Tag Archives: Gordon O’Donnell (GOD)

The Bish Packs It In.

28 Sunday Mar 2021

Posted by in Sandshoe

≈ 18 Comments

Tags

, , ,

Jesus and God

The Bish Packs It In.

Written by Sandshoe

The Bish arrived with attitude. The good Bish (there are some very bad Bishes) had been a supplicant for a semester at a mind re-training boot camp conducted in the Southern Highlands by the Society for the Restoration of All Bishops of Any Sin. FOW*, still. after all these years resident in the Manse over the road from the Pig’s Arms** carpark had some advantages as a host of his, or her, re-emergence. More important to the Bish than anything was no longer being of a fixed mindset about his, or her, personal gender or about anything at all. If anything, FOW was the perfect host. He was laid back.

The Bish greeted his friend, Sandy O’Way with gushing warmth.

“Mother O’Way, away wit’ y’ lookin’ so bonny.”

Sandy, or as we like to address him on formal occasions, FOW, hesitated.

“I’ll need to put down the suitcases, Bish.’

The suitcases dispensed with at the bottom of the staircase, FOW waited for the onrush of shock into his consciousness to subside. Being seized and hugged in an instant by the Bish was unexpected, nay unaccustomed. He picked up the suitcases again, his two hands firmly gripped on them as if on reality. The Bish filled him in as they walked up the staircase to the upper storey side by side

The Bish had seen where inconsistencies in the mortal and moral fabric tethered him, or her to the old ways in entire indifference to caring. In bondage, the Bish explicated. He waved his hands free of imagined shackles.

“We’re all good then.”

FOW wanted it to be inferred he would be Mother O’Way, MOW if necessary were it required of him. What’s in a name.

“Never been better,” the Bish punched with his fists into the very air.

“I’ll check your prescriptions. Seen Gordy*** lately?”

“Don’t forget Gord, Sandy.” Tears of beatitude and plenitude, rectitude I suspect, gratitude rolled down the face of the Bish. They splashed onto the gold heraldic design on the carpet on the staircase.

*Father O’Way

**Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig and Whistle

***Gordy O’Donnell, nuclear and unplugged physicist of all things indeterminable in the Cyberverse.

Episode 87: In the Manner of An Instauration

14 Tuesday Mar 2017

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick, Sandshoe

≈ 20 Comments

Tags

, , , , , ,

 by Sandshoe

Honest to Gordon, I would have said to Gordon, Gordon let the bish go.

Foodge

Foodge scrubs up well 

Bring in the strongman. That’s a circus expression.

“Let the bloke go,” EEvonnn asked Gordon, “will you please?”.

The bish was standing at the counter. Maybe he was wedged between Gordon and the counter. Gordon had let go and slumped forward on him. Gordon was snoring.

Nurse Eevonnn

Nurse Eevonnn reads law

“Merv’s missing. Foodge’s Uncle. He’s suspect in your demise.” EEvonnn was not put off her job. She launched a conversation with the bish.

“Last thing I saw of Merv,” the bish answered, “was only a glimpse. He was rocking the rocker. He wouldn’t know which was up in the state he was in. Nobody can believe a word he says.”

The bish added, hastily, “I’ve no formal complaints to make, Vonnny.”

EEvonnn winked and grinned. EEvonnn had laid a couple of bets with the bish earlier on her way to work. Eevonnn winner and grinner. She does not know yet the canvas tote bag is missing.

Nurse Barbara clickety-click-clicked into the foyer of the pleece station looking elegantly turned out and wearing very high and very nice white high heel shoes. She had changed for work. An early. Nurse Barbara announced she was lost.

A new lot of people was shepharded into the foyer by more pleece behind them.

“Bish,” Nurse Barbara smiled brightly, jostling with the crowd, “You can help me and I thought you were dead. I’m lost. What’s wrong with him? Does he need something?”

Nurse Barbara motioned one elegant hand at Gordon slumped on the counter top now and asleep, snoring with gusto. She turned to see EEvonnn standing behind the counter.

“Nurse Eevonnn! You’re on the wrong side of the counter. Aren’t you?”

