Friday, 28 September 2012

Achy Breaky Hearts

~To the guy who held a door open for me at the local department store, thank you.  You were gorgeous.  I gave you my number, so call me!  Also, thanks for letting the door swing shut in my friend’s face and breaking her nose.  The bitch has been starting to look cuter than me lately.

~Me:  Lank hair, bear-like physique, Gears Of War promotional T shirt with only two custard stains on the front.

You:  Lovely brunette lady who didn’t complain when I pressed my erection into your back on a crowded train.  Your hair smelled like cinnamon.  Fancy a Butterbeer sometime?

Nice day for a geek wedding

~Thanks to the pregnant woman who gave me her seat on a crowded bus.  It was useful to rest my shopping bags full of dog food on that seat.  I’d quite like to be your baby’s step daddy sometime.  I promise I won’t lock it in the basement in favour of our own, legitimate offspring.

~Me:  Cute blonde you caught staring at you from behind a copy of Heat magazine.

You:  Man who tried jumping in front of a speeding train.  When you’re feeling a bit better, let me know and we’ll end it together, in style.

~You:  Toothy crack whore, last seen gnoshing on my junk behind Kwik Fit.

Me:  Guy with the penis you said looked like an Allan Key.  Perhaps next time I could use it to tighten your lock.

~To the man who was caught streaking around the children’s playground at my son’s school.  All the other parents were furious, but I rather enjoyed it as a performance piece about our immediate fury over sexual imagery around infancy.  Nice arse too!

~You:  80 year old, grandmother to four, living in the Blakesley Care Home, flat number 13, ground floor.

Me:  Your home help.  Next time I promise you a sponge bath you’ll never forget!

~To the beautiful young lady who ran me over in a Vauxhall Corsa, I think I might have left my heart in your wheel-arch.  If I win the court case, I’ll use the money to buy you a bunch of flowers.

~To all the women I saw in last month’s edition of Playboy, I’m single, willing, and able.  I’m available to apply lotion and help with any costume changes.

~Me:  Guy you found rattling around in your rubbish bins last night.  You called me a freak when I picked out some of your hair and wore it on my head.  I don’t know why you called the cops halfway through our date, but I’m still game for date number two.

You:  Britney Spears

~To the dashing gentleman who saved me from a tribe of cannibals, then whisked me away on his galleon, then began fighting hordes of invading pirates whilst proposing marriage to me, why aren’t you fucking real?!

Monday, 24 September 2012

The Simple Life

A little while ago I noticed a particularly catching headline on one of the women’s glossy magazines.  Don’t worry, I hadn’t bought it or anything, but the bold red font practically leaped off the cover, wrapped it’s tendrils around my face, and laid it’s horrible eggs in my oesophagus.  The magazine’s main article was named “The Secret Life Of Men”, with the tagline “How to decode his signals”.

This made me snigger, which turned into a chortle, then a guffaw, and before long I was asked to leave the store as I was howling over their lucrative publications.

Ladies, you have been force fed a great myth.  All your lives you have been drip fed tips and tricks on reading your man’s secret signals, his body language, or the perturbing excretions from his sweat glands.  You have been duped into believing that the male gender is a complex whirlwind of valiant honour, nobility, and meat.  You have been taught that a vast array of firing synapses lie behind his eyes, scrutinising your attire choices and social cues. 

Typical lazy man, if he was a cat.

Well, this revelation may be akin to waking up from The Matrix, but men are remarkably simple.  Their problems are generally straightforward to the point of childishness.  I would wager that 75% of men’s problems would disappear if you gave them a biscuit.  I’ll take a custard cream, if it’s not too much trouble.

This is why the world would be a much better place if it was run by women.  As things stand, men have done a pretty lousy job of running everything so far.  We’ve had a global financial crisis, rioting in the Middle East, and the continued existence of Marmite.  Our record is less than dazzling to say the least.  We destroy, pillage, dump, raze, dismantle and poo on everything we come across.  We can’t be trusted with these big red buttons and shiny things, especially when those tempting interfaces are linked up to mass destruction devices.  We’ve run it into the ground, and it’s up to you, my sisters from other misters, to heal the world.  You are the true creators, and only your patience and understanding can stop us from suffocating underneath a mound of bacon.

