FRIDGE MAGNETS
Little polio-stricken boy saying, "Don't forget the pickles, mama"
Ill-thought-out grinning cheese
Six plastic letters too few to spell anything funny
Complete set of heads of film stars arrested for drink-driving
Slightly disturbing animated fridge opening a human figure with tiny amusing fridges stuck to its chest |
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| Being the last survivor of your generation, so when researchers come to talk to you, you just make up a lot of stupid facts and cause all subsequent history books to be wrong |
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| "And remember - there's a fortune hidden in the old hmlmblrmblmrrrghh." |
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| Being crushed by a bookcase, and some of the books fall open to reveal hidden pornography magazines, which you had no idea existed and were actually left there by the previous tenant |
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| Taking everyone in this damn office with you in a massive, fiery explosion a split-second after they stare into your whooping face in terrible realisation |
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| Turning inside-out after a madman has secretly turbo-charged one of those little mouth hoovers they use to suck spit out of your mouth at the dentist's |
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| "That's just what he'd want us to think, so it must be the blue wire!" |
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| Flipping a double-decker bus 27 times |
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| Succumbing to something you've already given up |
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| Falling into a black hole which crushes you to a near-singularity, so that you have to be buried in an incredibly tiny coffin that still takes six struggling pallbearers to lift |
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| Being a thirtysomething woman and discovering too late that your biological clock is the timing mechanism for a terrorist device |
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| "Checkmate, I think, Colonel" |
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| Mixing up the envelopes so your henchman gets a letter full of news about the children, while Aunt Eunice is ordered to kill Bunky Charley, which she does, except, mixing up the nicknames, she goes for a waiter named Charles at your favourite restaurant, and he steps aside at the critical moment to adjust a candle, so the poisoned dart hits you by mistake |
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| Stopping the celebratory press conference by waving a sheet of paper with the new figures on it and shouting that the vanquished comet was merely the big toe of a space giantess |
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| Misguided relatives paying to ensure that your memory is keep alive in the form of a bench |
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| Taunting your heirs with a series of pre-taped messages and ingenious mechanical traps |
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| Suffocating under Ian McShane |
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| Taking a bullet for the Science Nun |
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| Being the first person ripped apart in flames by a marauding alien, just so everyone realises the situation is serious |
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| Running through your house, except it's not your house, being chased by the woman from the counter at Foto Processing. She has a huge laser axe and is raging about how you have only yourself to blame for this, you knew when the deadline was. The harder you try to move, the slower you get, and you're suddenly outside, near where you had that holiday in Wales one year, in thick undergrowth, and the woman from Foto Processing, who's now your mother, is right behind you. You turn and stare, unable to scream, as the laser axe sweeps down onto your forehead. Except - phew - it's just a dream. No it isn't |
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| Anything involving a loss of trousers |
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| Dying in such a way that you're remembered as part of an acronym |
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| Becoming involved in an elaborate kidnap plot which ends with you trapped in a bare cell in a subterranean headquarters, and you say, "Well, that's one thing - they wouldn't have gone to all this trouble to bring us here just to kill us," but they have, and someone walks in and shoots you in the back of the head |
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| Being sucked into Courteney Cox |
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| Mistaking World o' Orphans for the runway |
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| A string of ever more impressive blazes of glory |
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| Jumping thirteen floors from a burning building into what you assume is a rubberised blanket held by a ring of firemen, but which actually turns out to be a group of people on their way to a fancy dress party carrying a harp |
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| Riding a nuclear bomb into Exmouth |
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| Dodging through a sudden bus rally, only to be fatally knocked down by a huge mobile cigarette |
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| Throwing yourself in front of a speeding ambulance as a protest against irony |
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| "Tis a better, better far thing I... CHRIST'S DAMNATION" |
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| Bungee jumping into an avalanche |
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| Being a strike-breaking haemophiliac struck by a thrown missile and bleeding to death to chants of "Scab!" |
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| The people to either side of you |
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| Using perfect timing based on the ever-diminishing gaps between floor indicator lights in a plummeting lift to spring impact-reversingly into the air at the precise moment you hit the bottom of the shaft then, just as your hair lightly brushes the emergency trapdoor at the apex of your leap, having your head dashed from your shoulders by the sizzling electrical motor which crashes down through the roof |
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| "Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!" |
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| Returning from the grave as an indestructible robot brain implanted in the head of Jive Bunny |
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| Secretly replacing your skeleton and organs with fireworks, opium, magnesium blocks, 245-trioxin, etc, and leaving strict instructions to be cremated |
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| Being given a new identity by the government, then beaten to death in mistake for someone else |
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| Wrestling a burning lion while bicycling into a volcano on a tandem, with your arch-nemesis glued to the other saddle playing the accordion |
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| Killed by something you invented in the period after it would be memorably unexpected, but before it would be memorably tragic |
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| Reappearing a good 45 minutes after you'd been left for dead and saving the day by calmly and with great precision piloting your hot-air balloon over the rocket silo, holding yourself erect and shielding your eyes wistfully from the dazzlingly glorious rising sun as blood trickles down your gripping knuckles over the weave of the basket, and grey-jumpsuited minions run around sharp and angular corridors in panic and the foaming mastermind tries to stop the automated launch sequence, and the brass section sweeps in on the soundtrack |
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| Curiosity about tolerance levels |
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HOW UGLY IS MY MOTHER-IN-LAW
As a proboscis monkey that's been bludgeoned to death with a shovel
As a mound of surgical off-cuts and sewage farm flotsam that's been left out in the sun
As a bag of remains recovered from a hotel fire
As a lumpy, viscous emulsion that's been coughed up by a group of heavy-smoking, asthmatic tramps over a number of years and then whisked around a bucket with a rusting, faeces-encrusted mixer by a sneezing, puking, dysentery-ridden madman with raging psoriasis
As an older, weary version of my wife |
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