Previous Episodes: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Monday

Been ages since I wrote here. Broke both hands in a fisting fishing accident in January. So what with my weak wrists and the dodgy speech recognition on me iMac I have avoided confessionalising. Big news is me and Niamh made up! Her mam is still sending me poo’s in the mail, but since I moved back home we can face that problem as a family. Speaking of which, Andrew’s coming up on the big one one, time for the special talk about you know what. Sex. Can’t wait!

Tuesday 2PM

Had to take Andrew to casualty. The lady doctor said there should be no lasting damage from the shock, but not to mention cadbury’s caramels, republicanism, or hair nets around him for the forseeable.

Tuesday 11PM

Andrew’s bleeding from the arse, this doesn’t look good. I swear, the power of suggestion! Knew I should have bought that kryptonite for daddy’s secret cabinet.

Wednesday 3PM

Whenever I watch the weather I always imagine the forcasters hand as a big threatening giant hand looming in the sky. Imagine the size of the cuticles.

Wednesday 5PM

Finished me jigsaw of the Lindisfarne & Budle Bay estuary. Went for a walk, left leg is a bit stiff from a misunderstanding with the wife. Wish I’d realised ‘harder’ was a rubbish safe word. For a minute I thought someone was following me, so I found a doorway, lowered me cacks and waited for a nice surprise, but all I got was a chilly arse.

Thursday

Wouldn’t you know it, I forgot me own birthday. Trust Niamh, she had me back, and eight of the lads from the club judging by the sexy video she made me. Or maybe only seven lads. Pretty sure Arthur G. is a drag king, either that or he’s has the greasiest mickey in Dublin. Each to their own.

Friday

Andrew’s bum is healing well, which is good news, because Friday night means it’s time for daddy’s tasty vindaloo!

Alias, Felicity, Star Trek… Fine mysteries all, exciting adventures, thrilling journeys with insolvable puzzles at their hearts, but what else do they have in common? All are products of the creative genius of one man: Enigmatic writer and producer Jolly Jim Abrams. Within the industry of making television and cinema films in Hollywood, Abrams (49) is renowned as the up and coming go to guy for that certain je ne sais quoi. With a head literally bursting with riddles, puzzles and devilment, and decorated with puppy soft, breeze tussled curls, Abrams will surely delight and frustrate us in equal measure for decades to come.

But did you know, Abrams is not just a creators of mysteries, but also an aficionado, a man who enjoys a good puzzle as much and perhaps more than you? For the first time JJ’s been kind enough to grant Marshmallow Ladyboy Jesus access to the eight mysteries that tingle his curiosity late into the cold unfeeling night.

Mystery 1 – The Magical Box

As a young boy, Abrams travelled with his father, also called Abrams, to the Lou Tannen Magic Store on Manhattan’s Lower West Side. There they purchased a magical box, filled with exciting tricks and embossed with the curious interrogative symbol that was to become Abrams emblem. Rather than open that box, JJ kept it, enjoying the limitless possibilities of what it might possess, the exquisite tension of his infinite ignorance, far more than any toy that could have lain within.

Mystery 2 – Mrs Abrams Maw

JJ is happily married with two talented children, the twin gymnasts Pierre and Princess Abrams, who so delighted us at Beijing last year. His wife, Akasuki Abrams is a success in her own right- her computer pet ‘Tamagotchi’ caused a Christmas sensation in the 1990′s, and it’s follow-up the dancing vacuum ‘Happy Vroom Vroom’, is expected to do equally well this holiday season.

A formidable woman, Mrs Abrams is likely attractive, but the world may never know. At their first romantic meeting on a packed Harajuku hypertrain, the future Mrs JJ happened to be wearing a ‘hygiene mask’- an accessory common in the germ phobic Japanese capital. Delighted by her enigmatic ambiguity JJ insisted Akasuki continue hiding her face as their relationship progressed, encouraging his future wife to don a succession of veils, chador and helmets. The happy couple were eventually married at a pitch dark ceremony in the Goa Jepang caves at Pyongyang. To this day Akasuki’s lower head remains an intriguing puzzle, as all photographic evidence of the girls chin and cheeks have been destroyed.

