Breaking the mould

Dear Sir (or madam)

            I (or you) think it's about time (or manner or place) for this book (or... book) to move in a new direction, to become more spontaneous, to break the mould (sic – oops, sorry) of British beef. And that's why I'm writing to you in this epistolary form (rather than a vat of lemon juice).

I should like, however, to recommend to you some books, though aware that others too have been drawn to your attention:

- The Wombles and the decline of the Roman Empire – the untold story. 158pp + illustrations and pop-up features.

- Hamish McWomble reflects on his part in demolishing Rome and upon then gathering up the rubble which others left behind.

- The lives and loves of a cabinet [that's it?!]

A wandering moose

There was once a self-conscious discourse
Which ended up being served as a main course
But it took its revenge
In blood by Stonehenge
Though the case was solved by Inspector Morse.

More moose – less gnat!

There once was a limerick so abstruse
That everyone it did so confuse
It took them by surprise
But at the final reprise
It was understood by a wandering moose.

Oaf who

There once was a lemon-green oaf who
Was also a nice white sliced loaf who
Said "Four curried fleas
And a whole load of cheese!"
And filled up his wellies with tofu.

There was also a loud ambiguity
Who ate laundry with assiduity
'Twas a British Rail sandwich
That got out of hand which
Reduced it to mauve superfluity.

Closed for deconstruction

Arthur realised that the house was surrounded – how could he escape? Then he remembered the system of underground passages beneath his house, so he proceeded downstairs at once. But the way was barred by a sign (sic) saying "Passages closed for deconstruction – deferrals possible indefinitely, with the possibility of infinite regress. Please take diversion via vicious circle, as indicated." "Damn," he thought, unable to exploit the ambiguity.

    moose + moose = more mooses

    moose + hat = less hat

    moose + less = left-handed

    left + hand = more

"I am not a language. I am a free yak."

            Discuss.

Yesterday's tomorrow

A word on time zones:

In some parts of the world, today has been tomorrow, and yesterday is today, whilst in others today will have been yesterday's tomorrow, tomorrow had a yesterday which is now going to have once been called today, and in still others yesterday was tomorrow and today's the day you worried about tomorrow, and yesterday there would sometimes have been throughout caused by, for and not excluding the fundamental future past of the tomorrow. Is that clear now?

{Speech bubble:} TOMORROW NEVER COMES

{Speech bubble:} BUGGERED IF I KNOW

The beginning of the end of the end of the beginning of the end.

Is a trace.

{Speech bubble:} What?

This will not (therefore) have been today. Thank you.

Imploding bastard

When he arrived, the house seemed strangely familiar. "Băstard!" Arthur thought. "He's stolen my garden!" The regular cops must have had a tip-off – there were fifteen or twenty cars, scores of uniformed and plain clothes men, marksmen, armoured vehicles, insurance salesmen, professional golfers.

"Make way, I'm a doctor," said Arthur, shooting a pathway through the crowd. He burst into the house – and realised he was up against a psychotic. "Băstard! He's stolen my living-room!" From outside the bungling uniforms apostrophized over a loud-hailer, "Throw down your weapons – and come out with your hands up!"

    What?
    Not plot?
    Squat
    Parrot.

{Negative space, boxed in}

"What's it all about?" thought Arthur. And imploded.

[Simon: "Nothing but four upturned theodolites"]

(?) theologies!

Both guns blazing

Arthur dashed across the driveway, both guns blazing – at least 25 hoods dropped under the heavy fire. Next he entered the house, battering down the door, shot the man who had come to see what all the fuss was about, and rushed upstairs. He knew the mass-murderer was up here somewhere.

Out of nowhere he heard a noise behind him. In a flash he had turned round and hurled his combat knife. It was the mass-murderer's wife. "Try the bathroom," he thought. And lo – there, as he approached it, he thought he caught a glimpse of a bulky savage man, armed to the teeth. "That must be him," he thought.

He entered the bathroom, and there was the vicious man himself. But a rude shock awaited him – he was looking into the mirror. "What a cruel trick," he thought, "that camouflage paint really doesn't do me justice. I'll have to go for something more stylish next time."

A slight doubt remained in his mind – "am I the mass-murderer: surely not?" He barely noticed the dead bodies and wreckage as he left the house. "Perhaps I was given a false tip-off," he mused. He looked at the number of the house – 1257, 35^th street (East, sunnyside up). "Of course," he realised, "I got the wrong street – it's 33rd street where he lives." And he set off at once.