“Barb, I’m a temp. I’m only acting. I’m a desk clerk. What’s wrong.”

“I’m lost.”

“I thought myself the bish was dead. That’s how much I know,” smiled EEvonnn.

Nurse Barbara looked at EEvonnn askance. “I’m lost.” She waved her hand, this time describing ‘don’t know where I am’, palm upturned, an ancient Egyptian-style raised elbow and forearm supporting a raised wrist gesture, a ‘Where am I?’ or can be used for ‘What’s wrong with everybody? Why is food being carried in? The Pharoah was dead last I looked?’

“The NavSAT woman directed me here,” Nurse Barbara explained. “I should not ever listen to her.  I’ve never been to this Pleece Station before. Thank our lucky stars. It’s Foodge.”

Never was everybody crowding into the foyer with pleece persons ever so happy to see Foodge. A cry of exultant would-be ciminals if it was not for Foodge went up in one voice.

“FOODGE!”

Foodge had changed out of his party clothes into a grey-silk work suit and a soft-white silk shirt. He was wearing his college tie. He was carrying in one hand a recently purchsed new fedora. He was carrying a briefcase in his other hand. If a court was convened Foodge was ready for anything. He was worried.

Young Bish

When the bush was young and wore real underpants

Foodge stopped and paled even more than he is pale as it is.  The bish partly wrapped in one of Janet’s curtains she sewed for Merv for the bar had managed to get his feet free when he squirmed out from under the weight of Gordon on his shoulders. Foodge saw the bish shuffling and Gordon loudly snoring on the counter. The bish however stooped. He was about to bestow on Nurse Barbara an adoration for being medical. He attributed Nurse Barbara’s arrival at the pleece station as responsible for his restoration. He kissed her feet. Not a lot of room for even a drunken sailor. Never mind. Enough people huddled together out of alarm at the sight of the bish, the bish was able to lay himself prone on the floor between their feet.

Nurse Barbara makes a statuesque statue, just no sparrows and in a nurse’s uniform and high heels.

Back against the counter face next to Gordon Foodge slid down into the crowd. He hunkered.

“Uncle Merv thinks you’re dead and he killed you,” Foodge said succinctly in the ear of the prone bish, “Bish, I’m mad. You runnin’ that illegal book.”

The bish didn’t move. He was thinking. He remembered the canvas tote bag.

Foodge sighed and lent his head back against the counter top behind him. He was worried for Uncle Merv waiting in hiding, not knowing the bish was alive, Foodge thought he was alive anyway. Hard to tell through the curtain,the bish lying doggo.

Bish 2

… the bish

“Get up, bish. Here you are. Put on your pants. Crouch down. Put these on. Rosie gave these to me to … give to you.” Foodge hesitated. He could not bring himself to say what they were intended for for all he was mad at the bish. Foodge is soft hearted.

Foodge pulled a neatly ironed and folded pair of smart black dress slacks and a plain white poplin shirt out of his briefcase. “They’re not my best, Foodge,” grimaced the bish.

Thongs

things out of a charity box …

The bish was unsteady on his feet pulling on his pants.

Foodge remembered. “OK. So they’re a bit ordinary. What’d you expect. I’ve brought you some thongs too. Couldn’t find your dress shoes. We did our best on short notice. Sorry. Here.”

Nurse Barbara said quietly, “I’m lost.” She left to find her way to work with the NavSAT turned off.

Black Canary

Acknowledgment – A Black Canary Cartoon

 TO BE CONTINUED

 My sincere apologies to all the nurses and those who aren’t and now are if anybody is offended by these representations of ourselves if not ourselves.

Acknowledgement: That’s Clint Eastwood modelling underpants.

Episode 86 and a tad: Parallel Bars

10 Friday Mar 2017

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick, Sandshoe

≈ 27 Comments

Tags

,

Gordons Cat

Illustration 1 Gordon’s Cat

Story by Sandshoe

Schmoley the room lit up like a Roman Candle going off. Looked like Gordon set up one of the best exits for the bish. Totally.