Mystery 3 – The Litter

JJ Abrams, like Genghis Khan and generations of Australian backpackers before him, has literally no idea how many children he may have sired. In addition to his acknowledged heirs, twins from his current marriage, and a large hairless child ‘Porridge Hyacinth Abrams’, borne of an ill advised liaison with Milli of 80′s popsters Milli Vanilli, Abrams is likely the father of thousands of anonymous children. Exact figure are unsurprisingly a mystery, but Abrams admits he enjoys knowing that every child he passes in the street could be his own. Interviewed at a red carpet premier in 2006, Abrams spoke of his ‘Bastard baking technique’, a hobby involving cat burgling poorly guarded sperm banks, to replace their juicy tubules with vials of his own powerful seminal fluid. Whose your daddy? In all likelihood, it’s JJ Abrams.

Mystery 4 – I’m hideous!

It’s difficult to believe, but we can confirm that this one is absolutely true. Not only has JJ Abrams, skilled TV creator, amateur magician, and professional intrigue weaver failed to behold his lady wife’s puss, the man has never beheld his own face. Strict Hasidic Mormons, Abrams parents raised him in a house without reflective surfaces. Although he has long since abandoned the religion of his birth in favour of the ancient Dionysian cult of hedonism, JJ has maintained this odd superstition.

Refusing to watch his interviews, and never leaving the house without his patented reflection blocking contact lens, JJ Abrams may be the first man in history with no idea of his own appearance- except for blinds.

Consternation erupted in 2005 when a militant group of anti-fans swathed JJ’s plush Hollywood villa in a series of enormous placards depicting his gurning mug. Disaster was avoided when Abrams flew in magician and NLP sex man Darren Brown, who cunningly implanted an hypnotic suggestion, forever protecting JJ from accidental exposure to his admittedly handsome face.

Mystery 5 – Chinese Proverb Say…

JJ Abrams doesn’t know which way the cookie crumbles, and he likes it that way.

Mystery 6 – It Was In, Surely!

The offside rule remains a confounding puzzle to soccer fan Abrams, though it has been explained to him many times.

Mystery 7 – ?
*

Mystery 8 – The End of Lost

A typically risqué scene

Research carried out by sweet rouged Marshmallow reporters has confirmed something fans had long suspected, despite claims to the contrary, JJ Abrams- the genius behind hit series Lost, has literally no idea how the programme will end. “The fucker makes it up as he goes along”, one colleague, then disgruntled, now former, told us, and this does sadly seem to be the case.

Records obtained by stealing from the offices of Abrams Production company ‘Interobang’, demonstrate conclusively that little thought has gone into the final season of the show- due out next year.

The notes, which range from slightly vague to utterly incoherent, are written in Abrams own hand, and consist primarily of brief sentence fragments, with curses and colourful epithets thrown in the margins. Fans of the show will be crestfallen to realise that the ‘Smoke monster’, a hoary puzzle which has remained unsolved since the pilot episode, will be explained as a “trick of the light, giant cigarette, radioactive Hurly guff”.

If you saw the lower half of this picture, you would literally vomit

Abrams’ notes are illustrated by crude, child like sketches of on-again off-again couple ‘Jack Shepard’, and ‘Kate Austin’, engaged in a variety of carnal activities, some of which appear physically impossible.

So called ‘Superfans’, members of the public who’ve devoted tens of thousands of pages to intricate theories explaining seemingly contradictory elements of the show, from time travel to messages from the dead, are likely to be infuriated by the ‘Big Reveal’, described succinctly with the line “Purgawhatsit?, Every one is robots?, It was all a dream!”

* Mystery 7 is a mystery

Bukowski, drinking

You can imagine how flattered, and indeed surprised we were to receive a package purporting to contain an original and as yet unpublished volume of work by that uncouth folk hero of the American literary landscape, Mr Henry Charles Bukowski.

Bukowski’s earthy masculine novels and plain verse poetry earned him the moniker ‘The Prince of the American Night’. While his violently unpretentious articulations of the apolitical anomie of the post-war American barfly gained him a loyal readership. Young women famously sent the writer graphic missives proffering their virginities, and burnt out old men would often turn up on his doorstep begging advice. The American literary landscape has been a duller place since his departure. Thus is is with sincere pride and insincere humility, we present the first new poem from Charles Bukowski in fifteen years.

