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I live in a towering skyscraper on the banks of the River Ribble, which I own. The skyscraper, I mean. Not the river. I don't own the river. That belongs to the people of Ribblesdale, a town that I preside over. I rule it with an iron fist that I keep in a demagnetised cupboard. I used to keep it in a magnetised cupboard but I couldn't get it out and eventually had to resort to reversing the polarity by crossing the streams.

In my spare time I coax dolphins to the shores of the west coast of England where I tap dance and play a trumpet, hopefully confusing the dolphins into believing that Roy Castle is alive and well. They don't deserve to know the horrible truth, oh sweet, innocent chimps of the sea!

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Best answers to questions:

» Injured Siblings

I confess...
When I was seven years of age, I used to beg my mother for a little brother or sister. My main reason, at the time, was that I desperately, desperately wanted bunk beds. Mother always said, "No," although sometimes, when I was feeling especially persistent, I would get as far as a "We'll see". And that, as every child knows, is as good as a "Yes".

I waited and waited and every day I asked my mother if there was a little brother or sister on the way. For the longest time the answer was always a stern "No!" Then one day when I asked, Mother gave a cheeky, knowing smile and her beautiul green eyes sparkled. She leaned forward so her face was inches from mine and, looking deep into my eyes she whispered, "Maybe." My heart skipped a beat. I came over all unnecessary and ran up and down the street, bleating like an asthmatic lamb. Time swiftly moved on and, after some weeks, my mother and father became certain that they were indeed expecting their second child. As a family we were as strong as ever in our mutual joy and anticipation. In his excitement, Father decided to put his well-honed DIY skills to the greatest use possible: he agreed to build bunk beds for me. "This will come in useful in a few years, son!" he gleefully told me as he set to work. I was at the peak of my happiness. I felt that life simply could not get any better. How right I was.

A few months in, Mother and Father began spending more and more time in the spare room, painting the walls in soft, pastel hues. I did all I could to gain their undivided attention, so much so that they went out and bought me a Stretch Armstrong to keep me occupied. And it did. For a while. But the novelty soon wore off and the jealousy set in again. Raging, unbridled jealousy over my womb-bound sibling. This unborn child of Hades, the progeny of selfish, unloving parents, was already beginning to ruin my life.

That evening, while my father was out buying some more paint, I was following Mother downstairs after she had given me a bath. I was in a foul mood and I was carrying a handful of toys, which meant that I was unable to wipe away an irritating bead of water that had trickled from my wet hair and onto my soft, pink cheek. The water crept further and further down my face, tickling my skin with every fractional movement until the sense of irritation turned to anger, compunding the rage that already burned inside of me like some kind of infernal, steaming hell-dog wolf-python. I exploded, throwing my toys down and striking my mother square in the back with the full force of my body weight. She tumbled awkwardly and landed with a thud at the foot of the stairs.

And that was the end of it.

Mother and Father were quiet for a long time after that. My father left us eventually. Mother started drinking a lot. I stayed in my room and played with Stretch Armstrong.

Now, almost twenty years later, my father still hasn't returned. Mother doesn't leave the house much so I go out and buy brandy every day. It keeps her from crying. I'm alright, though. I've still got my bunk beds. I sleep on the top. Stretch Armstrong goes on the bottom.
(Thu 18th Aug 2005, 15:24, More)

» Apparently I'm a sex offender

Citroen
I walked into the Citroen dealership in Texas, intent on purchasing a new vehicle. I felt physically sick at the thought of giving my money to the French, but I loved the Citroen symbol so much. It reminded me of a brace of albatross mating in mid-flight and never failed to make me smile. My spaniel had just been raped and murdered and I needed cheering up. So in I went.

"Good day, sir!" honked a middle-aged man with greying hair, ruddy cheeks and an American accent. I could see a tuft of silver hair protruding from his flies, and the sight warmed me.
"Hello there," I politely replied.
"Don't patronise me!" bellowed the bovine fellow. "I'll eat you for breakfast!"
I tried to run, but his transatlantic legs were simply too fast for me. He tripped me and I fell heavily before slipping from consciousness.

When I came round, the man was nailing me to the front of a brand new Citroen. He wrapped me entirely round the front end in place of the bumper, then calmly walked away.

Hours later, a young Texan woman came in to browse the selection of Citroens available. She saw me and hurried over. "What are you doing down there?" she asked.
Shamefully, I replied, "Apparently I'm a Saxo fender."

Arf!

Sorry.
(Fri 18th Aug 2006, 12:22, More)

» Misunderstood

I apologise and assure you I will no longer submit long, nonsensical answers
In the light of last week's QOTW, in which several b3tans took the opportunity to point out that my previous answers have been pretentious and, moreover, epic in length, I have decided to take a step back and look at myself and, more importantly, my written output on this board.

The term 'epic' has been used throughout the history of the arts as an adjective to describe a work of great creative scope, and has even become a noun used to label such works. The great War & Peace is often described as an epic literary work, and this description has since extended into cinema. Indeed, Richard Attenborough's Gandhi and David Lean's Lawrence of Arabia are hailed as historical epics. Yet when the term 'epic' was used to describe my writing, it was meant in a derogatory fashion, as though 'epic' was to be translated as "a rambling, over-long scrawl of worthless, uninteresting nonsense."