Gordon spiralled through the door of the bar out of a parallel universe. He swooned like an accordion collapsing onto the bar stool next to where the bish was flopped with his limp head lolling in the space under the bar. See previous episode eh to understand what is going down here.

Gordon was oblivious to everything in the room aside the bish. He was tapping his foot way wrong.

Gordon always tapped out I Did It the Wrong Way which was a song he wrote when he was a post man and the more seriously (totally) wrong the timing (yeah, I know but his theory, not mine) he thought he could raise the dead. No, you’re right nobody else has mentioned this not even in passing. The bish might have but who knew so much going on.

Talk about silly this lot. Universities, eh. Like Schrodinger’s moggie. Not that Gordon had run into Schrodinger on the circuit even when their cats’ lives over lapped, but there are some dead and undead theories going on in Gordon’s head about the bish in that moment would have made any phsyicist proud, more so if they had been on the turps themselves up the way a bit. Polite way of saying Gord was feet up and the rest of him on Rosie on Rosie’s sofa having his own down time.

There’s a euphemism. When the lights went out instead of on at Rosie’s, Gordon (nothing surer, our Gordy) jumped to his feet as well as he could manage with his inebriation and flailing tumescence and looked out the louvres that looked out over the left hand and the right hand stair case. You know the sort. Inexplicable design to accommodate an onslaught of who knows how many tramping feet and they reach a landing that is a square hardly looks big enough for the anticipated siphoning of these many arrivals up the remaining single staircase. Without the neon light flashing in his eyes as it did in usual syncopated beat-style FLASH FLASH no worries a light or two fallen out over the years, he made out the shape of a contingent of pleece personnel at the door of the Sports Bar. If not pleece, it was an army battalion.

PLEECE! PLEECE!

That’s what he heard.

Nobody could hear Gordon tapping his foot anyway so what hope would the dead have. The pleece bursting through the front doors off the street unexpectedly caused a sort of Pandemonium.

I’ve got the timing right, you don’t have to worry about that. Gord was upstairs looking out and downstairs looking at the bish’s head lolling in the space under the bar at the same time. He arrived before he was missed upstairs. Rosie did not know he had left. She did work out he wasn’t all there. She asked him to please not to forget to put his pants on being like he was well affected by Rosie’s liquor. He replied he had and Rosie said to him even though he was downstairs wrestling the body of the bish back up into an upright position from prone no he hadn’t.

Gord was there when he wasn’t to explain what happened without to-do. He was both present and absent in both places at the same time. He put pants on and he hadn’t. He met himself coming.

PLEECE! PLEECE!

“Likely story.”

That was what the Superintendent at the Pleece Station said when Gordon was brought in by half the army battallion-like pleece personnel contingent struggling and clutching the bish upright who it appeared in the light of an emergency generator was a stiff already dressed in a floor length ceremonial death caftan and Gordon wouldn’t or couldn’t let go. He couldn’t. He went back a long way with the bish. It was time to take their relationship to the next level. Keep him close. Bring the bish back from the dead.

“Name!”

He tried. He couldn’t say it. It was too long. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Alright then, sir! Initials if it’s too hard! Give us a … ”

“G.” Gordon managed a G. Tap. Tap.

“It’s a start! Got to start somewhere.”

Gordon noded his head and shook it. Confused the desk clerk. EEvonnn. Hard to confuse Eevonnn. Tap. Tap. Tap. He kept tapping his feet.

“Next!”

“O a postrophy D. For O’Donnell. G is for Gordon. Ehxcuzhe me. I urgently need to phone my cat.”

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Shoe

The Author – fact checking

TO BE CONTINUED:

Merv losses his Voice

22 Sunday Jan 2017

Posted by in Mark

≈ 15 Comments

Tags

, , ,

ra

Foodge at Law School

Foodge at Law School

Merv Losses His Voice.

Story by Mark.

Ackually, there is an air of calm in the Pigs Arms tonight, no pleece raids, well not for and hour or so. Everything is peaceful and quiet.

Foodge had the girls bailed up in the corner discussing a point of law. The girls however were more interested in the racing guide. Till Nurse Barbara asked “How’s ya

Nurse Barb

Nurse Barbara

barista business going?” which started Foodge on another tirade about the price of coffee till Merv emerged.

