Got this from guy from Poundland.
He cost a pound.
He certainly is a grim pirate, given he has a haircut like Ben from A1, the front of which is painted the same colour as his face. But, sea-traders beware - in battle, Ben can don his purple alligator head and purple alligator hand to pointlessly and creepily transform himself into 10% of a purple alligator. Ahaaar!
He Consumed Literature
“Three hundred and twelve,” said Brian cockily, “Three hundred and twelve pages in this!”
He shook the book in front of Dan’s chin with the delicacy of an avalanche and began clumsily thumbing through it, his crooked nose casting a mountainous shadow over the pages.
“Let me ask you this,” he continued requiring no prompt, “Do you ever read three hundred and twelve pages? No, you don’t. And between you and me, I don’t either. And does this make me less smart?”
Dan emitted a hum from between his dry lips, ‘yes’ would’ve been accurate, but unwise. The hum was a non-committal answer specifically designed for situations where neither a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ would suffice. Regardless, the hum was cut short in the air by Brian’s waving index finger.
“The answer is,” rasped Brian, providing the answer, “The answer is no, Dan. No, it does not. Books are waffle! There is nothing that can be said in three hundred and twelve pages that cannot be said in three.”
He tilted his eyes to the book and Dan saw them circle around the hard cover like an optical tornado. Suddenly they stopped and glazed over. Brian arched his head to look at Dan.
“I bet I can eat this,” he claimed.
“What?” asked Dan.
“I bet I can eat this book in about ten minutes.”
Dan squinted his eyes in confusion, his brain contorting inside his head attempting to twist itself around the logic of a man who was willing to eat a book. There was no sense to it, what would this prove? He had to halt this charade immediately, “Bet you can’t,” he said.
Brian’s eyes sparkled like cheap jewellery from the thrill of competition and he weighed up the book in his palms.
“The game,” he declared, “Is on.”
In one quick yank, Brian had pulled off his t-shirt and begun tearing the pages from the book, leaf by leaf, the muscles in his back and chest quivering with excitement; a hulking veiny mass ripping into a text carcass.
“Time me!” he burped over the piercing rips and the crumbling of the spine.
Dan panicked and tapped each bare wrist twice.
“I’ve no watch!” he screeched back.
“Well, COUNT!” squealed Brian who’d begun stuffing pages into his cheeks like a mutant hamster.
Dan began counting. From ten upwards. Brian had scolded him for beginning at zero, ten seconds had been wasted searching his wrists for a watch and accuracy was important. Dan stood staring at his uncle ripping page after page of three hundred and twelve from the book and engulfing them with monstrous glee. Brian began chewing and swallowing the pages, his teeth darkening from the ink and his mouth a pasty mess of saliva papier mache. Fragments of literature clung to his lips and chin, and he would scoop them to his mouth with fleshy spoons, not willing to miss one word, one comma, one full stop!
By two hundred, Brian was almost halfway through. Dan had found himself caught in the spirit of the task and was egging him on, urging him to chew, chew, CHEW! CHEW! By three hundred, Brian was flagging, he was panting and his face had turned a deep crimson that matched the curtains of the hallway and the dusty hardened cover of the book. Dan wondered if Brian would have to consume the cover to qualify. This was answered at four hundred and nine; Brian had devoured most of the pages and began to chew into the hard cover spluttering as it exploded under the might of his molars. He clutched at the collapsed spine and spat out glue like chicken bones. Cardboard and dust fell to the floor, there was no way he could eat his way through the hardback cover in time, it was going to be a fail! Brian gagged and coughed word phlegm to the floor, then dropped to his knees to hunt them in the pink folds of the carpet like a demented archaeologist. Five hundred…five hundred and fifty…six hundred!
“Nooooo!” screamed Brian through shards of un-chewed hardback cover, a primal roar thrown from his cavernous throat. He threw the remnants of the book over the bannister and his fist at the wall, cracking the skirting board around the door frame.
“You ate most of that book!” squealed Dan with genuine admiration, his feet covered in soggy mounds of prose.
“Not all of it! I didn’t eat all of it!” sobbed Brian, his fist hitting the skirting board on every syllable. Dan leaned down and picked up a piece of the hardback cover and placed it between his teeth. He bit down on it warily and found how solid it had been. Brian held up his fist, blood trickling between the knuckles and dashed to the bathroom.
- Michael M done a write of this.
Dear Person Who Writes Open Letters,
How are you? I am fine.
Let me cut past that because you are undeserving of platitudes, but I’ll put them in so that I seem more civil than I’ll make you out to be. Also, you can only read this and not respond unless you reply to this open letter by writing another open letter reducing the spectacle to an ugly public correspondence-loop.
Ultimately, I have a big ego assuming you will read this letter at all or that my scathing, skilful word-spears will puncture your existence in some way.
See, you are a smart person, probably, even though I do not know you at all. I’m saying this bit because inevitably what follows is some sort of attack on your intelligence. Although it’ll just seem like a patronising prefix that serves to double-underline how superior I am to you.
You might wonder why I have made this letter public instead of private and that is because you won’t listen to me so all of my friends will listen to me telling you this instead. You won’t listen because I am making sense, not because you have other things to do.
In fact, you’ll likely never read this because I’m really only addressing you from afar to validate my really really good opinion via the e-wanks from my social media friends and/or total strangers who continue to facilitate my spunking of words.
You see, something you have done publicly has irked me and my immediate sneer-buds to such a degree that I’ve been forced to sit down on a chair and write this with my aggressive wrists. It is an opinion that is shared by many, but I am the only person with any focus apparently. Therefore, it is unlikely I will face any negative feedback from this because (i) you will never read it; and (ii) all of my friends predictably agree already. This is all aimed at you. But aimed wildly like a burst hose. Essentially I am firing this into the air and hoping a bit of it lands on your face. And I’m telling you to stop the bad thing you do.
Stop it. I will say this bit again in a different paragraph to emphasise how much you should stop it.
And you can listen to me because I start sentences with ‘and’ like a proper write-man and I’m directing this at you personally, not like the mob, not like the bottom half of the internet. I am writing a letter, the most civilised form of rhetoric. It’s open though because my criticism of you should be shared, especially when you can’t respond. This is a personal attack under the guise of advice, because you need educated and I am the one to do it.
So, Person Who Writes Open Letters, maybe you should stop writing open letters because your intended recipient is not whom you address but the squealing masses passing judgement in the dungeons of comments, serving masturbatory likes and shares without resistance. You are better than this. I write that bit like a teacher giving a star to problem child showing improvement. Good effort. Well done.
In other news, got the boiler fixed and the taps are running much hotter.