17 August 2005

Pork Lift

We humans stand upon the pointy end of the food chain. Our ancestors ended up eating, wearing or making ‘brollie stands out of any creature that would dare stand in our path.

After millennia of such a robust culinary attitude, we’ve tamed to the point where our food comes pre-packaged, and our only natural enemies are loud people with mobiles that inconsiderately block access to said plastic coated goodness.

In order to maintain my keen predatory edge, I gathered up my “Mallet of Silence” and headed to the grocery store.

“Hello, hello, hello! What’s all this then?” Why, ‘tis Officer O’Grady of the local constabulary blocking my access to the grocers. He’s seen every episode of Monty Python, and fancies himself a comedian. In reality, it’s compensation for a small pecker. I pity him, more than anything.

“That weapon, it’s a clear violation of your parole agreement” He continued. What a berk.

“This mallet…” I sputtered. “You’re saying my mallet is a weapon?” I think of it more as a motivational tool.

“What are you going to do with it then?” He smirked. “Put up a circus tent?”

His idea has its merits. Lure a bunch of clowns in, then… WHAM, WHAM, WHAMITTY, WHAM, WHAM!

But this was no time for getting lost in such an endearing fantasy.

“Haven’t you ever heard of thumping melons to check for freshness, O’Grady?” Oh, innocence, thy name is Evil.

“I am NOT about to let you wander about the store walloping people skull-ways with a mallet!” He shouted. “Give it over.” I gave.

Oh poo.

Wouldn’t you know it, a few minutes later, some short, balding, chubby bastard was stopped, shopping trolly a-kimbo across the Pork aisle; blocking my access to all the piggy goodness.

“…AND THEN THE DOCTOR SAID I’D HAVE TO KEEP MY ANAL FISTULA CLEANER, IF I DIDN’T WANT IT TO CONNECT TO MY COLON….”

Oh, you and your mobile phone must die! I cast about for a club, bare wiring, a carelessly discarded nail-gun. Nothing!

The grocers, it seems, have learned their lesson. Plan B. I threw my arms around him, giving his arse a good squeeze. Out came his wallet, in went a pork tenderloin. I’m goooood.

“OH MY GAWD!” I shrieked. “IT’S DAVID HASSLEHOFF!”

I have to go now, I think I’m about to be raped.” He whispered into his mobile. See, pillock, it is possible to talk at an SPL of less than 120dB.

“Sing to me in German, my little knockwurst!” I burbled in his ear. He tore himself from my grasp and pelted out of the store. I followed.

“Hey O’Grady!” I yelled. “That guy’s trying to shoplift PORK!”

O’Grady dropped my mallet and gave chase.

I recovered it and returned to purchase my own pig parts, funds courtesy of one Mr. John Hackford.

I’d like to think that my distant ancestors looked down from the Happy Hunting Grounds and nodded approvingly.

Evil Scientist; master shopper of the Serengeti.


And that's the way I likes it.