The Book is back (or is it front? But the front is the back --> The book is back to tnorf). This time it's public (but soon to be made private).M utually ) No
{A circular badge with an unhappy face in the centre, and the words "DECONSTRUCTION & CONCOMITANT INSANITY? NO THANKS" round the edge.}
A ssured )- thank
D econstruction ) you
Suddenly the Mona Lisa frowned in the manner of a person being unexpectedly disembowelled with a pair of tweezers. The image ruptured, and reformed into the most horrific-smelling venomous beast of burden that any of the Enterprise's crew (of seven) had ever seen.
It was the Leader of the Shrimps.
It oozed gungingly round in its bucket to face Kirk. "We come in peace," it slimed, "shoot to kill."
"That's my line," exclaimed Kirk, who now resembled a shoebox full of pot noodle and gargoyle sick. "Fire torpedoes, Mr Lunu!"
"Firing now, sir," replied the Lieutenant. The Right-tenant said nothing (probably because he was Russian and didn't understand a word anyone said).
"Well, you wouldn't be firing them four millennia ago, would you?" said Morse, appearing not altogether unbizarrely from the ship's Portawarp. "Lewis?"
"Warp factor 17, Mr Snott," ordered Kirk.
"Och, if I give her any more she'll blow Captain," replied the haggis-eating bagpipes.
"Warp factor 459." And she blew.
"Damn," said Kirk. "I did it again."
(to be continued?)
The scanner opened, revealing an inky void screaming for its mummy. Framed in the centre was a massive tooth-shaped metallic four-poster-bed-like thing that might have been called a ship if it hadn't looked as if it was going to squelch revoltingly around the universe very soon.
"My God," said Kirk, who wasn't, and mutated into a herringbone-patterned sofa-cover. "It's the Shrimps."
"Incoming frequency, sir," said Uuuhur-urhub-uhru for no very good reason, except it was "true".
"Hail the Shrimps, Lieutenant," said Kirk, recording his version of various religious and pseudopolitical love squawks for posterity's posterior.
A picture appeared on the scanner. It was the Mona Lisa.
"That is a popsicle, Captain," said Mr Pock, studying his instruments.
"No, it's not – it's a painting by da Vinci. And please put those violins away, Mr Pock. And the harpsichord."
In Tomorrow's "Storybook", Albert decimates the population of Middlesex and uses their mortal remains to make interesting and imaginative paperweights.
Also – we'll be giving helpful hints on putrid offal sandwiches (here's one I prepared much, much earlier...)
There will also be a competition for the best collection of used tea-bags and the most bizarre decapitation. All heads must be claimed after the programme, as we cannot accept responsibility for returning them.
His brain was resting in hospital last night after a 36-hour ordeal with the shrimps.
There was a long green monster
A monster thick was he
He had an aunty Gertrude
And he took her out for tea
She tasted... green.....
The monster's name was Albert
He had a bowler hat
He kept it in a filbert
To hide it from his cat
The cat was... mean.....
The cat was sometimes oddish
The cat was sometimes mad
It liked to smell old codfish
Especially if bad
They smelt... obscene.....
Albert liked railway stations
And eating people's knitting
He didn't like orations
Or much excessive spitting
He was quite... clean.....
For a monster – though he dabbled
In mudsprings in a land which
Had dung-heaps where he paddled
With a putrid offal sandwich
Green – and obscene!
No. 24 SENSE --> {Diagram of a wibbly island containing a house, a tree, and two fish}
"Hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, thou Beamish Stout!
Calloo Calay!" he chortled in his gout.
[sorry: – goat]
The Ichthyosaurus
This poor beast found a doleful end
(It makes me weep to tell it)
One day it overheard its name
And then it pined and died of shame
Because it could not spell it.
There was a fishy lizardy thing
And sometimes it went: – Ping!
'Tis of this fishy lizardy I sing.
Ping!
Hello, persons.
I'm going to tell you about the Enorbous Orm.
It's groon, you see.
Made of fudge and treacly bits, bicycle chains, and old things with no name any longer.
{Increasingly illegible}
Full fathom furlongs of foom.
And as my writing degenerates into complete illegibility {illegible scribble}
