Friday, February 14, 2003

"Scary's Hints and Tips: No 4,924"

More of my helpful pointers to make the Middle East a safer place to wage war.

Coalition troops! THIS is your enemy. He's a slimy little turd, kept in power by a deeply flawed election, who will think nothing of ruthlessly doing away with his enemies, terrorising his people and striking out blindly against those who he detests. Keep your eyes open, he could be anywhere. THIS, however, is President George Walker Bush who ...err... you get the idea.

Combatants should also bear in mind that while THIS person is your enemy, THESE people are not, even though they may reside in the same country as the mad bloke coming between you and your oil. Rule of thumb: Saddam's got a moustache, kids by and large don't. Still, easy mistake to make and I'm pretty sure CNN will understand if you drop your laser guided bunker-buster on the wrong building. You can't be too careful these days.

Edit: If you're wondering where all the funny stuff is, there'll be something arse-rippingly hilarious tomorrow. Promise. A Scaryduck's 37th birthday special, no less. In the meantime, here's a little number I tossed off just now for the wonderful peeps at Wil Wheaton dot net...

"February 15th 1966"

London. Beatlemania. World Cup Triumph just months away. A reborn, optimistic nation surging ahead with the power of youth.

In a hospital just off the swinging King's Road it is a different story. It is Tuesday morning. Outside, London is drifting to work, through Fulham, Chelsea, Battersea to the City and the West End. Inside, there is already work afoot. In short, the mircale of life. A father paces up and down, cigarettes are smoked, brows are furrowed.

Then, at eight o'clock, the sound of the woman's cries give way to that of a baby. The door opens. A nurse, all starch and authority comes out.

"Mr Duck? It's a boy."

He rushes in, to see Mrs Duck cooing over her newborn son.

"See?" she says, "It's a boy. It's the boy we always wanted."

The nurse is the first to congratulate them both. "What are you going to call him?"

"Well call him Scary," said my father, "Scary Duck."

And so I was born.

Cake, anyone?

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