“ “ said Merv. Well at least his jaw and lips moved but nothing came out.

“I’m sorry old boy but you’ll have to speak up, it was the war you know” and given the closest Foodge got to war was driving past the army base one day, just BS.

“ “ says Merv. Again nothing.

[ “ “

Hi Merv Hung here. You don’t say anything in this episode.

Merv was about to say then thinks, what the eff are you up to Hung?

Hung

Hung

The patrons can write the answers, I’ll rewrite the story with what works then re-publish the story thinks Hung

Merv: You are weird Hung?

Hung: Yes I know]

The boys are out the back, sipping a few specials.

“No fecking cricket. What’s the world coming to?” says Gib.

“Gordon says there’s a One Day Final on the planet Axiom but due to time differences the game takes 10 Earth days” informs Angler.

“If Gordon says it then it must be true.” recites Gib from his magical tablet as if by special farcical powers.

“…………….. “ says Merv again.

“Nah, if Gordon says then it must be true” states Hung.

“If Gordon says it then it must be true” chant the crew.

Pass the Soma or Somac, not sure.

“………………. “ cries Merv.

Don't worry about climate change. Worry about what life you are leaving for this guy.

Don’t worry about climate change. Worry about what life you are leaving for this guy.

Father O’Way – Fax Evasion Exposed

09 Wednesday Mar 2016

Posted by in Mark

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

, ,

Gordon's supply

Gordon’s supply of Brandy

“Get the fuck up and get over here” roars the Bish down the end of the phone. “The Inner Cyberian Pleece are coming over to make sure that all of us here at the Church of St Generic Brand aren’t tax evaders”emphatically states the Bish.

“Excuse me Bish but we are now in a Father O’Way story and swearing is not allowed anyway you said Fax Evasion, see that’s easy, just don’t have one” I reply while scratching my nuts then farting, as you do. Hmm, that fingernail needs attention. Now we have done the on wee gag enough for sure however it just seems to fit here beauteously.

“Oops, sorry Sandy, thought we were still in Foodge but you are a pudenda sometimes” laments the Bish “Just seems like everyone is fucking everyone these days and I said tax not fax you ninny”

“Bish, no swearing in my stories please. In Foodge your Emmjay and you can swear all you like there but here you are Bishop Billy Bishop we all call the Bish” I inform but shush, knowing secretly, I mean, keep this to yourself right, don’t tell a soul, on your honour, it’s because he is the BISH(Big Important Sh#t Head).”

“Well, between you and me, just our little secret right” confines the Bish “Rouge can at times look rather attractive and I must admit, even though I’m a Gordonian, and yes I know Gordonians can have girlfriends etc but if she ever dropped the soap as they say then I would try and you know” flippants the Bish.

“But what about Mrs Bish?” I ask in a non forensic way if you know what I mean.

“Am I married in this series?” asks the Bish.

“Actually, now you say that I don’t think Hung married you off in this series although you and a blow up dolly were caught in a compromising situation that you assured us was an accident” I needle without temptation, wasn’t that belted into us somewhere.

“Hey, I know” says the Bish “ why don’t I shoot her with a 12 gauge shot gun?”

“Nah, a bit messy plus everyone doing that theses days, pretty ordinary in my view” I express.

“I know” sparks off the Bish “ Lets ask the author whatever his name is”.

!!Warning: The Church of St Generic Brand wishes to advise that any material written in-between [ ] square brackets are talks between the characters and the author. No responsibility is taken for this bit or something, you know what I mean!!

[Well, it’s Mark here Bish. Seeing that anyone reading this will basically need lots of help, why don’t we have one of those interviewer style thingys. This means I don’t have to say he said then he replied etc., etc., get the picture?

Bish: Sure Mark but am I married in the Father O’Way series?

Mark: NFI mate CRAFT disease, who are you again?

Sandy: Mark, please, no swearing, not in FOW please and by the way, what’s his 45 thing you bring up all the time?

Mark: Well if you say are really old like say 58 when they is born, just sayin like, then you will be 103 when they turn 45, kiddies, that simple.

