Tag Archives: funny books

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 19

Long before those dozy earplugs appeared upon the scene, my comedic desires were pleasantly assuaged by stories about sentient hamsters that lived in a parallel universe to our own. Hence the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books.

On  this particular occasion I have made the bold decision to foist upon you an extract from the first in the series – that being The Where House, which, I’m sure, you are aware is available via the book covers on the sidebar to your right (or below, somewhere, if you’re on a tablet or some such).

Had Boney not transferred responsibility from himself to Colin, then it’s certain that he would have been wringing his paws in indecision at this – very probably until they physically bled. As it was, he made a cup of tea in a feeble attempt to avoid the situation.

For a few precious seconds it appeared that his simple ruse would work: Colin had returned to the sod-ball game, and Lionel appeared to be so deep in thought, that Boney grew concerned that he’d fallen into a waking coma – or at least a hamstery fugue – neither of which could be described as ‘desirable’.

His fears were assuaged when the youngster mindlessly accepted the steaming hot beverage from his almost fur-less paw.

“Mucho gracias.” Lionel mumbled.

“De nada.” A relieved Boney replied.

Was the lad off on one of his out-of-body experiences that he’d once carelessly mentioned whilst they dug over the runner bean plot one frosty morning?’ He wondered. ‘Or was he suffering from a multiple personality disorder? This was not the first time that he’d spoken in Español. But then he remembered that Lionel’s parents hadn’t been amongst the richest rodents in town, and it was altogether probable that they took their annual holidays in sunny Bunnidorm, where they could purchase cheap beer, and as many ‘illicit’ computer games from dodgy-looking jerboas from Sandy Desert Land, for a mere paw-full of Rodentos. Naturally las instrucciones would be in Spanish. Yes it all made sense once you thought about it carefully enough’, he concluded whilst nodding his head knowingly.

Then Lionel took a sip of the steaming-hot tea. If it hadn’t been wet it would have set his bifurcated lips aflame.

“By the Great Angler’s Enormous Tit,” he bellowed, “that’s certainly cleared out both my sinuses and my cobwebbed mind!”

He then went on to explain that he’d been deep in thought. But before he could actually explain anything at all, Boney interrupted…

“It’s about the pretty lass, aint it, son?” he said – which surprised both Lionel and Boney because he was so rarely this insightful.

“Yes it is.” Lionel replied. “And it’s all to do with that day, long ago, when I arrived here.”

“Nose-surfing on an ocean of filth, I seem to recall.” Colin piped up during a break in the game for TV advertising and a desperately needed lavatory break for the players.

“That’s right.” Lionel turned to his android colleague, “And who was it that caused me to slip and fall into that vile ocean swell of slurry?”

Boney had no idea where Lionel was going with this train of thought, but he figured it best to humour the youngster, “A tractor driver, weren’t it?”

Lionel smiled. “And what happened to said tractor driver?” he inquired metaphorically.

Boney recognised the inquiry as being metaphorical because Lionel answered his own question before there was time to so much as suck a lower lip in contemplation, “He was taken to Chunderford General Hospital!”

This last point was obviously very important; but it was still early in the day, and not all of Boney’s neurons were facing the right way when they fired.

“Hmm,” he said, “nasty business. Nasty, nasty business.”

“Would that be his perforated scrotum that you’re talking about there?” inquired Colin.

“Indeed it would.” Lionel turned his attention back to Boney. “And whose teeth left those deep, painful, incisions?”

This final question stumped both flesh and blood, and non-flesh and blood hamsters alike.

Eventually Boney mumbled, “Well it was Fanangy, weren’t it? But ‘ow can that be? She was with us the ‘ole time. But she wouldn’t lie about somethin’ as important as biting down viciously on some poor unfortunate tractor driver’s ball-bag: That’s a pretty major to-do, that is. Grievous Bodily Harm at least. What d’ya reckon the answer to this conundrum is?”

“Time travel!” Lionel blurted the words more loudly than he intended to.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2012

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Junior Earplug Adventures: The Grand Tour (Part 21)

Later that day, all five Earplug Brothers received their knighthoods. In addition Marnus Pongfinger contacted the Iceworld’s sole robot space freighter…

…which had recently been loaded with the first cargo of ice and had been despatched towards the Waterworld, where the primary commodity was to be used in gin and tonics, rum and colas, vodka and limes, and other variations of alcoholic beverages. Naturally the robotic captain was cybernetically thrilled to receive a call from his ruler…

And when it passed on the news to the lower ranked robots aboard…

…they responded by saying, gleefully: “Goodie; we’re off to the Museum of Future Technology. Our cargo is going to be used in the hospitality suite there. Alone it won’t solve the museum’s insolvency; but it will cut down, dramatically, on bar costs.”

