Digging A Hole
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|THIS ARTICLE IS NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART
(no but seriously, we don't have the appropriate medical insurance)
8 out of 10 cats chose this pickle as a litter tray. You should too.
Act I: Disqualification.
Let's begin again shall we.
Act II: Shakespearians among us may recognize the parallels this Act has with the 2nd Act of that seedy porno magazine that Shakespeare penned - 'Romeo, Juliet, and Her Hot Mexican Sister'.
It was a generically describable night, during one of the seasons. The moon was shining like some kind of simile in the sky, and the stars roused the author into adjectives. All in all it was a very picturesque scene, and certainly not something that I've stolen from a postcard. However despite the visually pleasing scenery that could potentially warrant a whole list of Soliloquies and adverbs, trouble was afoot. (And when I say that, I don't mean that it was "a foot" causing the trouble, though an infamous size 13 had recently broke out of prison and gone on a murderous rampage.) A sinister energy, the very essence of naughtiness, had befallen upon the small village of Politias'Krect. The inhabitants, blind to the forthcoming events, made love in their beds, oblivious to the forthcomi- dammit, I'm repeating myself! I had a flow there as well, a flow. Awwww Tiger Nipples!
Anyways yeah, so big mysterious evil, was in the pipeline for some wasters in that Policacek town or whatever. Scariness & metaphors etc. Humpfh! Now I can't even write properly, this sucks. I'm going home.
But then again, it was me (or one of my many personalities) who initiated writing this in the first place
Good point. Now let's get on with the story and stop convoluting the article with subheadings
I'm a subheading!
Act I: All serious now
Herbert arose from his bed, wiping back the 4-inch thick crust that had formed on his legs due to last night's passionate
love making porridge eating. Removing his hockey mask and pushing the ho he'd spent the night with down the laundry chute, he rubbed his eyes in fatigue.
"Yo ma, what's for breakfast?" queried Herbert.
His mother, lying face-down in a pool of blood with several knives sticking out of her from various angles, did not reply. But young Herb was in luck, a policeman noticing his arrival into the kitchen, rose from his seat and gestured solemnly at Herbert. Herbert looked at him quizzically.
"Aren't you that strip-o-gram me and that hooker ordered for the threesome?"
The policeman took off his hat, and looked at Herbert gravely. "No Herbert, I'm not the strip-o-gram. I'm afraid to say that there's been an accident. A rogue size-13 foot broke in last night and killed your mother. I'm terribly sorry."
"So where's my dad then?" asked Herbert.
"Upstairs, performing fellatio on my colleague."
"Excellent. Well I guess I'll be off then; living away from my wife and kids for the sake of adultery and cheese snorkelling is all fun and AIDS for a while, but eventually you come to realize what's important: belittling those unfortunate enough to live with you."
"Was two full stops really necessary there?"
"That's, shall we say, 'beside the point'."
"Was that a pun?"
"It sure was."
Herbert unloaded his Magnum on the policeman, sending the officer's bullet ridden body spiralling to the ground with a mighty crash. His uniform fluttered up revealingly in the blast to show stockings and several whips tied to his thighs; maybe he had been the strip-o-gram after all. As he made to exit, his mother came in from the other room.
"Well have a nice day Herbert dear. And make sure you read your horoscope."
"Pah! It's all old rubbish mum." His mum gave him a momentary stare before embracing her 40 year-old balding son, and handing him his Super Japan lunch box.
"Ooooh, you are a handsome lad aren'- who's that on the floor?"
Herbert pecked his mother on the cheek affectionately and left for the train. The door swung shut behind him, into his mother's forehead. Struck dumb by the blow, she fell stone-dead on to her and the policeman's corpses.
What followed was an intercessory period, not really worth noting too much about, where Herbert used public transportation to traverse the gap between A and B. Obviously one of the stops the bus made on its way to B was near his wife's house. The journey was quite uneventful, no one talked, a few newspapers rustled every so often and an old man glared unflinchingly at everyone with less liver spots than him.
Act II: Boycott all those titles that break ranks and reach out to the audience!
