S – Sasquatch

Out of all the cryptozoological creatures that certainly exist, my favourite is the chupacabra.  Not only does it have a funny name, but it is only a few feet tall and eats goats.  This means that the chupacabra is unlikely to eat me unless I start walking on all fours and learn how to eat tin cans.  So you can imagine my disappointment when I was forced to become a Sasquatch.

I got a summer job at Mental Mike’s World Of The Weird, a popular tourist attraction down in Bognor Regis (of course you’ve never heard of it; it’s in Bognor Regis).  The place was a little bit like Ripley’s Believe It Or Not, in that it was a museum to unbelievable exhibits.  Some were so unbelievable to the point that they were clearly fabricated, such as a scaled down model of a man who could touch the moon.  Needless to say, the attraction bought in literally tens of fascinated tourists.
 
My job, as resident Sasquatch, was to stand still in a display cabinet while wearing a giant furry suit.  My spot was situated between the Octobaby and a cute little exhibit called “The World’s Most Magical Cardboard”.  Needlessly to say, this was a prestigious patch that all the other employees envied.  The Human Fire Extinguisher wanted my job so badly, mainly because he was required to give a demonstration every 20 minutes, whereas I could chill out in my display case and catch a few Z’s.  Sometimes children would comment that the Sasquatch seemed to be snoring, but Mental Mike would reassure them that it was just the Sasquatch corpse releasing gas it begins to decay.

Me before coffee.  HAR DEE HAR HAR!

That envy would soon turn into malicious intent.  Some of the staff put itching powder in the suit, but my fleas soon ate it all and I was unaffected.  Then they tried putting Mexican fire ants in there, but the ants saw me as a suitable place to build their colony and didn’t bite, taking up a permanent residence behind my right ear.  It seemed that their efforts were futile.

That is, until one fateful, dreary Monday morning, when I arrived at work 3 minutes early.  I found my suit had been moved onto a different hook than where I usually hang it, which was rather suspicious.  I checked the suit over and couldn’t see any signs that it had been tampered with. No biting insects, no mysterious powders, no mousetraps near the nipples, nothing.  Feeling confident that I would be safe, I put on the suit and assumed my place in the exhibit.

After a few minutes, I began to feel a slightly uncomfortable sensation near my genitals.  My urethra felt like someone was trying to remove a piece of chicken from it with a hot skewer.  The feeling spread to the surrounding areas of my crotch.  My loins were burning, and not in a good way!

I leaped out of the display case, sending shards of tempered glass into the eyes of several young spectators, and began stripping off my suit.  I had to release this boiling pressure immediately.  Unfortunately, Monday is my Commando Day, meaning that I was currently without underwear.  I exposed myself to the delight of the whole museum, and realised that my groin was smothered in red chillis.  I tried brushing it off, but the chillis had left a stinging residue that I couldn’t remove by hand.  In the end I was forced to dunk my junk in the three-headed frog tank. I teabagged a toad as I turned the water red and the air blue.  Needless to say, that was my last day of employment at this particular museum.

I still live on at Mental Mike’s World Of The Weird though.  Before I was fired, I donated something to the museum that I am very proud of.  I live on in the form of an exhibit for the world’s greenest bogey.  I hear Guinness World Records wants to interview me about it.  Watch this space.

R – Real Estate Agent

When I was 9, as many young children do, I had a sleepover at my best friend’s house.  My friend told me to treat his house as though it were my own, so I sold it on Craigslist.  It seemed that even from an early age, I was destined to become an estate agent.

I hear there’s a lot of money in property these days.  Mainly in old people’s properties as they tend to hide money in cookie jars, drawers, under floorboards, and in giant, floor-standing penny jars.  Trying to help yourself to these items might be considered “illegal” in some provinces (please, always check with your local police department before attempting to relieve pensioners of their money/belongings), so I decided to take a safer route through the property market by selling houses.

I found out that the correct term for a person who sells accommodation is a “real estate agent”.  I figured that I ought to try and become one, especially since I’ve been operating as a fake estate agent for many years.  Very few people had yet to purchase a flat in my flagship stacked-box tower block.  The hobos complained that it was spoiling the skyline, and that the high-rise, high-density living it introduced was destroying the sense of community.  Trendy, unsociable, commuter hobos were moving in and pushing rental prices higher, until the whole thing was washed away by a light drizzle.  Due to this experience, I figured that becoming a real estate agent would be might give me the credibility I deserved.