So, with their task complete, the five heroes prepared to depart the city. But Chester had a farewell to make…

He found Trubbol Attmill enjoying the huge communal bubble bath.

“Chester.” She squealed. “Why don’t you join me? The bubbles get everywhere: it’s such fun; and it makes you clean too.”

So, as Chester leapt into the foaming embrace…

…he said: “Great – just as long as they don’t get up my nose. My nasal cavities are fragile and easily irritated. Otherwise I could be sneezing for a week and a half.”

Fortunately they didn’t; and Chester’s nose was just fine. But time was of the essence; space tides demanded that the Chi-Z-Sox depart the Iceworld’s region of the galaxy; and Chester had to make the farewell to which he had alluded earlier…

“Oh, Trubbol, there goes the ship’s claxon.” He said. “My brothers and I have to go. But I promise to return one day soon – when our quest is complete; and we’ll bathe together again.”

“I look forward to it.” Trubbol replied, as she gazed lovingly at the young pink earplug of Terrestrial origin.

Then he was gone; rejoined with his siblings…

…and feeling really down in the dumps.

“Hey, Chester.” Rudi spoke from directly behind him. “Get those feet moving, man; we gotta ship to catch.”

So, as the quintet passed into the snow field beyond the city walls…

…natives would question each other concerning them.

“Aren’t they handsome?” Some would say.

“Is that a question, or a statement?” Others would reply.

Then, with Rudi taking the lead, it was time to march swiftly across the ice…

Back to the vast vessel of space that awaited their arrival…

…where other natives spoke enviously…

“Big show-offs.” One of them said, as he looked around to make sure that no security forces could hear him. “If I had a ship like that, I’m sure I could fly all over the place – asking for help or money too.”

But no one bothered listening: they thought he was a mealy-mouthed git; and were in too much awe of the Earplug Brothers.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2018

 

Junior Earplug Adventures: The Grand Tour (part 20)

With the confidence of a tyrant, Marnus Stenchnee stepped forward…

“Yeah.” He growled. “And if you don’t like it, you can shove it in your ear.”

To both Chester’s and Miles’ dismay, Magnuss equalled Stenchnee in both physical act and style of verbal attack…

“If anyone is going to get something shoved in their ear,” he snarled his reply, “it’ll be you, you big red dope.”

Stenchnee didn’t hesitate for a nanosecond: his response came quickly and was delivered with the assurance of an earplug who believed himself to be in complete control of the situation:

“I wouldn’t test me, Pinko.” The words slipped from between his lips like a string of mercury-coated sausages. “The power generator has a urine bomb strapped to it; and I have the trigger in the palm of my hand. Any silly buggers from anyone and the generator gets flooded with my personal piddle.”

Under normal circumstances, this information would have been enough to quell any thoughts of insurrection: but the Earplug Brothers didn’t believe in normal circumstances. A split second later…

…Magnuss delivered a karate chop to the side of Stenchnee’s head. The world-leader went down like a sack of month-old cabbages, which pleased Marnus Pongfinger immensely. Then realisation struck the ancient, white-haired earplug: “By the Soiled Cacks of the Supreme Being,” he wailed, “we are undone. My evil brother’s puny grip upon the trigger has loosened. Within seconds the power supply will fail. We’re as good as dead!”

“Calm yourself, President Pongfinger.” Magnuss said with a smile. “No such calamity shall assail your fair city. The bomb has been neutralised. Shall I explain?”

“I wish you would.” Uda Spritzer replied as everyone crowded around to kick the inert Stenchnee. “The expectation of a freezing death is…er…killing me.”

“Well,” Magnuss began, “it all started with one of your loyal subjects. His name is Trubbil Dounpitt; and he made a galactic emergency call. One of our ship’s crew heard it and duly took the information to the captain. He, in turn, informed us. As a result we discovered Stenchnee’s despicable plan. But let’s have someone else continue this tale. Let’s hear it from the metaphorical plugmutts’ mouth. Let me introduce my brother, Valentine.”

Valentine didn’t bother with small talk: “Right on.” He said into the resulting, expectant silence. “Rudi and me left Magnuss and Miles holding the fort whilst Chester kept your guide busy…

We thought she looked kinda cute; but we couldn’t take any chances: she could’a been a spy. Know what I mean? Anyway, we went straight to the Nul-Space power generator…

Of course we couldn’t access the urine bomb from up there, so we put on our cossack hats…

…and took the back way inside. Then I emptied the ginger beer from inside my hip flask – all over the bomb. The fizzy goo sealed the bomb in five seconds flat. Then it burned its way through the protective sheath. And that was that: no matter how many times that joker bro of yours pressed his dumb trigger, that bomb wasn’t gonna go splat – no way.”