By the time Herbert had reached his house the general surrounding atmosphere had shifted, becoming a lot more describable. Of course one should not enslave oneself to a tedious descriptive process at the beginning of every change of scene; the stage directions are very clear on the matter.
Deciding that doorknobs were an unnecessary tool of subterfuge, Herbert decided to enter his house through the cat flap. His house, having just bragged at length to the nearby block of flats that it was impenetrable, quickly fell silent, its pride in tatters - a "humble abode".
"Hey honey I'm home."
"Who's this honey?" stabbed his wife accusingly.
"I am." retorted the honey pot, lowering its sun glasses, "now anyone up for hot sexy bee sex?"
Herbert thrust his hand into the air immediately. "Can I go wifey, pleeeeeeeeeeeease?"
"Only after you read your horoscope."
"Awww, but that sucks, it's all a bunch of super terrestrial nonsense."
"Oit. This family has depended on its horoscope for nearly 700 years. Yes, its prediction that I will turn into an aardvark is as of yet to come true, and you could argue that when the paper lost money it started predicting that another horoscope will be printed the next day for a few months, and so what if we went bankrupt following its advice to invest all our money in a wax sculpture of Amy Winehouse's foot, and I guess there is the small matter of its prediction that I'll die horribly should I forget to read my horoscope even once, and yes you could bring up the fact that any predictions it got right have been after the event has happened, and maybe I was in fact reading the sport section but nonetheless, we are Americans, SO READ YOUR HOROSCOPE!"
"Dammit wife, I've told you before to not make them longwinded patriotic outbursts, it always incurs that annoying music and we all have to stand up hand on heart. If this happens one more time I swear to Xenu that I'm voting democrat."
"That's not funny, don't even joke about that kind of thing."
You may wish to take into account that Herb's house is somewhere in the Deep South, though it is known to move about a lot. For example, it's going across Ireland on tour next week, to promote its latest album "Bohome-ian Rhapsody".
"Whatever sandwich-maker, I mean wifey, anyway I'm off to frisk some bees with our honey jar, see you later."
"Make sure you use protection. A bee-keeping suit preferably."
"Love you, by the way, isn't it funny how were an audience to read a manuscript of our conversation they would be totally unable to hear the sound of your extremely husky butch voice?"
"Mhmm, now off you go dear."
20 Minutes Later
Herbert returned to the house, cringing and rubbing his groin. "Ow, I'm going to have some serious boo-boo's."
"Considering how you got them, you could say that it will 'sting' in the morning," replied the Honey Pot smoothly.
"You know the bees, and their tendency to sting (instead of taking the required steps to file against you for sexual harassment)."
"Was that a pun?!?"
Herbert shot the Honey Jar. It shattered before oozing its contents onto a familiar pile of corpses.
"Wife that the narrator has of yet to give a name to."
"When did the pile of corpses from my parents' house get here?"
"I'm not sure, I think it might be a recurring theme or something."
"Gah, you're useless." Herb decapitated his wife with a stiletto and added her body to the heap.
"Now body pile, you stay there. Yeah? I'm going out for a beer, I'll be right back, you just hold tight."
The rotting mass shuddered slightly under the weight of several thousand flies; Herbert took this to mean yes.
"Awesome guys, I'll bring you back some beer."
Act I: FYI none of the characters had stunt doubles. Mwaahahahahahaahaha
Once again we are faced with a rather nondescript intercessory period while Herbert makes the two minute walk to the pub. It's enough that we had to sit through one just a few paragraphs ago, and I do wonder why the author doesn't skip these all together, but nonetheless here we are. Gum anyone?
Act II: Obliterate that chesty cough with HeadOn, Dynamite strength. Apply directly to forehead, light the fuse and then, BOOM! To splatter your cold all across the adjacent walls, use HeadOn Dynamite!. 
Having arrived at the pub, "The Cock & Balls", Herbert stretched out his arms to yawn, his B.O. instantly killing several rats and one of the bar-tenders.
"Me thinks I'll have a beer," Herb thought to himself, licking his lips.
