I've already posted this on another thread, but this seems like a good place too.
One day JTT was walking through the forest with some cakes for his grandmother Al-ak-bak-nak-nutty slack. ‘Go straight there,’ his parents had told him, for even though he was in his late fifties, being unemployable, he still lived with them. ‘Whatever you do,’ they warned in tones most grave, ‘Don’t go off the beaten track and start wandering up your own arse again. Last time that happened you were stuck up there for weeks. We didn’t miss you of course, we missed your arse, it makes a great vacuum cleaner.’
‘No it doesn’t, yours does,’ muttered JTT when they were safely out of earshot.
As he trudged along miserably he came across a clearing, there was an American dressed as P.T. Barnum trying to interest a crowd of people to try his latest attraction, but he wasn’t having much success. ‘Ladies and Gentleman,’ he roared, ‘If you enter my ghost mirror maze you will be guaranteed to win all arguments, and treated with great reverence by all and sundry.’ The crowd weren’t impressed at all. There were cries of, ‘Bollocks,’ ‘Rubbish,’ and ‘I’m an Ochlophiliac.’ Overall the general consensus was that only a complete dickhead would take up such a ridiculous offer.
‘Count me in,’ said JTT, handing over his hard claimed money to ‘Mr. Barnum.’
‘Just a minute,’ said the American, ‘You can’t enter the attraction dressed like that. Nobody will take you seriously. You’ll have to wear this lime green leotard with mustard yellow nipple tassels. It’s an extra extra extra extra extra large’
‘Well it’ll be a bit of a squeeze, but fortunately I always carry half a pound of beef dripping around with me just in case I get a bit peckish. Could I ask you to lube me up?’
After three hours of sweating and straining, JTT finally managed to get into the figure hugging outfit. He admired himself in the mirror provided. He looked way cool, nobody would ever call him a dickhead now. ‘Thank you for all your help,’ he said, shaking the American warmly by the hand, for JTT was only rude to Americans when he was safely hidden behind the anonymity of a PC monitor. When he met them face to face he was polite to the point of obsequity.
Our hero then ventured into the attraction feeling pretty pleased with himself. He rouned the first corner and came across Contrex sitting under a tree reading a 1966 Beano annual (the one with Biffo the bear balancing a large drum.) There was a parrot perched on his shoulder, and the parrot seemed to be enjoying the book almost as much as Contrex. ‘Did you write that book?’ asked JTT.
‘Um no, it’s a Beano annual, lots of people wrote it,’ replied Contrex somewhat taken aback.
‘Then you’re a ******* thief,’ screamed JTT. ‘And I’m taking your parrot just to prove it.’ And with that he snatched the parrot and wobbled off on his merry way.
‘That’s not my parrot,’ yelled Contrex at the slowly retreating figure. ‘He’s wild, and his name’s Google.’
‘JTT is a ****,’ squawked the parrot at the mention of his name.
‘You’re not very advanced for a parrot,’ sneered JTT in reply.
‘JTT is a cheesy knob goblin. JTT is a twat. JTT is a cock womble. JTT is a ****.’
‘You’re a liar, but as I’m glad of the company, you can stay, just don’t call me a **** again’
‘JTT is a ****.’
They continued like this for the next half hour, because JTT always had to have the last word, and the parrot always replied when spoken to. Eventually they came to a large group of people sitting around, drinking, chatting, laughing and generally having a good time. ‘Hi everybody, I’m JTT, now the fun can really start,’ he said merrily, but nobody responded. JTT tried shouting, prodding, singing, in short everything he could think of to try to get their attention, but it was all to no avail, it was as if they were completely unaware of his existence. Eventually JTT screamed why won’t anyone talk to me.’
‘JTT is an annoying little tit.’ screamed the parrot.
‘You’re a liar,’ yelled JTT in response, ‘It’s because they’re all too cowardly to talk to me.’
‘You want to listen to that parrot, he makes a lot of sense,’ came a voice from inside a gypsy caravan parked at the side of the road. JTT looked up and found himself face to face with a horse lazily chewing some grass. For a moment JTT actually thought he was being addressed by the horse itself, which was novel enough in itself, because he was used to dealing with the other end.
Eventually, after teetering for quite a long time, the penny dropped, and JTT realised where the voice was coming from. At the same time he noticed a sign partially obscured by the caravan, the sign said, No travellers, and JTT, always eager to stick his nose in other people’s business, thought he would have a few words with this particular gypsy.
‘Hey Izzy,’ he shouted, (for ‘twas he,) ‘Have you read this sign? I think you should come out of your caravan and read it right now.’
‘I’m illiterate remember, so that sign doesn’t apply to me, anyway I’m too drunk to care, but someone once told me it said No leotarded weirdos covered in parrot ****.’
JTT sat and thought for a minute, was that an insult? It probably was, who would put up a sign banning leotarded weirdos when this was the first time he’d been there? If they had put up a new sign, once they’d met him, fair enough. It still meant they were cowards and war criminals, but more importantly in meant Izzy was a consummate liar, and JTT could prove it.
‘I know what you’re trying to do here, but it won’t work, you see I’m not covered in parrot ****.’
‘Schlootchz,’ went Google, as if on cue, depositing a mini guano mountain on JTT’s right shoulder.
‘That’s nothing,’ said JTT. ‘I can do much bigger shits than that. And I can prove it.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ replied Izzy quickly. ‘Look, if I get you a drink will you promise to **** off and make other people’s lives misery. I’m a gypsy parked outside a pub with a No Travellers sign, the very same pub that I’ve just been thrown out of for fighting. I’m so drunk I can’t even string a basic sentence together, but I’ve still got a better chance of being served than you.’
JTT didn’t drink, not since the time he had half a pint of shandy and exposed himself to a group of schoolgirls, fortunately for him, none of the girls were carrying magnifying glasses, so the whole incident passed unnoticed, but he would have a soft drink.
A few minutes later Izzy returned with a glass of orange juice some good news. JTT, had won the argument, and everyone respected him greatly. In recognition of his new found status he had been given a pair of purple glow in the dark deely boppers. Not only that, the orange juice company had been so impressed they’d given him an orange sash with the company name emblazed across the front. JTT was delighted, at long last his efforts had been recognised, and he rushed to put on his new acquisitions.
‘Don’t I look magnificent?’ he purred, standing there in his figure hugging lime green leotard with mustard nipple tassels, a pile of guano on his shoulder, purple deely boppers and an orange sash with the word Jaffa across the front.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Izzy, ‘You look great, but I’m off my ******* nut,’ he said finishing the last drops of a bottle of Melbourne old and muddy.
In fact the only person who didn’t appear to be impressed was Google. ‘JTT is still a ****,’ it squawked.
With that, JTT continued on his journey to Granma’s, and the cries of ‘Liar!’ and ‘****!’ slowly retreated with him. He had taken so long that by the time he arrived his grandmother had died of starvation. Not that he gave a ****, the only thing that mattered was that he’d proved his point. Nobody would ever call him a dickhead again. He had the deely boppers to prove it.