With that Valentine turned away; happy in the knowledge that he had left his audience in a better frame of mind than they had felt five minutes earlier.

“Gosh, that was good news.” Pongfinger opined quietly to Cruton. “I can’t wipe the smile from my face.”

“Indeed, Sir.” His manservant replied. “But I wonder if Valentine’s reference to his ginger beer-filled hip flask was, in actuality, a euphemism.”

“I was thinking the same thing.” Uda Spritzer added. “I’m a scientist. As a result of which I know a heck of a lot about a heck of a lot of things; and I’m far from certain that ginger beer can burn  through protective sheaths – even the alcoholic kind. It’s a metaphor. You mark my words. A metaphor for his bladder. It’s my scientific opinion that Valentine is no ginger beer drinker: instead he simply possesses the ability to deliver a vast quantity of corrosive wee-wee, on command, with precise accuracy. I just wish I had half his talent.”

“If so,” Pongfinger concluded – if a tad illogically, “I’d hate to be in a cupboard with him when he breaks wind; there’s no knowing what damage he could do to my nasal passages. Have him knighted immediately.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2018

 

Junior Earplug Adventures: The Grand Tour (part 19)

But time is a great healer, and before too many seconds had passed, the two new-found chums discovered that they quite liked the unexpected anonymity created by the fog…

…and considered doing things that they wouldn’t have done normally, in the open air. But good sense grabbed them by the throat and they duly went a wandering – to a place where the fog was joined by a fresh fall of snow…

…which pleased them no end. And when it turned into a full scale snow storm, Chester couldn’t have been happier…

Though Trubbol did begin to wonder if she was dealing with an idiot earplug…

…and so led him, once more, into the palace…

…where she discovered that she too could smile at the thought of doing something really stupid and enjoy the sensation whilst doing so. But soon duty called and Chester rushed to re-join with his brothers in time for a meeting with Marnus Pongfinger…

It seemed, to Rudi at least, that the planetary leader looked ill-at-ease.

”Hey, Marny, baby.” He said with concern evident in his every syllable, ”What’s eating you, man?”

Rudi was to find out…

”Um,” Marnus replied hesitantly, ”Boys, I’d like you to meet my brother.

He has supplanted me as Head of State. Now I suggest you all bow down to him and grovel pleasantly. Quickly, please; years of pointless servitude means that he has a terrible anger within him. He might even have you eaten.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2018

 

 

Junior Earplug Adventures: The Grand Tour (Part 18)

So, whilst Scroat Titan emerged from the cave into which he had teleported; and duly spotted the nearby Metalworker’s encampment…

…and even more duly entered it, where he was spotted by a clandestine local…

 

…his nose led him to a vast pile of excrement…

 

…which steamed alarmingly.

”Jeepers,” he’d yelped in surprise at the discovery, ”that sure looks fresh to me. It can’t be more than a few hours old. And it definitely belongs to a cork!”

 

Then realising that he must be getting close to finding Ballington, he’d made straight for his next destination – the Time Shard Museum of Future Technology…

…where fate cast him into a situation whereby he encountered Yelli Smello and the other former inmates of the Sloshed Antlers penitentiary. But, naturally, the Earplug Brothers knew nothing of this. And even if they had, they wouldn’t have cared less. They had a quest of their own; and it involved the ice planet’s capital city…

…in which Chester continued to admire Trubbol Attmill’s rear end – as she led him upon a pleasant tour…

Trying to break through Chester’s fixation upon her devilishly curvaceous buttocks, Trubbol told him all about her enjoyment of precipitous ledge walking; and how, during the Great Thaw, she had been left stranded when a ledge gave way before her…

”Gosh.” Chester exclaimed. ”I bet that was really annoying. Were you late for tea?”

”I was late for tea; the following day’s breakfast; and every meal for a month.” Trubbol replied. ”The surface of the planet had broken up. But I was one of the lucky ones: I had a flask of soup and a packet of doilies in my knapsack.”

Moments later she opened a door to the outside world, where…

…quite unexpectedly, a vicious fog had descended.

”Ooh-er.” They said as one.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2018

 

 

Junior Earplug Adventures: The Grand Tour (Part 17)

Meanwhile, far, far away, upon Henhouse Island – the home and place of imprisonment for Ballington Cork – the Cork God’s field agent, who was known by very few as Scroat Titan, had arrived by means unknown…

He then proceeded to conduct a fact-finding search, which included Ballington’s necessarily low-maintenance cactus garden…

He was seeking out the spore of his quarry. He even looked down a long, dark sewer…

…but the light at the opposite end told Scroat everything he needed to know. Clearly Ballington hadn’t produced a huge turd in many months, which meant that either he remained in suspended animation (which he didn’t), or he wasn’t on the island.