"Duuh, that's why you go to a pub retard, to buy beer." Interjected Herb's other, more cynical, personality.
"Shut up wanker version of me, you don't know me!!"
"Yeah I do, I am you. I am with you always, I see you naked in the shower."
"How big do I look?"
"....." The cynical wanker version of Herb withdrew from the conversation, before setting up a firewall and blocking Herbert. Maybe he'd take the narrator up on his offer of gum.
As the cynical wanker version made its escape through an ear, Herbert, thirsty, sauntered up to the bar. Rapping on the surface, a large burly man, wearing a pink apron and covered in what appeared to be blood stains turned round from behind the counter, cleaning a glass with a meat cleaver.
"Uh hello Barkeep. One pint of your finest ale please," Herbert asked, slightly worried, as the man began to grow red in the face. Nothing came of it.
"There y'are," said the giant, shoving a pint with noose round it at Herb.
"Why thank you, now how about a packet of crisps?"
"Wut flavour?" grunted back the barkeep, now busy carving a customer's arm into the shape of the Eiffel tower.
"John Cleese & Onion?"
"We're fresh out, Manwell just bought the last pack."
"LCS! Well, have you got anything at all similar?"
"Well we used to have his career, but the Grim Reaper came for that a long time ago."
"Y'know, you seem a little harsh for a sideline character."
"Meh, anything else?"
"Hmmm, have you got any peanuts?"
As soon as he'd finished speaking, Herbert knew he'd made a mistake, (and I don't mean the fairly obvious grammatical one). The man let loose a cry of rage and slammed Herbert against a wall.
"My sister had a peanut allergy, douchebag! It killed her, and now I kill you."
"(whimpering)Actually, it's 'I'll kill you,' not 'I kill you.' "
"GAAAAARGH!!! You fascist turd!"
"Alright alright, I didn't know, I'm sorry. Just please don't make a song and dance about this?"
Unfortunately the local all-male theatre and creative dance group was listening in on the conversation.
"Don't make a song and dance? Hey! He's knocking what we do!"
Several effeminate men began to advance on Herbert. Sweating profusely, he tried to calm things down.
"Look, can't we settle this over a pint."
"KILL THE ANTI-METRIC!!!" yelled back some angry old-country folks, sending a table flying in rage. They were quickly joined by fifteen or so Alcoholics Anonymous members, who'd been staging their therapy sessions in the furthest corner of the bar up until now.
"Flaming Nora, I'm in trouble," gulped Herb.
Unluckily for him, a rather butch fire fighter with a name tag reading Nora heard the remark. She'd suffered bullying throughout the whole of her life thanks to that phrase and its connection to her profession. She began swinging her fire hose around like a lasso, aiming the hard metal bit at Herb's face. Herbert narrowly dodged the attack.
"Oh boy," Herbert thought to himself out loud.
"Oh boy? it should be more like 'Oh person!' you sexist freak. Come on girls, get 'im!"
Herbert retreated on to the bar top as a swarm of feminists rushed through the bar to him. Gradually more and more people were taking interest. Herbert's mind raced with panic and vague, and increasingly unlikely ideas to get him out of his predicament. Just then, the thought police arrived.
"Oh for heathen's sake, what now?"
"Do you know how fast your mind was racing sonny Jim?"
"Too fast, that's what. I'm going to have to issue with this speeding ticket, 2 points on your license, and a mandatory lynching."
"Hey the dick's making fun of the watt, one of our key measurements!" came the angry shout of an electrical engineer. Various technical support employees began to fill the room, readying their pliers. Herbert's nipples felt threatened and retreated across the bar to where the bottle caps were kept.
"You just can't stop digging a hole for yourself, can you?" smirked the bar keeper, pulling out a long line of rope.
"I'm not digging a hole!!!!!!!!!" Herbert screamed back.
"And what's wrong with that?" added the affronted cast of Time Team.
"Oh shut up," said Herbert, gaining some courage.
"Mffffmhmmm," shouted some guy.
"He said 'How dare you tell someone to shut up you Nazi, we dumb people find it incredibly offensive.'" came the reply of an interpreter.
