Welcome back readers, I’d like to start this report by announcing some very special news. Niko ‘Toadthroat’ has just been granted permission by the Nigerian government to come and visit England. The main purpose being the chance to have a look around the Royal Institute for Weirdoes. Last week we finally got the attention of the United Nations Human Rights Department to bid for a move to the Royal Institute for Niko. The way that The Nigerian government were treating him goes against Human Rights Acts and so the UN stepped in. Niko is due to be arriving on Wednesday and hopefully he will like what he sees. We have also flown over his entire African Bullfrog community to try and let him settle in. the best result would be for Niko to barely notice a change between his old home and the Royal Institue. We excitedly await his arrival and will keep you posted.
There is infact some sad news this week folks. Mr Mould who we thought was settling in extremely well with the help of yoghurt boy, has taken a turn for the worse. It all started when yoghurt boy challenged Mr Mould to a race round the institute in their bubbles. Mr Mould being extremely competitive accepted and what can next was an intense battle of not just speed but wits as the couple had to dodge obstacles, flying ice cream and shells (courtesy of stanley garbage and randy wallow) and nurses, as they performed their daily tasks. Mr Mould was just ahead until the last stretch when one of stanley’s ice creams came flying out of nowhere and splattered over Mr Moulds bubble obscuring his vision. He then took a wrong turn leading into the girls bathroom and crashed against the sinks. Yoghurt boy then easily took the lead and won the race. Mr Mould being the competitive git he is is blaming everyone but himself for the loss and has fallen out with all of the other wierdoes. The nurses say he just sits in his room looking at the toilet and muttering about ice cream. Hopefully he’ll get over it. He is 40.
Randy Wallow ‘shell kid’ is leaving the institute in search for a better social life. Even though he said he loves it here, he just wants some friends that will do daring stuff like beer bongs and want to go out on the pull. Word on the street is there’s an emerging fetish in shells and Randy secretly wants to exploit it. He’s already received some fan mail asking him out on dinner dates. Sadly the owners of this fetish are all old women. Randy doesn’t know this. He is 14.
Roger Ganet ‘Yoghurt Boy’ has taken up profressional stalking. This act was conceived during world war 2 as a means of tracking nazis around hard terrain. Roger came across it in his history book and has since been seen stalking the other residents. I asked roger who was the easiest person to stalk and he said ‘either the wierdest boy in plymouth or Mr Mould. They just stay in their rooms so I don’t have to do much’. I’ve seen Roger practicing his stalking ability around the institute but he’s pretty obvious as he has to do in his bubble. He should probably find another hobby.
Donald Banoffi has finally, after many weights, built up enough muscle to move the dog in monopoly. He said he’s really excited about his upcoming game against his nan. ‘Gonna be really fun I’m really excited, I can’t wait to finally get my hands on mayfair. Wonder how many times I’ll pass go’.
Herman the necrophilliac was found guilty of necrophillia and is to sent to prison to live the rest of his life behind bars. We at the Royal Institute are hoping he can plead insanity and stay here. Sadly it was the judges wife he humped so things aren’t looking up.
Another piece of bad new, Zachariah ‘Crill’ Scapegoatingson has broken his back/table. He was happliy walking around the playground when an intern, tired from all the hard work, thought he was a stool and decided to have a rest on him. Zachariah screemed but all was too late as the interns’ legs gave way and she collapsed on top of him. Zachariah has been in intensive care for three days and finally things are looking up as doctors have successfully patched him up with the help of master carpenter dave from croydon. Apparently all it needed was some good nails and a hammer.
Stanley Garbage ‘the highly non-viscous man’ has taken his swiftness to a new level and has moved swiftly on from peaceful protests to full blown marathons. He is currently applying for the 2012 London Paralympics but has so far been denied because he is seen to have an unfair advantage. He is hoping to appeal but as he is faster than the fastest runners in the world it is not looking good.
The weirdest boy in plymouth has still made no friends. He is generally considered the wierdest resident and is left alone. He lives under the institute in a cave and eats cooking apples and back bacon.