Inventive, yet useless

Of course, when the ovarian revolution comes, men will be required to stay at home.  We’ll lay on the couch in our pants, letting our paunches loll over into a bowl of semi-fresh popcorn.  We’ll have to stay inside and take mental notes on the bikini volleyball championships while you go around fixing everything for us.  Because that’s what we’re like.  We’re sorry.  We didn’t mean to make such a mess. 

Just remember to wake us up when you’ve finished.  Once you’ve cured cancer, solved global poverty, and weaved a brand new ozone layer out of our discarded beer cans, let us know.  We’ll stumble outside, blinking, dazed by the glorious illumination of our green and loving Earth, and we’ll immediately start a war about cheese or something.

Friday, 21 September 2012

Modern Parables

In the olden days, people were all about parables.  There were parables for just about everything, from eating your greens and sharing your toys, to polite methods of performing a reach around on your significant other.  Some would say that the world was in the grip of parable fever.

However, parables have sadly died off these days.  Perhaps if we still had parables to teach us a moral code, we wouldn't have fights over the remote control, or divorces over ill-advised decorating choices.  I think there's a lot we could learn from them.  That's why I've taken on the challenge of writing my own.  I hope that these examples alter your fundamental principles:

A homeless man sits on the curb, begging pedestrians for change.  The first person he asks a rich, successful lawyer.  He asks if the fancy-suited man can spare any money for a bite to eat.  The lawyer completely ignores him and carries on walking.  The second person to pass by is a middle management type.  Again, the beggar asks him for money so that he can survive.  The middle management man simply shrugs apologetically and moves away quickly.  The third man to pass is wearing a filthy, ragged jacket and smells faintly of wee.  The hobo decides not to trouble this man, as his outward appearance would suggest that he cannot afford to give to the poor.  However, the scruffy man approaches the hobo and hands him several gold pieces.  The gold gives him bad luck for the next seven days and later, a drainpipe falls on the hobo, killing him instantly.
Moral of the story:  Don’t accept cursed Aztec gold.

A man is sat at home looking at his toes.  He laughs and gurgles at the absurdity of his appendages.  His wife comes home and says “why are you laughing at your own feet?”  The man replies “When I was a baby, I used to do this all the time”.  “But you’re not a baby anymore” the wife states, to which the man says “Well if that’s case, how come I’ve just shit my pants?  Your move, Sherlock.”
Moral of the story:  It’s important to retain a youthful outlook.

Me last week, telling parables and stuff

A tiger is sat on a rock in Africa.  It’s a Tuesday afternoon and the weather is clement.  As the tiger contemplates matters of great importance and manages to rethink his entire understanding of molecular biology, he is interrupted rudely by a lion.  The lion says “What are you doing?  You’re on the wrong continent!”
Moral of the story:  Lions and tigers live on different continents.

A banana falls off a tree and makes a squishy sound.  A man who was around to hear it wonders what it would sound like if he wasn’t around.  He sets up a microphone and leaves it next to the tree for several days.  Through this investigation, he discovers that the exact same noise is emitted if no one is around to hear it, thus ending years of speculation around the subject.  Unfortunately, the scientific community took away his grant after he was found to be putting bananas up his bum.
Moral of the story:  When people trust you with money, don’t use it for sexual gratification.

A bumnana

Two men walk into a bar and order drinks.  After the first sip, the first man falls over to the ground, clutching his chest.  It’s clear that he is having a heart attack.  The second man promptly ignores him, as they were never that close anyway.
Moral of the story:  Don’t let strangers stand in your way.

A parrot was travelling through the forest one day.  As he walked along he came to a river which appeared too fast and deep for him to cross.  He walked for miles in each direction, but couldn't find a suitable spot to cross.  Just as he was thinking of turning back, a frog jumped out of the river.  This gave the parrot an idea.  "Hey buddy!  Lemme hitch a ride on your back across the river!" the parrot said.  The frog was nervous about this proposal.  "How do I know you won't sting me halfway across?"  "I promise I won't sting you, because I really need to attend a funeral on the other side" explained the parrot.  The frog was still unsure.  "But how do I know you won't sting me when we reach the other side?" "That wouldn't be a nice way to repay the favour" said the parrot.  With that, the frog was convinced and allowed the parrot onto his back.  Halfway across the river, the frog did a barrel roll and flung the parrot into the water.  The parrot, struggling for air, shouted "Why did you do that?" "Because you didn't offer me any money for petrol!" screamed the frog, before swimming off and leaving the parrot to drown.  A nearby bear who witnessed the whole thing didn't understand any of it.
Moral of the story:  Never trust a frog.