This was obviously too much for poor Herbert, who to the cries of "Racist!" blacked out.
Act III: I think originally intended to call this article "Political Correctness gone mad", but my gut told me that sounded lame. But then again, my gut's always like that, he should lighten up
Much later, Herbert awoke with a start, offending the present families of coma patients. He fainted almost immediately and slumped back down, offending the present families of relapsed coma patients.
Act I: 
Nearly half an hour later Herbert was finally able to control himself, and opened his eyes to take stock of the situation. He was being hoisted by two feminists into a noose made from Nora's hose. He didn't really have much time, and he couldn't really afford to die because that earlier 'for heathen's sake' remark wasn't going to sit too well with God.
"Ladies, gentlemen, miscellaneous, before you do this I think there's something I think you should know."
The crowd immediately halted what they were doing. The women returned him quickly to the bar's surface an sat back down to look at him with rapt attention.
"I know I've offended you with my casual phrases, and I'm sorry." A few people smiled, it was working, Herbert carried on.
"I know I may have made references to loved ones or occupations in vain and I apologize." Herbert could hardly contain himself, he was winning them over!
"I know I'm a class A jerk, and by all means should have died." Everyone began to sit down. Smiling broadly, Herbert delivered the finishing touch.
"And I apologize for the time you spent angered, but let's not turn this into a witch hunt eh?"
Herbert hadn't taken into account the town's heavy affiliation with the occult. Everyone simultaneously leapt from their chairs and ran over to where he was standing. Someone fired a spell, striking him in the ear, and a crystal ball rebounded off his crotch.
"LYNCH THE FNURDLE! LYNCH THE FNURDLE" chorused the crowd
"Yeah! AND he didn't even read his horoscope this morning either," added the fermenting pile of corpses from much earlier.
"Oh thanks a lot body heap, and I was going to buy you a drink too," replied a scathing Herbert. He'd had enough of this. "Screw you guys, I'm going to do what I should've done a few paragraphs ago and run for the hills."
At this notion the entire nation of Holland traipsed into the bar, carrying a disgruntled Iron Maiden on their arms. Herbert collapsed onto the floor, shielding his privates as the several million strong lynch-mob advanced on him. However as he did so the crowd stopped suddenly; they seemed to be confused.
"Where's he gone?" asked an old lady, swinging a pair of conjoined twins around threateningly like a pair of numb-chucks.
"He was just there," replied an old man, pointing at a point mere inches away from Herbert's arm.
"He can't have just disappeared, can he?" voiced someone else.
Could it be, did the old chestnut of 'I can't see you, so you can't see me' actually work? Herbert didn't wait to find out and stumbled blindly out of the bar. However, having made it most of the way down the street, logic caught up with him.
"There he is, get him!" remarked a small fella, forced out of his pub by the large crowd. Herbert, safe to say, ran faster than he'd ever run before. He was quicker than Prince Harry's time on the front line.
Despite the several million people, three fire trucks, and the heap of corpses chasing him, he somehow managed to duck into a residence undetected. Herbert figured correctly that the only person who'd be inside to miss out on this kind of action would be an Illogicopedian. Locking the door and barricading the windows, the two of them were safe. Herbert surveyed the computer geek who'd taken him in.
"Thanks for saving me back there, what's your name?" said Herb warmly, stretching out a hand.
The mysterious man reached out his own and wrung Herbert's arm like an old friend.
"I'm the narrator Testostereich, and I R Admins."
"Okay, umm, yeah."
"I mighty Testostereich, know of your predicament, I can help you, for I R Admins."
"You can't help me, I'm screwed. The only people I've got on my side are a couple of Daily Mail fans, who admire the fact that I offended some of the more liberal members of the angry mob, and a pheasant."
"A pheasant?" inquired Testostereich, who clearly R Admins.
"Yeah, go figure."
Having long since guessed he was in there, but too shy to break down the door, the mob began slotting their various demands and angry ramblings under the door in carefully addressed envelopes. Curious, Herbert picked them up, sending one that didn't have a stamp on it back under.
