Cast Out the Pesky The Weekly: Maintaining Britain's Standards
Nibbles exhausted

Host crucified

Building tumbling into sun

Guests knifed

Address wrong
Mr Aesop's Just So Fable Stories
The Zebra And The Mouse
Now listen and attend to this next tale, O my Best Beloved. Zebra had just finished murderin' everyone in the house a-stamp-stamp-aaarghh when the tell-me-phone rang (as tell-me-phones are wont to do). Clumsily, using his hooves, he answered it. The call was from a radio quiz programme which rang random people and asked them a question. Now it so happened that the programme had been on the radio playing in the kitchen, so Zebra knew the answer, and gave it, smart-like, before the clock ran out, tick-tock. The prize was to have the show 'smitted from the winner's house. Zebra said that would be fine, and he was a-looking forward to meeting the host. He left the house quietly by the back door, a-chuckling to himself at the thought of what would happen when the programme-makers arrived 'morrow morning. Crossing the road, he was killed in a hit-and-run accident. The driver was never found, and it was thought that Zebra was unlucky and had been knocked down by the murderer of the people in the house as the murderer was 'scaping by car.
    Zebra went to heaven. There had been a missed-understandin' there in the records department a few days 'fore, and everyone's book, 'scribing what they had done in their life, had been thrown away. St Peter recognised Zebra from the television news and, similarly thinking that the driver of the car had been the real murderer, let him into heaven. There, Zebra was confronted by his victims, one-two-three, who 'ported him to God. Called into God's presence to explain his-self, Zebra managed to distract God's attention by a-pointing to what he pretended was a broken cloud, and then kicked God very hard in the head - clump! clump! - with both of his hind legs. Zebra then 'sguised himself as God and began a-ruling heaven in his place. But because Zebra had none of God's powers-of-wise-and-wisdom, he found commanding the universe to be very much difficult indeed. He made many mistakes, although no one saw them as such. One day he had to change the towels in God's bathroom. But he did not know where the airing cupboard was. He asked a mouse, who straightaway showed him the place. "I realise now," said Zebra, "that although I am larger and stronger than Mouse, I do not know as much as she," and recited the following pome, which I will now proceed to relate:
I may be a zebra
But I nebra
Claimed to be
Any more than stripy
Not at all, by crikey
Zummer-de-zoo, zummer-de-zee.
Moral: Thy pride is but the prologue of thy shame, and that's you told.

How The Archaeopteryx Got Her Feathers
Settle down, O Best Beloved, and lend attention to my next story. A very long time ago, during the prehistoric Jurassic period, which is so far back you couldn't count it on all your fingers and all your toes, Archaeopteryx pushed her way out from her mother's egg using her tiny poke of a beak. She sat up in the bright morning sunshine. "Good morning, Sun," she said, for she was brought up polite-like. "Thank you for being so warm and drying me so quickly." Then she looked around at the nest. There were several other eggs, but at the moment she was the only child to have hatched. Waiting patiently for her mother to return with food, for Archaeopteryxes are fond of their food, and eat worms and squirms, grubs and nubs, them that flies and them that tries, and the big-red-berries of the red-berry-tree, she stood up and stre-e-etched her arms, and was s'prised to see that they were covered in a colourful array of soft, flexible growths. Archaeopteryx thought for a moment. "The gliding 'ptiles are a biological dead end, as they must by 'cessity live high up and near the sea. These flexible growths on my arms and body must be a 'speriment by Nature to see if they will permit me to control my flight more easily and so expand further inland. They are a process of evolution. I shall name them - feathers."
Moral: One good turn deserves another, maybe. How the hell do I know? This was years ago.

Why The Cat Is Evil
Here, have a 'cseeding goodly cake and listen to my next tale. A man met another man to tell him stories and, by the 'zample of these stories, to show why Cat is evil. But Cat tricked the first man, and he fell down some steps clunk-clonk-clunk and died. The second man, under the control of Cat, burned the stories that the first man had told, and there was no evidence to show that Cat was evil. But this in itself was an act of evil, although Cat wasn't that bothered.
Moral: We often give our enemies the means of our destruction, so don't be an idiot and keep the means of your destruction somewhere safe, like in a box on a high shelf, behind that horrible doll thing you brought home from holiday last year but inexplicably haven't thrown out. Ugh, it's creepy.
Sniper giggles

Pilot vertigo

Aromatherapist body odour

Queen's Tourette's

Atomic bomb manufacturer big wobbly sweaty terror hand

Neurosurgeon's sneeze
advocate feature   archives   corner shop © the weekly science combine