The first couple of people I showed around didn’t seem too impressed by my sales skills.  Everyone knows that estate agents bend the truth a little, but when we walked into a squalid, 1 bedroom hell-hole fit only for ritual sacrifice, they didn’t seem too impressed when I told them it was a luxurious mansion, made of gold, and came with 17 butlers who will queue up to give you hand relief in the morning.  The leaking toilet was a state-of-art swimming facility, and the dead cow that was attracting flies in the bedroom was a lively nightspot with local amenities.

This house even has a dedicated Antler Room

It seems that my white lies were not selling houses.  I was doing everything right, and yet, my sales figures were lower than the number of honest MP expenses claims.  It was obvious that the quality of the houses were at fault.  That night, I set about improving the houses in my local area.

The current occupants weren’t very pleased when I began bug spraying their homes without warning.  People like men in uniform, but the large murals of Rudolf Hess I painted on some of the houses didn’t seem to appeal to everyone.  The Smiths seemed outright angry when I burned an image of the Compare The Market meerkat on their front lawn.  I was trying to make the houses on my route more appealing to the mass market, and yet my neighbours seemed to be concerned by a “trail of vandalism” that someone had created.  There were tears, shouting and lots of finger-pointing, and yet, I didn’t receive any credit for my work.  In fact, the neighbours were threatening vigilante justice against the perpetrator. 

They began to wonder why my house was the only one unaffected.  Accusations soon followed, so I had to sell my house and move away.  I was very proud that I had made my first sale, but decided that perhaps the real estate game wasn’t for me.

Q – Quidditch Athlete

Sports stars seem to earn a lot of money.  The richest people I can think of are the Beckhams and Rooneys of this world; grown men who are paid the annual GDP of Luxembourg to shepherd a piece of leather into a net.  It seems like easy money, provided you have the fitness and skill level required to do it.  Unfortunately, I have neither of those skills, and am unlikely to do so as long as I keep avoiding exercise as if I have a sweat phobia.  I considered trying a non-athletic sport such as snooker, but I don’t look good in a waistcoat.

So it would seem that the worlds of sports and athletics are closed to people such as me.  This seems very unfair.  Just because we aren’t willing to shovel performance-enhancers down our gullets doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t be allowed to compete.  I needed to find a sport where your fitness levels aren’t a problem, and where it doesn’t matter if you look like a dork.  That’s why I delved into the exciting world of Quidditch.

If you aren’t aware, Quidditch is a made up sport from Lord Of The Rings where competitors swim around in a spherical pool and shoot balls out of cannons.  Fortunately, the real life version of this sport is a little easier to understand.  You prance around with a broom between your legs, pretend that you’re flying, and throw balls through hoops.  It’s like basketball, but you walk around as though you’re trying to hide an erection.

Let push for this to be an Olympic sport in Rio 2016!

Joining a Quidditch team is remarkably easy.  You don’t have to prove yourself physically; you just choose a “house”.  I chose Slytherin because it sounded a little bit like foreskin, which no else seemed to find hilarious no matter how many times I pointed it out. 

So I found myself as the seeker for Slytherin Wanderers.  My job was to capture “the snitch”, which was a person running around the field with a top t shirt.  Capturing the snitch wins the game immediately, so I began to devise cunning schemes on how to achieve this.  Most of my nets were confiscated before the game, and the referee postponed the game due to an abundance of bear traps on the field.  In the end, I simply climbed up a tree, waited, then leaped on the snitch from a great height.  When I caught him, I tried to beat information out the snitch, drilling him with questions such as “who have you been snitching to?” and “where are the KGB hiding the nuclear device?”.  Turned out the golden snitch wasn’t exactly what I thought it was.

Still, I was fascinated by the idea of being a snitch.  You had to evade capture, which seemed like a lot of fun in a Loony Tunes, Road Runner kind of way.  I applied to become a snitch, and found myself wearing the coveted gold shirt in the next game.

The rules state that the snitch can leave the pitch and go wherever it wants.  On this revelation, I simply ran off the field as soon as the match started, jumped on a bus, and spent the rest of the game on my sofa at home eating crisps.  They still haven’t found me.  What a bunch of idiots!

P – Philanthropist

Judging from the observations I conduct on various rich people from various walks of life, I have found a common theme that unites them all.  When they donate some of their disposable income to charity, they are often called philanthropists.  But what is a philanthropist?  Perhaps this is a secret sect, like the stonemasons, who secretly get their members into high-flying careers and make them rich.  Perhaps if I could become a philanthropist too, I could become rich by extension.  That’s why I decided to set up my own charitable foundation.