Dermot Byrne brings you the latest episode in his blasphemous audio comedy series ‘Fantastic Tales of Jesus‘. This week, ‘Jesus at the dole office’.

Download: Jesus at the dole office (3.9 Meg, MP3)

These gentle tales are sponsored by the cool fresh taste of Maureen’s Delicious Grape Wine, the wine that makes you go “More Wine Maureen!”.

Since the untimely demise of the prince of pop Michael Jackson (search engines take note), rumours have percolated like coffee that many celebrities who happen to be in the full prime of being alive, are in fact deceased. As a public service, Marshmallow Ladyboy Jesus have decided to provide a convenient list of celebrities including their being alive status.

Brittany Spears: Alive
Jeff Goldbloom: Alive
Elvis: Dead
The Queen: Alive
Jesus: Fictional

Previous Episodes: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Monday 2PM

Nabbed meself two weeks off while the boss gets the bullet proof fitted. It’s me first holiyers since the divorce, so I have to make sure and go somewhere nice. These days there’s so much choice its hard to know where to stay. Malaga, Benidorm, Sangria. Sure you’d want a geography leaving cert just to keep up.

Monday 9PM

Booked me trip! Heading off on one a them last minute deals. Flight leaves in three hours so I’d better run, zoom! Majorcan minibreak, here I come.

Tuesday 1PM

Magaluf is only lovely. Savage little harbour and all the girls are English. You know what they say about proddy wans! They say they like to ride a lot.

Airport was a nightmare, wouldn’t you know it. First there was the whole, ‘stick your bag in here sir’. Course it doesn’t fit, and that’s forty quid down the grotto. Then they want to open the hand luggage in front of everyone. Big laugh. Bet a woman wouldn’t get told off for having a Linford Christie in her bag. I should take it to the court in Europe.

Heading to the ‘superclub’ tonight for a bit of a boogie. Chances are I’ll get chatting to the DJ and he’ll let me spin some cuts. Girlies always love a musical man.

Tuesday 11PM

Have a black eye and a swolley nose. Got tossed out of the club for dancing. I suppose they’d kick you out of the jacks if you did a number two. To make tomatoes worse, I think I put me back out doing the crab.

Wednesday 3PM

Lovely afternoon so far. Took the bus down to Palma and hit the streets, working me best material on the beautiful ladies. It’s all kosher here from thirteen up. Now that’s what I call civilised. Best of all, everyone seems to speake Englasias. Well, they know ‘f off’, ‘get f’d', and ‘creepy b’tard’ anyway.

Wednesday 7PM

Met a savage wee bird from Germany, have a date tonight. She’s over on a school trip, so she’ll have to sneak out to meet me. Feel like Jason Bourne on a secret mission!

Her name is Aaline, and she has the loveliest teeth, mad white and all the same size. Told a little fib to get the date. Let on to her I was doing a bit of DJin’ instead of just on holiday. Sure it’s half true anyway, I know me stuff when it comes to the decks.

Thursday 2PM

Writing in a hurry. Can’t stay in one place too long. Wouldn’t you know it, I stumbled into a Catherine Zeta film. Went to meet up with Aaline, but instead of a date I got an earful of ‘where do you work?’, and ‘what’s your real name?’, off a pair of super-size plods.

Jeasus isn’t it well I fibbed to her in the first place? Managed to blag me way out a there somehow. Turns out it feckin’ illegal to tell a wee angel a lie over here, so I had to convince the feckers I really was working for Boy George and me name was Alfonzo Kittenpants. Arse, arse, arse, and quadruple arse. Now I have to keep the head down until me flight leaves. That’s not till Saturday!

Sunday 2PM

Made it home. I swear I’m never leaving Dublin ever again. Had to spend the last two nights sleeping in the ditch near the airport, in case the fuzz found me hotel. Last night, just as I was packing up to head for the airport, some English louts spotted me and took turns trying to splash me with their wee.

On the plus side, I got a lovely laminated map of Majorca and a giant Toblerone at the airport. Don’t even have to share it. Wouldn’t mind though…

A letter arrived for me this morning. I beg your indulgence when I tell you that it was written in my own hand. Despite all common sense I am forced to conclude that it was written by some future me, a man condemned. I have transcribed it here, correcting spelling where necessary.