Sandy: Oh

Bish: But am I married Mark, Rouge is hot?

Mark: Look, it’s like this. If I go back through the archives I’ll cut Mrs Bish out if she exists or technically she may or may not exist in non existence. This is complex fiction Bish, I know of all people hat you will understand it but then again I’m a lair with limited IQ, wat wood eye no.

Bish:Cheers thanks mate.

Sandy: Now Mark I want you to stop all this excessive swearing and sexual references. Surely you don’t want anyone to be interested in your stories do you?

Mark: Yes Sandy, No Sandy, Whatever Sandy can I go now please?

Sandy: Suppose. But look Mark you truly are a DICKHEAD

Mark: Hey Pal, what about the swearing, you just called me a dickhead, hmm.

Sandy: Yes, Decent Intuitive Compassionate Kind-hearted, Helpful, Earnest ,Adaptable, Dependable , um, see ya.]

!The Church of St Generic Brand wishes advise that the story has now returned to normal, well sort of!

Bloody hell, forgot the story now, look I’ll tell this Mark guy anything to keep the story going, okay,  thinks Sandy as he looks to the left to see the next paragraph.

So Gordon and the Bish meet with the tax office officials and then they interviewed me, appeared to be painful process for them, can’t understand why, can you?

Then after the considerable consumption of 2000 year old brandy that Gordon picked up on one of his previous visits, from a place now called France, the tax folk left happy and rather meritorious.

We all stood any waved then goodbye, blew kisses and yelled silly statements like “We must do this again some time…”, how simply ludicrous as only as these stories can be. Fancy wanting to meet regularly with the tax office? Hmm, how very French brandy of us, no thanks.

The Bish heads back to he comfort of the Rectory. Probably for a few smokes, help settle his nerves.

So it’s just me and Gordon. Not very often one gets to stand and talk with the creator of the universe. So my neural pathways are becoming a bit disorganised and I ask “What did you say to the tax office Gordon? They seem pretty sweet”

“Well” says Gordon “you won’t like it but I told them to fuck off and never come back. Once they verified that I own all the money on this planet they were happy as. The brandy was a bonus and by being succinct here I’m keeping the word count down, eco-friendly like.”

The Minty Wrapper

18 Monday Aug 2014

Posted by in Mark

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

, , , ,

more minties 2When I was young boy I was walking down the street a station wagon drove past. The window was open and someone was waving to another car and let a minty wrapper go. I picked it up and when inside to tell Mum and Dad. Now my parents were very serious people, mum starting crying “Environmentally devastated” said Dad.

Dad called a meeting in the town hall and a decision was made to send a small delegation to government house to protest. So Dad got out the Zephyr and we drove down to the big smoke.

The funny thing was that as we got closer to the city signs kept popping up on the side of the road like “Down with minty wrappers” and “Polluters die”. Somehow people knew about our protest, bush telegraph I suppose.

When we got to the main square a good size crowd had gathered. A man with a megaphone stood on a crate “Wadda we want, biodegradable minty wrappers, when do we want ‘em, now”. The crowd roared the chant back and more people poured into the square. People were yelling and rattling the gate of government house and yelling abuse at the guards. Riot police entered the square and protesters threw rocks and fire bombs. The police charged at Dad but he stood his ground, the copper said “look mate we all want biodegradable minty wrappers but no protest allowed without permit number 1068B”. The crowd surged behind Dad, now in the tens of thousands.

SAS troops piled into to the square discharging weapons into the air, cars were being turned over and set alight, “No more minty wrappers, down with wrappers” they yelled. Fighting was erupting all over the place, there were over a hundred thousand people now and machine gun fire sounded in the distance. Tanks were rolling into the square.

Suddenly a trumpet sounded the loudest sound imaginable. Everyone stopped in their tracks and looked to the sky. Anminty wrapper enormous cloud enveloped the square. The trumpet played one more note piercing ear drums and flattening any resistance. The crowd, police and troops all stopped and all eyes were fixed on the sky. The cloud opens and a figure appears that resembles a man with one of those flat caps. “Listen up” the creature says “haven’t got long Z Cars is about to start” he grumbles “God here or Jesus, Allah, Yahweh, Jehovah whatever just don’t call me late for dinner, get it, my real name is Gordon, Gordon O’Donnell, get it GOD, boy, you lot need to get out more”.