Some good news for Terry and Nosferatu Smith ‘the couple with see-through bellies’. After 30 years of marriage things were starting to get routine for the couple. Even the most extraordinary lives can be reduced to ash after many years of company with the same spouse. Things are however looking up as the couple have decided to renew their vows. The decision came after their relationship counciler suggested it might spark things up a bit. Two tickets to the ceremony in march are going out to the lucky winners of this weeks crazy bingo for weirdoes and wacky heads. Everyone from the
Royal Institute will be there to share the couples’ praise and joy. Winners will be announced next week. Good Luck.
25 February 2012
18 December 2011
Extraordinary lives part 10 - Mr Mould
Mr Mould is one of the more dull cases at the Royal Institute for Weirdoes. He does not have any outstanding features that would make for an interesting report. In fact he is just mould, not even an exotic type found in the jungles of Borneo. The same boring old type that grows in bathrooms; mould, mildew, call it what you will, names are irrelevant for this kind of thing. Just know that it is the lowest of low, the most ingenious of life forms, confined to only the moistest rooms. This is where all moulds start out on their journey. First the spores land on a moist enough spot and start to grow. They can grow to considerable size depending on the moistness of the spot they have chosen to anchor. Every once in a while a mould, given the right circumstances, can grow to truly gigantic proportions. This in itself is not particularly unusual but once the mould has reached significant size it can take on a level of intelligence like that of a human. This phenomenon happens once every million years and is called a mouldemoistaria.
Conditions were right, the timing was right, the stars were aligned, just about everything was perfect for a mouldemoistaria. In the middle of Bethnal Green, in the house of a young aspiring novelist, a mould started to grow. The bigger the mould grew, the more scared the novelist became. Once the mould was the size of an apple the novelist would not go in the bathroom. You see he was a hypochondriac and feared the spores would make him ill. As he was just an aspiring novelist he didn’t have any money, certainly not to shed out for a mould extractor, or handyman, to deal with it. Luckily his house was close to a public loo and he felt comfortable enough to chill in there. He didn’t open the door to his bathroom till it was too late. The mould had grown, but not only had it grown physically but mentally as well. One day when the novelist was sitting by his typewriter the bathroom door opened; there standing at the doorway was a dark green figure. He didn’t look particularly threatening in fact he looked quite sweet. He was shaped exactly like the novelist. Small, a little tubby round the belly, the same crooked nose and chubby cheeks. The novelist fainted. He didn’t fall and hurt himself because he was sitting in his comfortable writers chair. It had holes in the arms for his coffee and the seat was made of zebra’s liver, which is apparently very soft. The mould roused the novelist but the novelist fainted again when he woke. After three rounds of fainting the novelist finally stayed awake long enough to hear the mould speak. His voice soft and calm like an old peanut, if it could speak, did not do anything helpful for the novelist. As it turned out the mould’s voice was exactly like the novelists. This freaked him out again but instead of fainting he got up and started shouting at the mould, all sorts of nasty things like, ‘get out get out whoever you are’, ‘I can’t even wash my underarms anymore cos of you’, ‘I’ll call the police, but I doubt they’ll do anything, your just a mould’. That last comment stayed with the mould for the rest of his life. He didn’t want to be ‘just a mould’ and he ran out of the house sobbing.
The next three weeks were the worst in his life; he slept on the streets and in people’s greenhouses, sucking the moisture out of bathrooms and cellars. Finally he found his way to a Samaritans home for the homeless and needy. The workers were very kind to him and let him stay if he could keep the mildew from ruining their building. The mould started to life a happier life from then on and the workers grew fond of him, calling him Mr Mould. The longer he stayed at the Samaritans the sicker and weaker the workers were getting. The doctor said all their allergic conditions were worsening, and diagnosed it with simply being around ‘too much mould’. The workers asked Mr Mould to leave, which broke his heart. Mr Mould went back to stealing the moisture from peoples houses and sleeping rough until he was caught by the police for trespassing on the mayor’s property. The police luckily enough didn’t sentence him but sent him straight to us.
