assimilation of those ones into here. Also, check out the funky new look!

Some edgy comedians done some bad swears on a grand-dads answer machine:

Resignations: 3
Suspensions: 2
Daily Mail reader complaints: 50000+
Prime Ministers calling it “unacceptable and innapropriate”: 1

———

Haringay Social Services allow, ONCE AGAIN, an abused child that they’re supposed to be keeping a watchful eye on, to be killed by its scum-sucking parents:

Resignations: 0
Suspensions: 0
Daily Mail reader complaints: Not a one.
Prime Ministers calling it “unacceptable and innapropriate”: 0

Great Britain - it’s a “special” place.