The crowd is stunned into silence, troops and police alike lay down their weapons.  “Look” the creature says “It’s 1966 your time and biodegradable wrappers aren’t ready yet but they will come, it won’t be long. Computers will be the size of a pocket watch and a man will walk on the moon”. A man to my left yells “He’s a fake, a computer the size of a watch, man on the moon, he talks in tongues”. God points his  index finger at the man and the man vaporizes and God shrugs his shoulders “Look, it will happen, a time will come when almost every home will have a computer and they will all talk to each other via the telephone, I will contact you when this happens, look to the ABC, my name will be Emmjay, any questions?” “God, what will become of us, what’s the meaning to life?” “Life, well, a writer will appear and give you the answer, 42 but no one will take him seriously. Look I can read your minds, sorry no cash or winning numbers and with football don’t worry everyone will continue to hate Manly” I thought to myself, I guess some things won’t change. “Is their life in the universe besides Earth, of course, but not as you know it Jim, anyway enough now. I am now going to make you all forget what’s happened. I want you to stop fighting and go home”.

more mintiesWhen I was young boy I was walking down the street a station wagon drove past. The window was open and someone was waving to another car and let a minty wrapper go. I picked it up and when inside to tell Mum and Dad. My parents looked at each other and as their eyes met a meteor burned up in the stratosphere causing a bright trail across the sky, “Be a good boy Hung and put it in the bin” said mum, Dad smiled, the dog yawned. Life’s a funny thing sometimes.

The Tail of God – Part 1

30 Monday Jun 2014

Posted by in Mark

≈ 15 Comments

Tags

, , ,

my kinda santa

My kinda Santa

Hum diddy hum, diddy hum hum hum. Hmm, I hate waiting don’t you. Now I have been called to a special meeting and I just can’t wait, yee esse. Aren’t you excited? I am. Hmm, sorry, I haven’t introduced myself, I’m Gordon O’Donnell and I am the second youngest student ever accepted into Astrophysics at the spring chicken age of 512. Yes that’s right only five hundred and twelve years old and I’m going to become an astrophysicist, amazing.

Anyway I’m waiting for the lift to take me to the office of Professor T.D. Schnitzel who along with his partners Professor C. Chips and Professor G. Salad want to interview me after a couple of fellow students, Gees Ass and Holly Ghost and I created a new universe in a shoe box. The box resides in a cupboard at the back of lab, Astrophysics 101. The Professors want to talk to me about this universe and how to study it.

“Welcome Gordon” says T.D. “I’m Ten Dollar Schnitzel and my compatriots are Chunky Chips and Garden Salad”.

Wow, fancy being on first name basis with these legends. And what a combo they make, ten dollar schnitzel with chips and salad, every boys dream.

“So Gordon” T.D. leads off “A very interesting thing you have created with your fellow students and we have decided that we want the three of you to study your experiment for your astrophysics course. How do you feel about that?”

“Fantastic” I reply not knowing how to really feel until we get to the crux of the matter.

“Well, we have invented a machine so you can explore this new universe at your will. It’s called a Schnitzeliser. You go in one end as a Meupian and you come out the other end as a being that is proportionally acceptable to your project at the other” smiles T.D.

Oh, sorry. For those of you that don’t know, I’m from a planet called Meup. It revolves around a Sun we call Star T. Meupians live forever except for accidents. When an accident happens Meupins can then reproduce a new being. That way our planet is never over populated and degraded unlike some planets.

“So T.D.” I lead off “Let me get this straight. I start at this end as a normal Meupian male and end up in the shoe box the size of a sub atomic particle inside a space ship that will take me through this dangerous and unexplored universe where any thing could go wrong at any time”

“Yes” replies T.D. is his own unique way reflecting that I’m the one in danger while he gets the bus home at five each night, hmm.

santa“And if I don’t I will never pass astrophysics and live a miserable lonely life until one day I meet with an accident and die”

“Yes” replies T.D.