A friend of mine at junior school once snorted an earthworm.  It made him choke and he had blocked sinuses for the rest of the week. 
Moral of the story:  Don't snort earthworms.

Well, I feel like I’ve learned a lot from myself today, and I hope you have too.  Do you have any nonsense-I mean wise parables you’d like to add?  Feel free to do so.

----- Submitted for this week's Dude Write, an awesome blog full of awesome dudes.

Monday, 17 September 2012

Last Night’s Fight Club

Hi fight fans!

Let me start off by saying, last night’s Fight Club was one of the most successful we’ve ever had.  We sold more tickets at the door than ever, and attendance was so high that we had to turn several people away.  It seems that some of you have forgotten the first two rules of Fight Club!  Regardless, a good time was had by all.

Nevertheless, there were certain elements which spoiled the overall atmosphere. I feel that, since Fight Club is becoming more and more popular, these issues need to be addressed.

·         When you get hit in the mouth, please be careful where you spit out your blood.  I would urge people to cough in the opposite direction of the snack buffet if possible.  Last night I found that my punch (which I slaved over a hot stove all day to make) was full of scabby teeth.  It almost put me off my second glass full.

·         Whoever thought it was a good idea to bring a baby is sorely mistaken.  I ended up babysitting the thing for half the evening because I couldn’t find the father.  Luckily I had my emergency baby chest harness with me; otherwise I would have missed my bout with Kyle Hensworth.

·         Please can we try and keep the trash talk to a minimum.  I find it rather unsporting when I’m trying to grind an opponent’s face into the floor, and someone behind is calling me “Poop Breath” and “Farty farty trump nose”. 

·         When you bring food for the buffet, try to bring things that don’t require cooking.  The abandoned warehouse we use as a venue doesn’t have a toaster, a microwave, nor does it have any power.  This is just a waste of time.  Plus, cold Hot Pockets are disgusting.

·         The rules state no shirt, no shoes, but it doesn’t say anything about my red fleece all-in-one pyjamas.  If I want to wear them I will, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

·         If you insist on breaking bones, please have the common courtesy to drive your opponent to the emergency room afterward.  Some of us have families to go back to.

·         Some people are complaining that having your own entrance music is a little too self indulgent.  However, I refuse to believe that nobody enjoys watching me strut into the ring accompanied by Ride Of The Valkyries.  My teenage daughters even agreed to be backing dancers, and some inconsiderate souls said it was inappropriate.  Hey, my daughters are trying to get into dance school, so gyrating around in swimsuits is good practice for them!  Try thinking of others for a change!

·         I shouldn’t have to say this, but no pets.  A canary cannot fight and has no place at Fight Club.

·         We will not be introducing weight classes into Fight Club.  If you get hit by one of my belly bounces, that’s your fault.  Being the skinny twig that you are, you actually have the advantage due to my excess surface area.

I think that’s all for now.  I look forward to our next Fight Club on the 27th and hope you can all make it.  Next time is Ladies Night, so if you want to bring your wives and girlfriends to be punched in the face, feel free.

Friday, 14 September 2012

FLASH! Saviour of the universe!

My love for bandwagons started from early age.  At the tender age of five I was first introduced to the chocolatey delights of a Wagon Wheel, and since then, I swiftly developed a fondness for wagons of all types.  Station wagons, paddy wagons, and of course, bandwagons.

So when I saw Mark's impressive attempt at a Flash Fiction contest, I knew I had to jump right in and give it a try.  The folks over at The Lascaux Review are offering cold hard cash if you submit a short story that's  awesome enough.  You can read and comment on other submissions here.  The rules state that your story must be less than 250 words, and must use this picture for inspiration:

Pretty abstract huh?  When I saw the picture, it reminded me of a cracked fish tank.  This was the main inspiration behind my entry, Poseidon's Pet Products.  I hope you enjoy:


