“Big
Blogger is good at making stories but I am not!” I explained to my five year
old nephew.
“Why? Just because…oh right. I can see where this
is going, so in an attempt to prevent a couple of thousand rounds of the “But
Why?” game, I am going to give it a go. OK?”
“Yay!”
“I know you
are only five, but say “Yay!” again and I will knock those milk teeth right out
of your head. Anyway. A story. Right.”
“Once upon
a time there was a devilishly handsome anonymous Internet celebrity called Geronimo,
not unlike your very own Cool Uncle Angry, and he had a mortal enemy. This enemy was a so-called musician, by the
name of James Blu…Bland. Yes, James Bland.
Anyway,
James Bland had been polluting the airwaves with his own brand of acoustic
torture for many years, and for some reason completely unfathomable to anyone
with so much as a modicum of taste, he had built up quite a following around
the world. Many people were convinced it
was due to some mind control experiment being conducted via the FM radio frequency,
but when they talked about this theory in public they were dismissed as ‘utter
fucking lunatics’. Yes, yes, Cool Uncle
Angry said a bad word. Get over it.
Anyway, it
was time for someone to take a stand, and that person was m…Geronimo. One day he followed James Bland home from the
recording studio, and watched as he parked his car and entered his house. Geronimo made his was round the back of the
house and let himself in through an open window.
Once
inside, he made his way to the lounge where James Bland had picked up a weapon
of mass destruction – his acoustic guitar! Without so much as a passing thought for his personal safety Geronimo leapt
into action. He punched James Bland in
the full in the face and smashed his posh nose into about eight pieces.”
“Stop
crying. Seriously. It has a happy
ending, I promise.”
“Anyway. This punch rendered James Bland unconscious,
and Geronimo dragged his lifeless body into the back garden, where he hastily
dug a shallow grave in which to bury James Bland.”
“Look,
seriously. Stop it with the crying, or
I’ll get the bogeyman to come in and eat your head. Good.”
“So,
anyway, this hastily constructed grave was filled in on top of the body of
James Bland, and Geronimo made his way back out of the front door and into the
night. A hero.”
“b…b…but
you s…s…said it was h…h…happy at the end?”
“Yes. James Bland never released another album and
the entire world was a better place for it. See? Happy. Ending. Honestly, you kids have no idea about proper
entertainment. Now go to sleep before I
tell you Father Christmas isn’t real. Good night.”
I got up to
leave, but before I did I turned to my nephew’s bed, and said “Oh and Big
Blogger is bad, in case you were wondering, like.”
Yes, yes, I know it is a weak ending, but it is late and I am tired. So fuck off.
Posted by: Mr Angry | Wednesday, 04 July 2007 at 23:57
Thank you Uncie Angry... *zzzzzzz*
Posted by: penfold | Thursday, 05 July 2007 at 07:37
You are evil but you got nekkid so I'll forgive you.
Posted by: Angelalala | Thursday, 05 July 2007 at 12:31
I am glad James Bland is underground, but I also feel sorry for the kid. I am neither bad nor good. Bugger.
Posted by: Clare | Thursday, 05 July 2007 at 12:55