Bats

Ever since Professor Einrich Squeaktail's discovery in 1804 that the moon was made of cheese, it has been every mouse's desire to get there as soon as possible. This is a fact.

Many rodent flight attempts have been made over the years starting in 1815 when three mices decided to inflate themselves with helium and float to the moon. Unfortunately the results were disappointing as, just like humans, the meecels simply inhaled the gas and did Bee Gees impressions for the next forty minutes before falling about giggling.

The next flight test took place in 1839 when two excitable mousies from China attached themselves to fireworks and waited for New Year. It wasn't until the celebrations were underway that they realised they had stuck themselves to a Catherine Wheel and a Sparkler and NOT a nice big rocket. The subsequent coroner's inquest could not identify which bits belonged to each mousel.

After a dramatic pause and a big rethink, the next attempt took place in 1916 when Wilber and Orville Smartwhiskers made makeshift propellers from elastic bands and lollipop sticks, strapped them to their noses and threw themselves off the cliffs at Kittenhawk, USA. The calculations were slightly squiffy, however, and the two meece brothers ended up being screwed 3 feet into the ground.

With the advent of genetic research, mousie creatures have recently been more successful and have managed to graft leathery wings to their backs and call themselves 'bats'. These creatures (who only come out at night when the moon is easier to smell), have been spotted all over the world and their attempts at lunar conquest appear more steadfast than ever before.

Because of this, it has become every pussycat's responsibility to also achieve flight in order to continue chasing the rodents (as it is their duty to do). Thus in 1861 the Cat-a-pult was designed which allowed moggy cats to be thrust through the air in order to catch their smaller mammal adversaries. The results were disappointing.

Calling Dr Smy

Here in the UK the human non-fish types often seem to complain how long it takes to see a doctor.
This strikes me as particularly odd as there appears to be no shortage of them on TV.

Every third programme seems to be about some smooth boy-faced medical chap or a stern business-like lady doctor who often 'cares too much' and so shuts her emotions away...except in a longing close-up at the end where she sheds a single tear as the credits start.

Quincy M.D. is morbidly interesting as. despite doing only 3 minutes of actual 'doctoring' per episode, he appears to attract as many hot women each week as The Fonz despite having a head that resembles a turnip and a nose that would not look out of place in the local Toucan Sanctuary. He does have big feet though, so maybe that explains it.*

Doctor Gregory House is my favourite, however. His style is to wrongly diagnose each patient 7 times per show and then, at precisely 37 minutes into the episode, he has a breakthrough and realises that the reason little Barry's eyeballs keep expanding to the size of watermelons is because in 1996, he attended a Teenage Mutant Ninja Otter festival and was exposed to mutated otter pelt while holding a can of cherry Tizer in his left-hand.

The patients always seem to go through agony while Dr House and his perfect skinned, magazine-cover-sexy associates put them through pointless tests for the first 36 minutes and begs the question -why not just leave them in a quite room with a nice book about penguins for a bit while House makes us all a nice cup of tea and tells us a nice long joke for perhaps 36 and a half minutes?


*women are attracted to large feet as this means that they get to wear the large shoes when the man goes out of the room while doing a deep-voiced impression of their man and trotting about saying stuff like 'where's my paper?' and 'fetch me more beer'. This is a known fact.

Smylexx-Eve

Yes, it's that time of year again. The date that you've had circled on your calendar for the last 363 days is almost upon us; my birthday- tomorrow.

Although it's quite apparent that you've already bought my present and wrapped it, being extra careful not to crush the gold-leaf wrapping paper or to chip any of the encrusted 24 carat diamonds on the gift-tag, I thought I'd help those who were still struggling with the gift-choosing by providing you with a few handy tips:

1 x Puncture Repair Kit with a beach ball attachment would be most appreciated. Sadly, whenever i get a new beach ball, i tend to crush it or pop it in an excited moment usually when one of my scientist friends says something like 'Is it me, or is it getting 'otter in here?' or 'You know Colin, there really 'otter be a Fire Exit sign over that emergency door'.

1 x Lightly roasted salmon with dauphinoise potatoes. Obviously i wont eat the potatoes but i will look at them with delight as i gently nibble my salmon while extending my flipper in an over-posh way.

1 x Bedtime Stories book with waterproof paper. Some of the smaller fish tell me that they get a little scared at night. Unfortunately the thing they most fear is being eaten by me but perhaps a soothing story about bears might cheer them up a bit.

1 x otter sanctuary with 18 otters and a lifetime otter replacement guarantee so that if one of them slips off the little see-saw I'm making or squishes against a rock after bouncing too high off the little trampoline i made last week, I'd be sent a new one in the post.

I also expect a fish-cake with a candle in it. Hurry or you'll miss the shops!!

+4 Atk with 10% chance of creeping-you-out!

In hot Nerd News today it was announced that Gary (level 79 Paladin) Gygax has died.

This came as a shock to me and some of the smaller fish i was intimidating this morning as we always assumed that G. G. was immortal like that bloke from Highlander, Elizabeth Taylor and Colonel Sanders.

Mr Gygax was obviously a genius. Not only did his name end in the letter 'x' (which is a sure sign of superiority....or, at the very least, uber-smugness), but he also managed to sell us a rule book for a game that we then had to go and imagine by ourselves.

In my opinion, it's not really a game unless there is a board, some little plastic pieces (perhaps in the shape of otters or something) a pair of lovely dice and some cards with 'go directly to the little cupboard under the stairs and eat sherbet' printed on them.

Many nerdy-types will today be looking even more forlorn and unhappy than usual and will not be able to blame their demeanor solely on their intake of The Cure cd's, the lack of sunlight they absorb or the absence of hot nerd-on-nerd action.

So for one day only, don't poke your geek; love them. Hug your nerdiest friend and stroke their twenty-seven sided dice and their little lead gn*me figures. Ruffle their (slightly greasy) hair and even refuse to laugh when they drool uncontrollably at an old episode of Land of the Giants.

Happy dungeoning!