Six In A Row

Although a bit of a crap sequel and a poor follow-up to the Zucker Brothers' excellent original, Airplane II (which was on telly the other day) does contain the following puntastic gem of courtroom dialogue between a prosecutor and an Air Force pilot who flew with the protagonist during the "Macho Grande" campaign:

Witness: Striker was the squadron leader. He brought us in real low. But he couldn't handle it.
Prosecutor: Buddy couldn't handle it? Was Buddy one of your crew?
Witness: Right. Buddy was the bombardier. But it was Striker who couldn't handle it, and he went to pieces.
Prosecutor: Andy went to pieces?
Witness: No. Andy was the navigator. He was all right. Buddy went to pieces. It was awful how he came unglued.
Prosecutor: Howie came unglued?
Witness: Oh, no. Howie was a rock, the best tailgunner in the outfit. Buddy came unglued.
Prosecutor: And he bailed out?
Witness: No. Andy hung tough. Buddy bailed out. How he survived, it was a miracle.
Prosecutor: Then Howie survived?
Witness: No, 'fraid not. We lost Howie the next day.
Prosecutor: Over Macho Grande?
Witness: No. I don't think I'll ever get over Macho Grande.

Puns are normally the arse-end of humour, reserved for the comedically-challenged and the under-10s, but this proves otherwise.

“Pig, Horse or Cow?”

My wife has an excellent excremental nose. Driving through the beautiful English landscape the other day, which was bursting with summertime greenery and general countrysideness, our olfactory glands sporadically encountered the stench of slurry which had been recently strewn fieldwards by an army of Farmer Palmers. To me, shit smells largely like shit, but identifying its origin is mere piffle to my wonderful Wiltshire wife.

“That’s pig shit,” she’ll announce with conviction. Horse and cow are also readily classified, much to my surprise.

For the record, pig seems to have more of a vinegary stench about it.

My Green Surrogate Hair

Sporting a hairstyle which, from the front, mimics the swooping contours of the line on a tennis ball, and which from the top resembles one of those crop circles that so enthralled Reg Presley in the ‘90s, I can safely conclude that my halcyon days of grooming are unfortunately behind me. Much like the hair itself in fact – peppering the ground of yesteryear like loose grass cuttings (which is ironic, given that the effort I once put into combing my tresses has subliminally found output in the treatment of our lawn).

I take great delight in mowing the grass into neat rows, carefully strimming the edges and making it generally presentable. Such efforts (albeit on the much smaller scale of my head and using a variety of implements which didn’t include a Flymo 2000) were previously reserved for the follicular topiary atop my cranium, though the feeling is essentially the same on viewing the fruits of my labour.

In the back of my mind though, I’m all too aware that, come the winter, it too will wither and die. But even then, I know a springtime resurrection bursting with life and verdancy is only a season away. Sadly, the flowing locks that once crowned my strange-shaped head will forever remain but a distant memory.

Steve, Florence & Fred

“Let’s all go to Tesco’s, where [fill in name here] gets his best clothes! Dah daah dah da! Dah daah dah da!”

Sung to the tune of We’re All Going To Wembley, this was an oft-heard playground taunt when I was a kid. Ironically, as I approach my thirty-fifth year, I now find this to be true of myself.

Tell Me I’m Not The Only One

“Do you ever do that thing when you’re cooking,” I asked my lovely wife while we were in the kitchen preparing dinner together a few nights ago, “where you imagine you’re starring in your own cookery show [complete with running narrative of what you’re doing, with delivery for an imaginary camera]?”
‘”No, you weirdo.” She replied.
“Err, right. No, me neither.” I confirmed.

The Dilemma Surrounding Self-Cannibalism

An interesting debate arose in the car recently which concerned a (with hindsight, almost certainly fictional) story I once read about an unfortunate individual trapped on a desert island, who was stranded and alone with nothing to eat. Being the only meat source on his island prison he was therefore forced to eat his own limbs in order to survive.

We couldn’t agree, however, on which would be the best limb to start munching on. For me, taking into account the variables of a) limb usefulness, b) food volume, c) loss of dexterity and d) ability to prevent signaling for help (should a ship pootle by on the horizon), I plumped for my left arm. My lovely lady wife however, opted for the left leg.

There is, of course, no right or wrong answer. Is it better to be able to run down the beach on two legs, gathering wood for a fire (though then be unable to gather wood at any useful rate), or to be able to gather wood at a rate of knots though have to hop around at a fraction of the speed while doing so?

Scoffing one’s self in order to stave off hunger in order to survive (but in doing so limiting your chances of survival by adversely affecting your bodily movements) is one of those catch-22s most (if not all) people will never find themselves in, so I don’t think it’s much cause for concern. That said, I intend to carry around a set of cutlery whenever I travel abroad from now on (although I will have to learn how to use my fork in my right hand).

Priorities for Armageddon

"We’ve only got four minutes to save the world!” urge Madonna and Justin from their lofty position at the top of this week’s hit parade. However, they then go on to waste around 80% of the time remaining before impending doom by singing a shit song about it.

And is it me, or has Madonna contracted a serious bout of Cher Syndrome in recent years, where the sufferer labours under the serious misapprehension that they remain a figure of desire and overt sexuality despite their advancing years (and where the increase in age is inversely proportional to the amount of clothes worn)? Out of the limelight for some years now, Cher is probably languishing in some nursing home dribbling soup down her chin and reminiscing about the times she used to straddle warship cannons clad only in a few ribbony strips of lycra. Urrgh. If they could turn back time indeed…