I pushed aside the door and eagerly scouted around the pet emporium.  My aquarium was beginning to resemble a keynote speech at a sandpaper convention; bland, bare and a little lifeless.  It was my hope that I would discover some fabulous piscine delights in this newly established store. 
As I fondled a rather fetching blue tang, the owner approached me with his trident drawn.  He prodded the middle prong into my side with malicious intent. 
“Oi!  No touching the merchandise!” 
I dropped the fish and turned to face my assailant.  I was suitably surprised to be confronted by Poseidon, king of the sea. 
“Poseidon?  What are you doing here?” Seemed to be the most pertinent question I could ask.
Poseidon sighed and slumped down on a shipping palette.  He gazed into the distance and sunk deeper into his own thoughts.  Perhaps he was reminiscing about Atlantis, his holiday home. 
“Hey Poseidon!  Wake up!” 
The elderly God snapped out of his funk at my exclamation. “I have no choice.  Since people stopped praying to us, the Gods have lost their powers.  We’re forced to walk amongst mortals and take up normal lives.  Why, the other week I saw Zeus at Carpet Warehouse.”
“Why don’t you go back?”
“I can never go back until people believe in me again!” Snapped the ferocious demi-god as he turned his back to me in anger.
“But...I believe in you.”
And that, my friends, is how I got 20% off my new aquarium.  Result!

Monday, 10 September 2012

My Return

Yes, it's true.  As the prophets foretold and the cherubs did celebrate with an ovation of trumpets, I have arrived back in England and I am once again able to Blog and comment freely.

For those who are not aware, myself and Mrs Addman have been on holiday to Florida.  Although I've been before, it was Mrs Addman's first visit, and it was an absolute delight to see her experience it for the first time.  Admittedly, a lot had changed since the last time I was there, so there were many rides and attractions that I got to experience for the first time too.  All in all, a great time was had by all.

When you're a Brit in America, you tend to stand out like a sore thumb.  People overhear you talking and automatically identify you as a Brit without hesitation.  Being the friendly, approachable people that we are, some amiable Americans came over to us to ask about Britain.  Their questions fell into two main categories:

1:  Did you go to London for the Olympics?
2:  Did you go to London for the Jubilee?

When we answered "No" to both of these questions, many people looked at us dejectedly.  They seemed especially disappointed when I referred to the Queen as an "unelected archaic parasite", but that's an argument for another time.  Admittedly, it was nice not to be asked the usual question I get when I've visited the US in the past:

"Do you know the Queen?"

Why yes, I pop round every Sunday afternoon for tea and scones.  Then we commence our ritualistic beating of the Corgis with a rolled up copy of the Financial Times.

Anyway, I'm afraid to say that when we weren't in the parks, or stuffing our faces in one of the many all you can eat buffets that Kissimmee provides, I found myself drawn to American TV.  In particular, I found myself compelled by a show called Dog The Bounty Hunter.

The criminals are on the ru-un

A show like this just wouldn't exist in Britain, which is probably why I found myself glued to it.  In it, a man who calls himself "Dog" (who resembles a cross between Hulk Hogan and a tribal chieftain) gathers his family together to hunt down fugitives.  They sit down and discuss the criminal's rap sheet, then they jump into their cars and try and capture them.  Baring in mind that the criminals are usually drug dealers, the tension mounts as they surround the subject's house and start pressing their neighbours and family for information.  One particular episode I watched included a drug baron who rigged his house with traps such as tear gas sprays, which got one of Dog's sons straight in the face.

One member of the crew who stands out is Dog's wife Beth.  I couldn't comprehend whether she was glamorous or rather fat.  I had to coin the word "Flamorous" just to describe her.  She usually wears short skirts, nail extensions that the Egyptians would have used for scraping out brains, and bore tits that stuck out like frozen tumours.  Regardless of her appearance, she proved herself a reliable member of the team.  Her and Dog's heart-to-heart talks with the captured criminals gave the show a rather endearing ending, even when all that praying got on my nerves.

When the tropical storm let up (it only lasted like half a day in all honesty) and we could go outside, the holiday began in earnest.  We did all the Disney parks, Universal and Sea World.  Highlights include the dolphin swim at Discovery Cove (and before Pickleope asks, I was not raped by a porpoise.  I didn't accept any strange pills from any dolphins, and always had someone watching my drink), and also listening to Insane In The Brain on the Rip Ride Rockit, a roller coaster which lets you choose your own music.

Anyway, I'd just like to say that all the Americans we encountered were polite, friendly, and most importantly, happy.  You'd have to travel a thousand miles to find a happy person round here, which was a rather refreshing change.  I would also like to thank you guys for introducing me to Philly Cheesesteak and BBQ Pulled Pork.  I thank you from the bottom of my arteries.