“Bum!” He bellowed, as only a Cork God field agent can. “Now I’ll have to go search somewhere else for him. What a huge pain in the posterior!”

But before he set off towards his next destination, he thought he’d take a moment to enjoy the cliff top view…

Then he was on his way…

…to none other than…

…the mountain citadel of Lemon Stone, where he arrived at the observation post that was usually manned by Mr Zinc, but which was now empty because the aforementioned megalomaniac had taken up ski biathlon and was away competing in the world championships…

From there he wandered into the monastery where he took in a couple of religious icons, which made him see red, because he knew, for certain, that there were only a few true gods, because they financed his mortgage and broadband payments…

Thereafter he checked out the monk’s anachronistic toadstool-like dormitory…

…where he finally realised that he was on the wrong track entirely and transitioned, by apparently magical means, to another location…

And this time, he swore on his Great Uncle Gut Titan’s grave, that he would find Ballington Cork’s useless carcass, and lug it back to Henhouse Island – dead or alive.

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2018

 

Cricetinae Fictionem – or Something Like That: 18

Long before those demented earplugs appeared upon the scene, my comedic desires were pleasantly assuaged by stories about sentient hamsters that lived in a parallel universe to our own. Hence the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books.

On this occasion I’ve selected an excerpt from ‘The Where House’.

Several seconds elapsed before Fanangy chirped up with, “Cripes, Colin’s taking an awful long time getting dressed. Shall we intercede?”

“Leave ‘im alone.” Boney snapped. “It’s a very tricky job – putting on a different ‘ead. And he ‘as to do it with his eyes lookin’ the other way too!”

At that precise moment Colin’s subtly altered face appeared at the side window. “What do you think?” he asked.

“Wowie, Colin,” Fanangy exclaimed, unsure whether she was pleased or disappointed, “you still look like you!”

Then, to the consternation of all present, a ripple seemed to flow across Colin’s face, and instantly he looked like someone else completely.

“By The Saint of All Hamsters,” Lionel bellowed in a voice that belied his tender years, “you look like someone else completely. I don’t happen to recognise him, probably because I don’t watch factual TV very much, but it’s quite uncanny. How does it work?”

“Well,” the strange face said with Colin’s placid tone, “this particular face is constructed with thousands of micro-contortion bars running through it. And the epidermis is made of Vario-Visage.”

Lionel mouthed the words ‘Vario-Visage?’ to Fanangy.

“Jeepers, Lionel, don’t you read all the latest science magazines? It’s obviously an alien version of Bendi-Face – the special mask stuff that they make for impossible spying missions into enemy territory.”

Lionel accepted this. He had little choice. “But the voice?” He said, perhaps with a slightly triumphant tone to it, “He sounds like Colin.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, young fellow.” Colin spoke in a perfect facsimile of Gymp’s voice, “Not with my Alterno-Garglebox insert. With this little gizmo I can sound like any damned thing I want to!”

With that he roared like an angry weasel, and everyone cheered until they were sick.

The public flogging of a number of graffiti artists was just getting underway when Colin and the others arrived in ‘his’ staff go-kart.

Immediately Colin made his way to the Officiating Podium to join the General and his wife, Agnes, there. The others simply slipped into the crowd, and thereby rendered themselves anonymous, and therefore invisible.

Colin allowed several thrashings to take place before he began his act of discrediting Major Hardcourt-Gymp. But when he began, there was no mistaking his intent. Making certain that the microphone, which supplied both the public address system and the listening hoards on local radio, was ‘open’, he sidled up to the general and said, “I say, General; you know you were looking at my willy this morning…?”

The General’s grim enjoyment of the spectacle before him evaporated like a fart in a hurricane. “What!” He verbally ejaculated.

Colin continued as though the other hamster hadn’t spoken, “Well I fancied a second opinion. I wonder if your good wife…?”

He didn’t say anything else. Instead he got out his ‘special tool’.

“The Great Angler Herself preserve me.” The general roared as he reeled back in surprise. “That looks a whole lot more impressive than that thing I saw this morning. That certainly doesn’t conform to normal military parameters: That’d make a damned fine target for an enemy sniper, and make no mistake! Agnes, cover your eyes!”

But Agnes couldn’t cover her eyes quickly enough. She couldn’t avert them either.

“Oh, flipping heck.” She wailed before fainting horribly, and falling from the podium.

“Gymp, you buffoon!” The General bellowed like any good general should, “You’re a disgrace to your uniform. And that is definitely not a regulation willy. You are summarily dismissed from the Tadgerstone Rifles. Go – before I have you shot as a scoundrel!”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2012