Over the years, my imagination has grown to an almost obscene level. Weird, odd, strange, dark, funny, too smart by half, writing that defies categorisation. As a result, I have packaged a number of them into an eBook and hope to calm the world with their content. Big boy hopes of course, but I feel I need to try. I’ve also decided to combine the tbaoo.com material back into one site, and that’s here. A sensible cost saving.
So while the ebooks sail the internet, there’s still plenty here to distract you from the woes of modern life. Here’s a sample to wet your whistle.
Peter and his pickled peppers, yes, Peter liked his pickled peppers. His mate Jack had climbed off and left him there. He liked them as well. Some sort of a plant had burst out of the ground, and Jack decided to climb to its natural conclusion. Prometheus has started. Peter loved that film, and widely promoted it to anyone who came within earshot when discussing films, no matter what they thought of the film.
He’d plead that the location shots and especially the breathtaking opening title sequence (shot in Iceland) had to affect you in a positive way. It was gloriously rich with an almost taste-it-on-screen goodness, thought Peter.
Also, the film adaptation of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams Peter loved that film. The Nordic connection was the books, including Norway. Slartibartfast, the character who’d designed and built the Norwegian fjords, was saddened to hear that the Earth had been destroyed and so of course, his beloved fjords. He’d won an award for them.
Any-who, Peter returned to being concerned about his predicament and his pickled peppers. Jack didn’t give a shit; he was busy hiding from some huge bugger reciting some sort of a limerick.
Peter had to prepare to go back to work
He had a day left, but still, some serious preparations were called upon. Serious personal grooming, careful washing and ironing of his protective and new modesty garments, shaping, removing and cutting his excessive hair growth and other personal details that even he struggled to think about, let alone discuss. He only had a day in which to do it all; he was under intense pressure. He would have to apply some. Peter worked at a small goods factory, and it was his job to fill the long, thin Spanish dog poo spiral-shaped breakfast sausages. He filled them to their brim with their nearly meaty interior.
He’d be provided with drums of mysterious food, and after carefully placing it into the feeder drum, he’d press go. He was a master Butcher and a wiz at filling these unique breakfast sausages. He often dreamt of doing more, maybe moving to the salami curing section, but that was the highest position on the employee totem pole and was keenly sought after. He’d add some pickled peppers.
His mate Jack was a backyard man and managed the on-site herb and vegetable garden behind the sewage/wastewater recycling plant the company was so very proud of. A mission statement offered the phrase: You piss, shit and waste your water so that we may turn it into some tasty food. That rather gross sentiment was only one of the companys many tedious mission statements. All designed to motivate the employees. more