I don't like Harry Potter, but I do like Butterbeer.

Friday, 7 September 2012

Suicide And Cheese: Part 4

Shuffling through the swarms of foodies seemed a lot more unpleasant from the visitor’s side of the fence.  It was like trying to part the Red Sea, if the Red Sea was filled with fat people.

The Annual Cheese Fair used to be one of the highlights of my calendar, alongside the day in which I allow myself to indulge in acts of self flagellation (14th of September if you’re interested, the day before my birthday.  Sometimes you’ve just got to treat yourself).  However, this year’s Cheese Fair seemed sinister and nauseating.  Not only did I have to slum it with no VIP pass and rub shoulders with the sweaty masses, but some of the stalls this year were just downright offensive.  I spied from afar a couple of the Elites manning a stall for spray-on cheese.  This kind of depravity would never have been allowed under my jurisdiction.  I started to wonder if this entire set of circumstance had been a conspiracy to oust me so that the society could debase itself with these disgusting cheesy products.  However, the poor taste selection wasn’t even the most repugnant part of my attendance today.

The worst aspect of this festival was the knowledge that I was soon to become a murderer.  I wore the largest overcoat I had in my possession to conceal the serrated cheese knife underneath.

Bobbing above the human canopy, I tried to spot Herman amongst the crowds.  He’d have to be here somewhere.  I knew he wouldn’t be able to stay away today.  I telephoned his office and posed as a journalist wanting an interview, asking him to meet me at the Cheese Fair.  I did my best impression of Keith Chegwin in an attempt to disguise my voice, and he seemed delighted at the chance to appear in the local paper.  How could he stay away after that?  This was the most cunning plan since the police tried to lure Julian Assange out of the Ecuadorian embassy by promising to tell him secrets.

It was at this point I felt a small tug at my sleeve.  I looked behind me to see Johnny Bramble, the young Elite who pretty much ordered my expulsion from the society.

“What are you doing here?” He queried, peering up into my eyes as though studying them for an answer.

“Just taking in the country air” I lied, motioning to my surroundings with my hands.  At this point he ushered me between two tents, away from public eyes.

“I know what you’re up to.  You’re here to pursue some sort of personal vendetta!  Well I’m going to – ERK!  Did you just stab me?”

I didn’t even mean to do it.  My hand reacted involuntarily in a stabbing motion.  As his robes started to turn from cheese yellow to crimson, I pulled the knife out of my victim and stuffed it back into my pocket.

“You fucking stabbed me!”

Before I could chastise him on his language (children shouldn’t swear, it’s so uncouth), he collapsed down dead in a heap.

I couldn’t leave the body here.  Although it was out of the way slightly, someone would stumble across it eventually.  I lifted the tarpaulin next to me and stuffed his body underneath.  Little did I know I’d just shoved him into a very public tent (where Alex James from Blur was doing a book signing).  I immediately heard a mass of screaming and hysteria and decided I needed to move away from the scene of the crime.

Hurrying along, I felt somewhat numb.  Murder wasn’t the great stimulant I expected it to be.  In fact, I didn’t feel vindicated at all.  In fact, I felt rather let down by the whole experience, as though stabbing a child wasn’t such a great thing to do.  Perhaps all my hatred was reserved for Herman.

As I contemplated these matters of life and death, I rounded a corner and bumped straight into two policemen.  The first one turned to his colleague.

“Is that him?”

“Seems like it.  Take him in”

Was this it?  Had my run as a mass murderer come to an end in a few mere seconds?  I don’t think my feeble attempts would worry Raul Moat.

Luckily for me I wasn’t a suspect in the murder.  The police just wanted to question me.  Apparently they thought I wanted to assassinate the President of the United States due to something I typed into Google.  Preposterous!  Anyway, after the CIA visited and questioned me, and a little waterboarding, I was set free.

For the past few years I have lived in isolation, trying to come to terms with my actions.  I feel ashamed that I never managed to kill Herman, but after my abject failure, I don’t really have the will power to try again.  However, I heard the other day that he had contracted a deadly disease, so perhaps every cloud does have a silver lining.  Now, as I once again construct my tower of old newspapers and looking for my old faithful lynching rope, I write this note and hope that this will clear up the mystery surrounding what happened to Little Johnny Bramble, and why Alex James never made another block of cheese again.