There are many worthy causes out there that would all benefit from much-needed cash injection.  There’s cancer research, poverty, famine relief, wildlife conservation, and homeless shelters, to name but a few.  However, I realised that there was an area of injustice that no one seems to be paying money or attention to, so I set up my charitable foundation around it.

Please donate to my campaign for Safer Duck Sex (or SDS for short).  Here at Safer Duck Sex, we are utterly baffled by the reproductive organs of some of our most familiar, water-dwelling companions.  Frankly, it’s shocking that ducks ever manage to reproduce, considering the lengths they have to go to.  Let me lay it out for you:

The female duck has a vagina that could house a Minotaur.  They have a maze-like reproductive system which even Earth’s foremost cartographers struggle to put to parchment.  In order to try and compensate for this, male ducks have penises that can extend to roughly the same length as their body.  This prehensile appendage has to navigate her genital labyrinth, meaning that only the most ridiculously proportioned male ducks have the highest chance of fathering ducklings.  Therefore, the act of love making amongst ducks is a frightening and rather dangerous concern.  Since we have sexual health charities for humans, why not give ducks the same luxuries?  We could invest money into sex aids and research new techniques that could make duck carnal relations less stressful.  That way, we can mercilessly slaughter more ducks to make nice Chinese food.  It’s a win-win situation!

Please help me have sex...

I decided I needed to get a few patrons for my charity, so I wrote to Bill Oddie and Keith Harris, who are both renowned duck lovers.  They both pledged eleventy squillion pounds each, which I wasn’t sure was even a real number, but I tried to cash the cheques anyway.  Regardless to say, they bounced.  When I confronted them, it turned out they’d both been sued by the taxpayer for building a duck island, and were both completely broke.

I wrote to all the other celebrities I could think of, and didn’t get a single response.  It seems that duck sex isn’t a popular concern amongst the A-Listers of the world today.  Perhaps they are too shy to engage with such a topic, opting to support lesser charitable cases like leukaemia and orphans instead.

Well, I won’t rest until the topic is on everyone’s lips.  Dear readers, I encourage you talk about duck sex with your family and friends.  Let the world know about the grave, sexual injustice that is happening at ponds across the globe.  Together, we will make duck sex better.  For our children, and our children’s children.

O – Ocelot

There are many types of ocelot in this world, from Wild to Revolver.  Yet, there are very few zoos and animal facilities that showcase these magnificent pygmy leopards.  They’re missing out on a trick because, due to the prevalence of cat videos on YouTube, everyone would love to see these cute critters rolling around on a rock, or meticulously skinning a sparrow that happened to fly into their cage.  That’s why I decided to breed some ocelots and showcase them for profit.

The problem was, there wasn’t a great deal of breeding out there amongst the ocelot community.  In fact, there wasn’t an ocelot community at all.  I would have gone out to catch some ocelots, but they tend to live in South America and I’m far too lazy/poor to take a trip out there.  There was only one course of action available to me; I would have to become an ocelot myself.

I went to speak to my doctor about becoming an ocelot.  I figured that if men can become women and women can become men, it would be perfectly acceptable for a man to become an ocelot.  My doctor informed me that no such operation has ever been performed, nor would it ever be while he still had air in his lungs. Feeling dejected, I turned to the Internet for more information on feline transformation.

There was a whole community out there who specialised in transforming into animals.  They called themselves “furries”, and they had a wide range of information on turning into various different animals.  Skunks, raccoons, beavers, everything mammalian were all comprehensively detailed amongst their pages.  However, there was a distinct lack of furries who had become ocelots.  When I declared my desire to become an ocelot, I immediately got hundreds of messages saying that they wanted to “yiff” with me.  I assumed this was some sort of encouragement of support until I attended one of their houses and was promptly molested by a middle-aged man dressed as a badger.  It was at this point I decided that the furry community wasn’t exactly what I was looking for.

Na na na na na na na na na CATMAN!

I investigated the body modification lifestyle as an alternative way to become an ocelot.  I met a heavily pierced chap who was very much on the way to becoming a cat.  He wore cat contact lenses and had his top lip split into a triangle to give him a feline mouth.  I also heard that was found humping the tarmac near junction 28 on the M1, trying to get off on the cats eyes in the road.  I decided against this course of action when I saw him try to drink a glass of water and it came streaming out of the holes in his face.

So what was the final solution? In the end, I sellotaped two house cats together to create one ocelot.  Shortly afterwards, I received a court order banning me from owning animals due to “running a circus of unfathomable cruelty”.  I strongly denied the charges.  It wasn’t a circus since there were no clowns involved.  Anyway, if anyone wants to adopt a cat and several rolls of sellotape, you know where to find me.