Dear Marshmallow Ladyboy Jesus,

I always knew I’d end up jailed for something. Better I suppose that it was something noble. A martyrdom rather than a condemnation, a brave stand against injustice in place of a grubby harassment suit. I walk, in the penning of this mellifluous missive of corrupt internment, in the footprints of social innovators like Wilde, Pankhurst, and Nice. Though it might be said by one less modest, that their struggles – occurring as they did in the past, can hardly compare to my own battle, which is happening right now.

I had long fantasised about what life in prison might be like, vacillating between two extremes. In one daydream – the one that might be called ‘Porridge’, the inmates ornery suspicion of my cut glass accent and excellent table manners, are quickly replaced by a grudging respect. I help the men pen letters to their sweethearts, assist them with their appeals, and start a social issues theatre company that gives voice to their feelings of imprisonment. Gradually the grateful felons begin referring to me as ‘The Professor’. With time I accrue some degree ‘soft power’, through my esteemed social position within the prison, and Nelson Mandela like influence in the wider community. A former chef, imprisoned for poisoning his Rotery club, becomes my personal cook, and my penthouse cell swells with books on post structural philosophy, lush kittensoft toilet paper, and tasteful lithographs by Cezanne and Monet. Eventually the great day comes and I am released. Emerging to the rapturous attentions of the worlds media, I lead my people to a promised land of anarcho-syndicalist peace, tolerance, creative expression and casually meaningful polyamorous nookie.

There has always been, of course, another and less pleasant fantasy – lets call it simply ‘Oz’. Locked up and forgotten by a world more concerned with celebrity Big Brother and some silly fuss in Persia than my plight, I fall prey to the law of the jungle. Within a week I am slowly and ungently robbed of my prostine innocence by a gang of twelve ruffians, three of them possessed of incurable contagions; whilst rotund and callous ‘Screws’ look on, laughing and smoking their harsh Turkish cigarettes. Within a month I am ‘shanked’ and lie convalescing in the prisons poorly serviced ‘hospital’. Tragically, though the techniques required to return me to good health would be trivial to the most poorly trained general practitioner, the prisons lone medic, a pickled incompetent whose primary degree is veterinary, botches the surgery: dooming me to lurch forever, hunched and careful lest my fetid satchel burst and betray my incontinence. Sloped, bald and stinking always of the fungi that inhabit my open chest wound, I am swiftly rejected by the ‘decent’ prisoners, who force the governor to move me to the ‘nonce’ wing, where I am subject to mandatory castration and distasteful company. Though I pray for death always, I take many years to perish.

The truth of course has been more banal. I get along well enough with some prisoners, avoiding others who demand money and deliver punches like glorified primary school bullies. Mostly I lie in my cell, silently brooding. Having exhausted the small prison library, primarily stocked with Patterson, Clancy, and the execrable space operas of Doc Smith, there is nothing left for me to read. On the other hand I retain little desire to do so, as the sweet velvet touch of heroin brooks no other lover.

The blasphemy amendment which sent me here is being challenged in the EU, and who knows, perhaps in two years or five, I’ll be a free man once again; liberated, and for once thin! It’s a prospect I relish… They say the gear is better on the outside, and cheaper too.

Signed,

The Political Prisoner

July 7th, 2010

Child eating a sausage

New research from Swedish sexologists Klaus and Bjorne Umlaut may finally put to rest an anxiety that has plagued society since the early 1970′s. Sociologically Originated Fear of Tininess is a culture bound syndrome that leads men to focus on their perceived inadequacies. A fear doctors now say is unfounded.

Research published by the Scandanavian team in this months issue of the journal Nature, which applies ground breaking survey methodologies to the estimation of cumberland dimension, seems to indicate men have nothing to worry about.

“It looks like de average ist anything from sechs und ein half to sieben und drei quarter inchen,” Dr Klaus Umlaut told a packed – and it has to be said, relieved press conference in the Swedish capitol Hurdigurdy.

“Previous studies relied on invasive techniques which necessitated actually handling der snitzel,” added Dr Bjorne Umlaut, no relation. “Our work, by contrast, has employed a more ethnographically valid measure.”