Monday, 3 September 2012

Suicide And Cheese: Part 3

That evening was the first night in my life that I cried.  The next evening was the second night in my life that I cried.  The third evening wasn’t without its share of tears either.  My eyes were as red as Babybell wax and my cheeks were so salty that crystallised formations were beginning to form on my face.  Breaking off one of the stalactites and crushing it onto my chips, I realised that I couldn’t continue like this.  That’s when I decided to take my own life.

I’ve heard a lot of people say that to commit suicide is the cowards way out, that it is an act of weakness.  Well, let me assure you that taking my own life was probably the most daunting task I’ve ever attempted.  After all, there was a significant chance that I might miss tomorrow’s episode of Jeremy Kyle.  Regardless, I rallied my strength, fetched a large pile of newspapers and my faithful lynching rope from the garage, and began to set up my deadly apparatus in the bathroom.

As I stood atop my newspaper pillar with a noose loosely dangling around my shoulders, I inhaled deeply as I prepared for my short drop and stop.  Since this was the last breath I’d be taking, I decided it had to be a good one and I wanted to enjoy it.  As my lungs filled with oxygen, my mind began to fill with the faces of my loved ones, past conquests, and fire breathing dinosaurs that I thought would be awesome.  Once my chest was as full as it could get without implants, I opened my eyes, looked down at my destination, and lifted my foot in readiness.

Just then, I noticed something printed on the newspaper underfoot that caught my attention.  It stopped me in my tracks and, frankly, it saved my life that day.  I’d spotted a discount coupon giving me half price entry to Alton Towers.

As I started to loosen my noose and tried to remember where my scissors were, I noticed an article next to the coupon about The Big Cheese Society.  It was an interview with Herman Whiff in which he reviewed last year’s annual Cheese Fair, declaring it to be a success.  I reread the interview and I was repulsed to find that Herman was being depicted as a decent, upstanding gentleman and a pillar of the community.  This immediately angered me.  If only they knew the real Herman; the squandering, bestiality-indulging, glutton that he was.  An inferno was opening up in my stomach as I ruminated on this, so much so that I had to drink a whole bottle of Gaviscon to calm it down.  It did little to quench the intense flames of revenge that were burning within me, spreading across my internal forecourt and getting perilously close to the petrol pumps of my heart.

It was somewhere around this point that I decided not to kill myself.  Besides, you can’t really take your own life, if you think about it.  I mean, how can you take something that already belongs to you?  At least, that’s what my stoner brother once told me.  I didn’t kill myself that day, but to appease Karma, a life had to be taken.

I had to kill the president.  Now there’s something you don’t get a second shot at.

It would be difficult to gain access to the Cheese Halls again, especially after the way in which I was ejected, so a plan would have to be hatched.  First of all, I needed a method in which kill Herman, something fitting, ironic and subtle.  Perhaps I could feed him curdled milk, or get a bull to gore him behind a stable.  I couldn’t think of a way in which to enact such plans, so I decided I’d turn to the Internet for answers.

Now, I’m not much of a computer user, but I do remember managing to knock up some rather fetching posters for the annual Cheese Fair last year on a computer.  They featured a large photograph of me guzzling gorgonzola and were pretty spectacular.  Anyway, I’d heard that an Internet resource named Mr Google would be able to find anything I wanted.  I typed in “Dear Mr Google, I require your assistance on finding ways to kill the president.  Hope to hear from you soon”.  I was surprised to find that it found 1,793,000 results in 0.073 seconds, which seems a tad faster than second class post.  Anyway, after doing a lot of research on various message boards, I decided that the best way to deal with this was a good, clean stabbing.  Perhaps this method of dispatch was a little bit more visceral than I’d originally intended, but you don’t have to buy anything special and the weapon is rather easy to dispose of or plant on someone else.  Time and cost were big factors in my decision.

So, after selecting a suitably large knife (a cheese knife that the society had gifted to me last Christmas), I settled down on the sofa and decided to hatch my plan, in between the ad breaks of course.  It occurred to me that the next Cheese Fair was only two weeks away, which seemed like the perfect opportunity to catch Herman away from the safety of his cheddar-laced sanctuary.  Revenge would surely taste like a particularly mature Red Devil; fiery hot and dripping with sin.