“Okay, where do I sign” I groan.

Wow, I’ve just been schnitzelised and here am I in a brand new space ship. You can tell it is brand new it has that smell. Yes, two arms, two legs, hmm, yes two something else. It’s funny when you have been schnitzelised, you feel as though someone has just punched all these little holes in you and you feel very tender, hmm.

Anyway I’m in some sort of bedroom, very swish and grandiose. It has a bathroom, shower and utilities area, very nice. One wall of the room is a book case absolutely full of all kinds of books, hmm, this could be one heck of a journey, only problem is I don’t know where I am going.

There is a knock at the door. I open it to find a droid standing in the passageway. Oh, let me explain a couple of things you will need to know about space travel. Droids or should I say, androids are sophisticated robots that can travel anywhere any time, need no food or oxygen and recharge themselves usually overnight or as necessary. They, for all intent and purposes, are your crew and it doesn’t take long before you forget they are machines and you very quickly see them as your travelling companions. The other thing about space travel is virtually everything that has a name is an acronym. You need to be alert as this will always hit you when you least expect it.

“Hello” I say to the droid “My names Gordon O’Donnell, please call me Gordy or Gord” I tick off trying to get on the front foot.

“Yes hello Gordon, T.D. has told me all about you” replies the droid. Now this droid is a rather large person with a big white beard and long white hair. He is wearing a red jacket with white cuffs and a white strip around the bottom of the jacket. His pants are red with white cuffs at the bottom. He has on large black boots, a black belt with a huge buckle and a red hat with a white pom pom. “My name is SANTA” says the droid “ I’m your navcom.”

“Please to meet you Santa” I hesitate.

“Yes Gordon, I’m an acronym. SANTA stands for Sub Atomic Neuroleptic Transparent Android but hey just call me Nick” he offers.

“Come down to the control room and I’ll show you around then I will introduce you to Viv” informs Nick.

We enter the control room and wow, this ship is state of the art. I peer out through the window where I can see out over the nose of the ship. There is a distinct red glow coming from the tip of the nose.

“What is that red glow Nick?” I ask in bewilderment.

“As we are travelling so fast Gordy the very tip of the nose of the ship excites any gas in space and that generates heat” explains Nick.

“And who built this ship Nick, it is of high quality?” I ponder.

“The Reindeer Company on Meup” replies Nick.

“And does the ship have a name?” I enquire.

“Yes. It does have a model number but basically it’s name is Rudolph”

Well you go figure. Here I am flying through space with Santa and Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, unbelievable but true, well sort of.santa1

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

First published: http://hungsworld.wordpress.com/2014/06/30/the-tail-of-god-part-1/

Father O’Way Meets O’Bad – Part 1

27 Sunday Apr 2014

Posted by in Mark

≈ 25 Comments

Tags

, , , ,

O'Way counsels the Sinister Demons to pray

O’Way counsels the Sinister Demons to pray

Story by Hung One On and Digital Mischief by Warrigal Mirriyuula.

Hi, Sandy here. What? You don’t know me, well if you haven’t been listening for the last five years my name is Father Alexander O’Way, affectionately know as Sandy and I am the parish priest of the church of St Generic Brand which just happens to be down the road and around the corner from the Pigs Arms. Hmm.

Well as anyone who knows me knows I hate early mornings and yet again that relic from the last century Bishop Bishop, who we all know as the Bish, rang me at one in the afternoon.  What a bogan.

“Listen Sandy” bleats the Bish “I’ve just had a phone call from God”

Now to all you newcomers, God is Gordon O’Donnell, an astrophysicist from another dimension that created our universe as a science experiment in a shoe box. This shoe box sits at the back of the lab in Astrophysics 101 and is used for the students to study astrophysics. Hmm, I can see this is not going well. Yes, there is no God, Yahweh or Mohammad, it’s all mythological rubbish. It is us and them out “there”.

“Gordon wants us to wade into the O’Bad dilemma, lets find out if he really did it” demands the Bish.