"Hmm what have we got here? Complaint, complaint, death threat, letter from Hogwarts, death threat, death threat, letter bomb, congratulations you've won a free holiday, complaint, ooo this says I can enlarge my penis if I send them my bank details!"
Testostereich, who R Admins, shook his head, and took the letters away from Herb.
"Well is that it? Is there any more to come?"
"Lol, things said in a gang bang!" piped up an elderly gentleman from beyond the door.
Herbert shot through the door, killing the man.
"How many times do I have to tell you people?!?!? PUNS, AREN'T, FUNNY!!!!"
Act II: I loathe the idea that I will at some point I will have to reread this to check for spelling, grammar and humour. ¬_¬
Unfortunately, shooting through the door to kill the old man hadn't been Herbert's smoothest move of the day. The large body of people trying to murder him on the other side began to claw at the hole in an attempt to make it large enough to let them in. Herbert and Testostereich, who R still Admins, had to think fast.
"What are we going to do Testicles?"
"Well, since I R Admins, I guess we could scape goat some one?"
"Nah, the Nazis tried that, and look what happened to them."
"I know, about the camp moustaches right?"
"Hey, how comes you're not still informing me that you R Admins anymore?"
"I was de-opped for suggesting scape goatage."
"You know what Herb, I have an idea, it may not work, but we don't really have any choice. I've thought about it, and any other course of action would most likely result in black dots and a ban for both of us."
Herbert leaned in closer. "Okay, what do we do?"
Act III: I almost regret using Acts to break the story up. But I didn't want to offend that male theatre troop
Just seconds later, the angry mob broke down the door. To their surprise the two protagonists sat their lucidly, and made no attempt to fight back or escape. The 7 million of them all converged en masse to where the two of them sat, forming a 50ft scrum in the small basement. Within five minutes all that was left was a blood stain on the carpet, and an orphaned article list, clutched in Testicle's cold dead hand. Breathing a huge sigh of relief, the crowd shook each other's hands and returned back to their normal lives.
"Well Testostereich, it's a good thing you thought of using them life-like blow-up versions of each of us you just happened to have lying around."
"You know what, if I was a member of this Illogicopedia, I'd vote you for admin."
"I'm sorry Herb, I'm going to have to stop you right there. It's enough that I participated in my own article, but it's exactly this kind of lame self-promotion that gets people's backs up. I think you should go."
As he made to leave, Testostereich pulled Herbert back.
"Yes Testostereich, what is it?"
"Did you read your horoscope this morning?"
A dreamy expression overcame the admin's face, the kind of one you see on a Birdwatcher's face when the bird they're following with their binoculars flutters so innocently into the Primary School playground. It was time to go.
Herbert left Testostereich's now pretty demolished place and began the long journey home. It had been quite a day for young Herbert, he'd bought a whole pint of beer and met an admin, that was pretty much it. Now all that was left was for some past plot device to make a return to the storyline. Not looking where he was going, Herbert walked slap bang into the pile of corpses from earlier. It toppled over, crushing him.
The Moral of the Story: Horoscopes suck. I mean, come on, I had one last year that told me I'd be made an admin of some backwater internet site.
The actual moral of the story is that adding morals to the end of stories in an attempt to provide balance, and bring closure to your monologue, doesn't work as impressively as most people think. Next time, just stick to 'they all died horribly,' or just chav something off of Newsnight. Well goodnight everybody!
- I'd previously tried to steal a descriptive introduction from the back of my detergent. It seems however, that "soft, clean, and stain-free" is not an apt description of the relevant background.
- I can call him that, right?
- Not literally ¬_¬
- Also not literally, his feet hadn't gone anywhere
- Did I mention that he was a bird? 'Cos that's kinda irrelevant. What, you've never seen a talking bird before? I mean come on, we can all own up to the visual degradation Big Bird inflicted upon us when we were young. Exactly.
- He may have got blood all down Herbert's shirt, but the craftsmanship was breathtaking, the blood flowing down the structure gave the impression of a rainy day seen through the red half of a pair of 3D glasses. Perfection.
- pun intended