Miss Mish, Vit, Clair, The Girl, NML .... HELP!

I've just done 50 laps of the pool and I can't get out as my swimsuit gets all transparent in all the wrong places once it's wet - Mike will pass out if he sees me, Vicus will tell me off in words of more than one syllable and Alan will agree that I am larger than he is. I know where Gordon will be looking and as for the others .... PLEASE GET ME A TOWEL AND I PROMISE NOT TO DRINK THE REST OF THE POOL.

Please ?

Wanted: Crumb Licker

The smell reaches me before I see them. I approach the source of the scent and feel my tummy do a little flutter. I'm lusting for them now and I can barely contain my excitement. My face is flushed, my heart is racing, and my body is all a quiver. Little Blogger, Dr Rob, Jonny B and The Other Alan look at me expectantly. I'm so close now. They're all smiling at me as I reach them.

I reach over them and pick up the giant Marks and Spencer chocolate chip cookies off the table. God I've waited days for this moment!

I walk back out to the garden and lay on the sun lounger beside Zoe and Girl. We lie in the sunshine tucking into the cookies. Little Blogger appears (I'm sure he's been lurking in the bushes for a few moments) and offers to clean the crumbs off our bellies. Girl has got a bit carried away and has crumbs in her cleavage too.

The rest of the girls come out to help finish off the rest of the cookies. Clair is brandishing a hammer and Little Blogger runs back to his hiding place mistakenly thinking that she's going to use it on him. We all giggle for a few moments and then doze off one by one in the sunshine. I hear banging come from the shed again a while later. I hope that's not Clair and Little Blogger.....

If I had a hammer

Clair suddenly jumps up with the well known cry of "Archimedes!" knocking Miss Mish into the pool as she does so (sorry dear!). A spluttering of angry curses follows her as she runs over to the shed to collect some vital and neccesary implements.

The door closes behind her, and soon the sound of banging drifts out into the garden...

trickle trickle

Clair and Miss Mish dabble their feet in the swimming pool, pondering last night's debate. They are upset that it became so heated, the debate, that is, not the swimming pool, which as Zoe said to me me just now is "*****ing ****ing ****ing ***d freezing, that pool!" and Vitriolica was rather mean to them... that'll be me then, note to self... must remember not to refer myself in the third person... people will think I'm weird... I don't think I was mean, but then with all those cillit bang daiquiris who's to know what the hell I said?

The Girl is also angry. She has it in her head that there are some boys that need to be taught a lesson. There she struts off to find some boys... to teach lessons to.

Quickos is keeping a low profile.

Zoe's new tiara is really sparkly.

Fear and Loathing in the House

Dr Rob recovers from the evenings debauchery, resting his head on the kitchen table, his face felt funny once again, but not as bad as yesterday. He felt like he was a cultish gonzo reporter so he decided to drag out his old underwood from under the bed and bash out the following report on the state of this house now the elections were under way.

Fear and Loathing, The Campaign in the House Eviction Elections 2005

Dr. Rob sounds off on the fun-hogs in the passing lane

By Dr. Rob – with some help from Dr. Hunter S Thompson and Rolling Stone .com if their lawyers are reading this!

Dr Rob welcomes the morning in the house once again

Armageddon came early for Peter this year, and he was not ready for it. His long-awaited showdowns with LB turned into a series of horrible embarrassments that cracked his nerve and demoralized his closest campaign advisers. They knew he would never recover, no matter how many votes they could steal for him in da house, where the debates were closely watched and widely celebrated by millions of BB supporters who suddenly had reason to feel like winners.

JonnyB came into da house as a five-point underdog with almost no chance of winning three out of three rigged confrontations with a treacherous little freak like Mike. But the debates are over now, and the victor was clearly LB every time. He steamrollered the army of puppets and left them for roadkill.

Did you see Miss Mish on the table, trying to debate? Jesus, she talked like a donkey with no brains at all. The tide turned early, in da house, when Gordon went belly up less than halfway through his first pint of Cillit Bang, which hammered poor Gordon into jelly. It was pitiful. . . . I almost felt sorry for him, until I heard Girl call him "Mister President," and then I felt ashamed.

Mr. Hair, the house’s political wizard, felt even worse. There is angst in the heart of the house today, and panic in the bowels. Alan (the other) has a nasty little problem, and its name is Christine. Grocerjack failed miserably from the instant he got onstage. He looked weak and dumb. Vicus beat him like a gong in the shower room, then again in the kitchen and in the Jacuzzi -- and that is LB’s problem: This candidate is a weak-minded frat boy who cracks under pressure in front of 60 million voters.

That is an unacceptable failure for hardballers like Dr Rob and Vitriolica. On the undercard in the Diary Room against LB, the Girl came across as the cruel and sinister uberboss of the House. In her only honest moment during the entire debate, she vowed, "We have to make the House the best place in the world to do dirty business."

Peter signed his own death warrant in the opening round, when he finally had to speak without his TelePrompTer. It was a Cinderella story brought up to date in the House that night -- except this time the false prince turned back into a frog.

Immediately after the first debate ended LB called Muhammad Ali at his home in Michigan, but whoever answered said the champ was laughing so hard that he couldn't come to the phone. "The debate really cracked him up," he chuckled. "The champ loves a good ass-whuppin'. He says Peter looked so scared to fight, he finally just quit and laid down."