The team’s approach is indeed radical, requiring absolutely no physical measurements. By collating oral reports given to a female confederate at a local wine bar, the scientists believe they have come closer than ever to accurately estimating man’s pride.

The sexologists have developed a variety of convincing explanations for previously recorded erectile extension disparities. Hypotheses include ‘it was extremely cold’, ‘wasn’t in the mood’, ‘big legs’, ‘poor lighting’ and of course ‘abnormally wide vaginas’.

Women everywhere have reacted with pleased incredulity to the news, acknowledging that actually it did matter, and “looking forward to finally feeling something more than a vaguely unpleasant warmth down there”.

Professor Richard Dawkins, evil? Yes

02/04/10

AP Press Release

In the grandiloquent rhyming scheme that is their signature, the Magic Circle, the world’s leading public association of chartered men of wand and cape, have announced the dismissal of one ‘Afredo the Munificent’, aka Richard Clinton Dawkins PHD.

Dawkins, author of such books as Deal With This, ‘God’ and Taste It! Dark Fury of Science Recipe Book, and long one of the groups most vocally outspoken doers of inexplicable trickery, has yet to respond publicly to his exclusion.

In their statement – issued from an ancient grimoire bound in the base hide of the last dragon, the circle described how Dawkins had, quote…

“Bled the fools of their belief,
the better to ensnare them,
then wily stomached those sweet meats
of lost deserted sermons”

The possessed tome – which appeared in a black flame that did not burn, blinding all who beheld its inestimable dark, seems to have confirmed what many in the organised faiths had long suspected: Dawkin’s much publicised promotion of atheism has been a thinly veiled satanic plot.

Another section of the Circle’s statement – whispered to our Religion, Tooth Decay and Varnished Balalaika Editor, Muppet Christmas Carol, by an intern who has since clawed out his eyes and carved into his chest a sigil that glows as though by the light of a thousand dying suns – confirms this.

“And low he seeks to usher in,
with bearing smug and arseish grin,
that dog who would consume the day,
the beast that doth define naughty”

Astute readers will remember this is not the first time the magic circle have publicly expressed their discontent. Twelve years ago British warlock Sir Paul Daniels was forced out, after he voluntarily married a woman resembling a skinned marmoset. More recently, notoriously ‘blue’ Vegas duo Penn Jillette and Raymond Teller were expelled for being cunts.

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The AP – grab a spoon (TM).

We’re here to make literary fiction our bitch

In our continuing blitzkrieg on the publishing industry, an heroic effort to teraform the stale airless wastes of literary fiction into an environment fit for human habitation; the Jackdaw Fool Comedy Network have joined forces with literary giant Pamela Nerfgurgler to present a series which will change the way the written word is written.

The past decade has seen a dizzying succession of literary fads – from sexy vampires, to victorian whodunnits, to urban fantasies, to true life tragedies, to apocalyptic popular sciencies. Each of these purse bursting subgenres is possessed of its own charms, but none have come close to the lid grating, pupil salting, fingertip shredding brilliance of the ubergenre we propose today.

The scions of literary fiction, holed up in their ivory towers, with their barley water moats, and great echoing concrete silos of uncut first editions, cry out as one for the next literary sensation. Deep in their subterranean simian typing pools, troops of furred and winged minions toil day and night to produce new synergies for focus grouping – sexy faries, zombie victoriana, talmudic crime fighters, and erotic children’s poetry – all have been spoon fed to a public hungry for their next sweet treat: Only to be sicked up by a common man starving for sweeter fair.

Preparations are underway

To those incumbent publishers we display our bright red baboon arses. We’ve beaten them to the punch, and soon they will kneel before us begging for a golden squirt to quench their cracked and peeling lips.

Without further ado – allow us to present madame Nerfgurgler’s masterpiece, the first in a fifty two volume series, with movie options, stage adaptations, and soft velvet plushies to follow. ‘Tripood, Lord of Canterers’, tells the story of a brave and noble ‘sexy centaur’, transported by Cobrapelt, queen of the Snake Ponies, far from the bountiful and Homeric lands of his people. Finding himself trapped in present day New York, Tripod must team up with a group of charmingly quirky twenty some-things, and face the cruel lights as he embarks on a career in a Broadway musical.

Take him to bed with you, in book form.