“But Bish” I foolishly reply back “Who gives a zark if O’Bad is dodgy or what. Take him out someone else will replace him. I mean corrupt power is absolute but absolutely power corrupts something” Gees I wish I could remember that statement but it sounded good.

Okay. I can see some of you are stumbling with the word “zark”. As kiddies may be watching zark is a universal swear word. Just substitute “zar” for “fuc” and you will get the picture.

“Just do it Sandy or Gordon will cancel your credit card” barks the Bish.

Holy mackerel. No credit card. See when Gordon invented the universe he also invented money. So all of the money in our universe belongs to Gordon. Anywhere I travel in the universe is paid for by Gordon’s card, hmm, need to do something here.

“I have arranged a car to pick you up in the morning at 1000hrs so be ready. It’s a good two hour drive out to the O’Bad Ponderosa” What the zark, 10 in the morning, does this man hold no morals.

So ten the next morning a car pulls up out the front of the Rectory. Being so asleep, I didn’t really take any notice of the people in the front and I slumped into the back hoping I could get some shuteye. Somehow I couldn’t sleep, I kept thinking about the time when I first met Gordon, the delicious dinner made and served by the delicious Belinda who is now my wife. I remember thinking at the time,

“Acronyms, God how I hate acronyms. Usually stupid and generally meaningless along with mnemonics they stick in your head to remind you just how stupid you really are. Remember as kids in the parish school the all time classic, ARITHMETIC,   A Red Indian Thought He Might Eat Tobacco In Church. What twaddle. racist diatribe if ever there was one. I mean the only red Indians I knew were constantly having the shit shot out of them in country and western movies. Eat in church was a given no no and who in their right mind would want to eat tobacco for God sake. My dad used to smoke Cabin Cut, Ready Rolled, can I imagine dad hoeing into his tobacco after tea in the lounge, no way.”

Oh, yes those were the days. But then the POTTY Awards, oh yes, I remember well.

“ Anyway the one acronym that makes me tingle with pleasure is POTTY. The Potty Awards, the Priest Of The Tropical Year Awards and yes, I’m in the pipeline to win this year. See I’ve been invited to the Rectory to have dinner with the Bish and an important guest this Wednesday. Not next Wednesday or last Wednesday but the Wednesday before the Saturday night of the awards. Obviously the Bish wants to disclose that I’m this year’s winner so I have my acceptance speech ready to rock. Oh yes, all 32 pages, ready to roll thanks to the kind Voice who helped me pen an appropriate dialogue.”

Then heart break.

“Dinner finishes and the Bish goes off into another room to smoke that stinky stuff and Gordon ushers me into the study for a French Brandy that’s about 200 years old he just happened to find in his cellar and a cigar. How civilised. “Now Sandy, I’m sure you have some questions for me but first how do you feel about space travel?” Gordon asks. “Space travel? What about the Potty Awards?” I inquire lubricated by the fine wine. Gordon smiles “Don’t worry about them, that prick Basil Sauce will win this year. There are bigger plans afoot for you….”

Yes, Pastor Basil Sauce, that prick from one of the many mobs in town robbing my customers.

********************************************************

“ Driver, how long to go?” I enquire rather innocently wondering if anyone had a rum toddy to tide me over.

“ Not long now Father Sandy” said the driver.

Hang on, I know that voice. “ Big M” I cry, “ What in Gordon’s name are you doing here?”

“ I’m on a mission from God” replies Big M

“ Cut the God crap mate, we know the universe has been created from another time dimension” I reply with added futilityness.

“ From Gordon, you dope. Now meet Shoe.” Big M nods to the co-driver. “ She’s the Duckhunt champion from Missen and she’s riding shotgun”

“ Nice to meet you Sandy, heard a lot about you. And hey Big M was the slot car champion* of his street back on our planet”,  grins Shoe.

So I am going to face a big time crim with a driver that had a slot car set and a shotgun expert that knows Duckhunt, boy am I in trouble.

plot thickens …… (possibly due to the corn starch)

* Editors note – if I read between the lines correctly, there is some serious confluence between being a slot champion and obstetrics – just saying ‘  – that was when I started laughing and the rest got a bit off the track…….