Of course, there have been others who have posted messages in praise of my efforts. If I was an arrogant, self-centred person I could use this praise as an excuse to continue in the same fashion as before. I could state, like some kind of acid-fried, semen-milked, fading rock star, that as long as my output makes at least one person happy then it is worthwhile. However, this approach to life is not in my character. Therefore I have decided to reduce the length of my answers. Hopefully the old adage "quality and not quantity" will remain at the forefront of my mind when I am composing future responses.

When I immerse my twitching consciousness in the erotic, animalistic act of writing, I tend to become a kind of sex-crazed Gummi Bear, flailing wildly at the keyboard, beating at the letters randomly with my purple fists in the vain hope that what appears on the screen will resemble some kind of legible prose (or, in a couple of cases, poetry). I then take the raw product of my emotional outpouring and construct from it various sentences. I then arrange these sentences into meaningful paragraphs. When these paragraphs are arranged in an order that I think is appropriate, I read over the piece and insert random adjectives and even entire descriptive sentences to flesh it out. This process is akin to taking your child, whom you love and cherish dearly, and holding him aloft with your sinewy arms for all the world to see, and bellowing at the top of your lungs to any poor soul within earshot, "Behold! Witness ye my progeny! Look upon him as the pride of my soul and the joy of my heart; as the fruit of my carnal labours and the throbbing product of a sweet yet violent union; but mostly as a reflection of myself!"

This, however, is no excuse. From now on I shall no longer write such expansive and nonsensical musings. I shall no longer waste the time of myself nor my fellow b3tans, whom I hold in the highest esteem and would do anything for. Indeed, were it possible I should very much like to gather all those who dwell here amidst the electronic ether and place them inside some kind of giant abandoned fish warehouse-cum-steam roller, blazing an unstoppable path to eternal glory and happiness. I would lovingly caress them one by one up and down their silky spines with my tender, feathery tongue. I would tweak Legless's proud chin delicately between thumb and forefinger, while gently singing a sweet lullaby to BadGirlActsGood through my nose. Despite his obvious bowel problems, I would treat JinDod with the utmost respect, dropping to one knee to offer him an ankle massage with my firm, meaty forehead. I would then offer shoe_pastry my veiny hand so that we may dance a merry waltz, before rousing calgacus and Mad McMad from their unsettled slumber to assure them that everything will be OK. It is just a vision I have. I am but a man; I am permitted to dream. To hope. To cry.

And so, on to my short, succinct answer to this week's QOTW:

I went into a cafe once and asked for a hot chocolate. The lady behind the counter was of Eastern European origin and she obviously completely misunderstood my request: she brought me a cheese and ham toastie. The whole fiasco caused me to smile.
(Fri 7th Oct 2005, 12:54, More)

» Crappy Prizes

How an old man made me who I am today.
"Well done, you've won yourself a fantastic prize, young man!" I was told. And following my efforts, I honestly felt I deserved one. Old Mr. Harrison from the farmhouse nearby was pleased with my paint-work and I was proud of what I'd done. His wife had been dead for 15 years and he was lonely and debilitated. Yet his 89 year-old eyes had retained the wicked sparkle that had won the former Mrs. Harrison's heart all those years ago. He led the way up the dirt track toward the rickety, ancient barn where he had conceived his only child back in '53, and as he walked ahead I observed the way his buttocks moved independently of one another, and his bow-legged gait had my imagination working overtime. Oh, Mr. Harrison, you tease!

We were within metres of the barn's dark entrance when the rain came, unexpectedly and fiercely, beating down on us as though God Himself was trying to wash away my sinful thoughts. But God had reckoned without my umbrella of unshakeable lust. The spear-like streaks of rain turned the buttercups inside-out, and the flowers all cried out like a chorus of jaundiced monkey foetuses begging for death. Mr. Harrison picked up the pace a little, flailing his besleeved arms to try and gain momentum.

Inside the barn, the damp, musty smell hit the back of my throat like a squid that had been flung against the bonnet of a Ford Cortina by an enraged Maltese girl, forcing me to drop to my knees. I vomited for a good fifteen minutes while my aged companion sat on a bail of old hay, sweetly blowing into his harmonica. The sound of the harmonica caused me to roll involuntarily onto my back where I lay, twitching like an erotic dung beetle. I managed to bring myself to my feet, but my vision was terribly blurred and I wandered around the barn like a Romanian child forced to live on a diet of elbows for all of its sorry, short life. I finally found the barn's entrance again and fled from it into the damp field. The rain continued, only hindering my vision further. I slipped, fell and slid, screaming a sort of desperate sexual hymn all the way down the dirt track and back to the farmhouse. The farmhouse wall finally broke my slide, and I let out an angry, cat-like grunt as my body struck the damp brickwork like a bag of Pringle socks against a child's thigh. Mr. Harrison found me some hours later, cowering behind the horse trough, weakened and shaking like a freshly-raped dog. It was then that he gave me my prize: the old harmonica. His saliva was still dripping from it. I lapped it up hungrily.

Mr. Harrison died only days later, although when I play that old harmonica I can sometimes feel his hot breath against my scrotum.
(Wed 10th Aug 2005, 9:21, More)

» Have you ever paid for sex?

Swap
Not so much paid for sex, but I did a swap. I exchanged a Polly Pocket and some cunnilingus for a No. 50 Star Wars Special Edition Tazo and full bum sex. Both parties left the situation with a sense of satisfaction and one-upmanship.
(Thu 19th Jan 2006, 16:24, More)
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