This week’s first eviction debate was such a disaster for NML that her handlers had to be crazy to let her get in the ring with Clair again. Yet LB let it happen, and we can only wonder why. But there is no doubt that BB has lost his nerve, and his career in the House is finished. NO MAS.

House politics is a vicious business, even for the nicest of bloggers, and anybody who gets into it should be prepared to grapple with the meanest of the mean. The House has never been seized by timid warriors. There are no rules, and the roadside is littered with wreckage and mangled puppets. That is why they call it the passing lane. Just ask any candidate who ever ran -- all of them expecting to be ambushed and vanquished by lies and dirty tricks. And all of them still whining about it.

That river is still running. All we have to do is get out and vote, while it's still legal, and we will wash those crooked bloggers out of the House.

Hunter S. Thompson's latest book is "Hey Rube: Blood Sport, the Bush Doctrine and the Downward Spiral of Dumbness" ('pandering to the lawyers once more' )

Calculating

He lies, eyes closed and breathing deep, in slumber. At least it appears that way. Every now and then his left eye flickers allowing him a slim view of the world as he now knows it.

He watches them flirt, frolic, frisk and fondle. He sees them dance, devulge secrets and dry dishes. He notices the cliques forming, the partnerships, the friendships and that women who keeps drawing everything. His eye flickers shut.

A sound nearby, and with his eyelids barely parted he watches Girl, slowly taking in the view. He slowly moves his pillow over his crotch...

He must act, he thinks. He must compose himself and get in the game, but as yet he still has no game plan. He is bewildered but knows the time is upon him.

He stretches. Yawns. Faking the slow, easy rise from sleep. He swings his legs out of the bed and eases himself vertical. The sheets fall away in his mind and he begins to see it, begins to realise what it is he must do. Now, he thinks, the game begins.

Sign up here

Surprisingly, few have mentioned my efforts to bring a little culture into this project. Loathe as I am to publicise my good works, I think it is important that everyone be given the wonderful opportunity of taking part in the series of debates and lectures that I will be organising over the next few days, as an alternative to the self-indulgence, debauchery and fascination with the scatological that appears to characterise existence here.

Suggested topics:

• John Motson and his influence on the lesbian undertones in 21^st Century literature.
• The role of umbrellas in the novels of D H Lawrence.
• Boris Johnson – the new Castro?
• The legalisation of pre-conception abortions.
• Which modern musician will leave the greatest legacy – Cilla Black, The Troggs or Jason Donavan?
• Do cats really have nine lives, and if so doesn’t that piss on Schrodinger’s fireworks somewhat?
• Emmanuel Kant – Twat or what?

Off for the nightly constitutional

Early morning and I'm on my way again. This is almost too easy.

I slip on my night vision goggles and check the state of the room. All soundly asleep. Gordon lies curled in the foetal position sucking his thumb. Dr Rob, having failed to make it as far as the bed, lies spreadeagled naked on the floor surrounded by empty cillet bang bottles. Jonny tosses and turns, mumbling about the moles again, "moles... moles... quickos will save me...." Mr Hair clutches the duvet around his neck, his rapid eye movements tell me that he is having a vivid dream, the tent-pole which props up the middle of his bedclothes tells me what it's about.

And tonight I don't even have to worry about Mike being up late. Not since we bound and gagged him and hung him upside-down in my kitbag in the corner of the room for getting away that whole "posting the BBC auto-reply" thing.

I exit the bedroom quietly and stop for a moment to ensure there is no movement in the house. From the girls bedroom I can hear the delicate girl noises. I peer around the door to ensure they are all there, and see Zoe, her tiara on the nightstand, quickos clutched tightly to her breast and a tear of joy trickling down her cheek. I turn and make my way quickly to the patio doors.

Making hardly a sound I slip outside, delighting in my own cleverness. This is all just too easy. Like taking candy from a baby. Just a few steps take me across to the.......

!!!!! SPLASH !!!!!

Where the #$!@ did this &#$%ing swimming pool suddenly appear from!!!!!!

Pammy, what is it?

Zoe woke up from a cillit-bang daiquiri induced slumber, late in the evening.... she heard the shower running, and knowing that everyone else must be still asleep, for she is the toughest bird there is, she wondered who could possibly be having a shower... She forced herself off the kitchen counter where she had collapsed into the guacomole face first... she stumbled out of the living room toward the bathroom...

by the time she got to the bathroom, she had found her footing and summoned up some cillit-bang induced courage (it's long lasting AND powerful, try it TODAY!) and approached the shower cubicle...

She carefully placed her hand on the edge of the curtain, took a deep breath and swept the curtain back...

She GASPED....!







"But, but, Quickos," she said through the tears "you, you, you.... you..., oh fark, (she slapped the back of her head)... got. blown. up. with. all. the. other. sock. puppets."

Quickos looked at her kindly... "Zoe, my love, it must have been a dream, I've been in the shower. I just got back from a little trip.... look there, in my briefcase, there's a little something for you."

Zoe bent down to pick up the heavy leather briefcase, but fell over in a cillit bang induced fit,.... but when she came round, she found a brand new tiara on her head... this time it was a REAL ONE.

(I refuse to take any credit for the shower scene... that was entirely dr rob's fault)