We at the Royal Institute for Weirdoes happily took him in and our doctors are researching the phenomenon that caused his birth. They found out that there can only be one ‘intelligent’ mould at any one time and that each time the mouldemoistaria happens one mould dies and another is reborn through his moist material. They identified that the novelists bathroom must have been the moistest place the old ‘intelligent’ mould could find. At present the researchers are trying to find out ways in which Mr Mould can roam about freely and not have adverse affects on others around him. Currently they have him in a bubble, similar to the one for Yogurt Boy and those two have become good friends, often seen bouncing around the playground together.
The novelist has under very poor financial situation tied to sue Mr Mould for being a replica of him but the case is not going very well for him as the public are backing the mould because they feel sorry for him. This novelist has taken full advantage of his situation with his first book coming out called ‘Mould, my story’. We hope Mr Mould a lovely future and maybe one day he can fit into society and not as bathroom pain. That’s all folks see you next time.
Conditions were right, the timing was right, the stars were aligned, just about everything was perfect for a mouldemoistaria. In the middle of Bethnal Green, in the house of a young aspiring novelist, a mould started to grow. The bigger the mould grew, the more scared the novelist became. Once the mould was the size of an apple the novelist would not go in the bathroom. You see he was a hypochondriac and feared the spores would make him ill. As he was just an aspiring novelist he didn’t have any money, certainly not to shed out for a mould extractor, or handyman, to deal with it. Luckily his house was close to a public loo and he felt comfortable enough to chill in there. He didn’t open the door to his bathroom till it was too late. The mould had grown, but not only had it grown physically but mentally as well. One day when the novelist was sitting by his typewriter the bathroom door opened; there standing at the doorway was a dark green figure. He didn’t look particularly threatening in fact he looked quite sweet. He was shaped exactly like the novelist. Small, a little tubby round the belly, the same crooked nose and chubby cheeks. The novelist fainted. He didn’t fall and hurt himself because he was sitting in his comfortable writers chair. It had holes in the arms for his coffee and the seat was made of zebra’s liver, which is apparently very soft. The mould roused the novelist but the novelist fainted again when he woke. After three rounds of fainting the novelist finally stayed awake long enough to hear the mould speak. His voice soft and calm like an old peanut, if it could speak, did not do anything helpful for the novelist. As it turned out the mould’s voice was exactly like the novelists. This freaked him out again but instead of fainting he got up and started shouting at the mould, all sorts of nasty things like, ‘get out get out whoever you are’, ‘I can’t even wash my underarms anymore cos of you’, ‘I’ll call the police, but I doubt they’ll do anything, your just a mould’. That last comment stayed with the mould for the rest of his life. He didn’t want to be ‘just a mould’ and he ran out of the house sobbing.
The next three weeks were the worst in his life; he slept on the streets and in people’s greenhouses, sucking the moisture out of bathrooms and cellars. Finally he found his way to a Samaritans home for the homeless and needy. The workers were very kind to him and let him stay if he could keep the mildew from ruining their building. The mould started to life a happier life from then on and the workers grew fond of him, calling him Mr Mould. The longer he stayed at the Samaritans the sicker and weaker the workers were getting. The doctor said all their allergic conditions were worsening, and diagnosed it with simply being around ‘too much mould’. The workers asked Mr Mould to leave, which broke his heart. Mr Mould went back to stealing the moisture from peoples houses and sleeping rough until he was caught by the police for trespassing on the mayor’s property. The police luckily enough didn’t sentence him but sent him straight to us.
We at the Royal Institute for Weirdoes happily took him in and our doctors are researching the phenomenon that caused his birth. They found out that there can only be one ‘intelligent’ mould at any one time and that each time the mouldemoistaria happens one mould dies and another is reborn through his moist material. They identified that the novelists bathroom must have been the moistest place the old ‘intelligent’ mould could find. At present the researchers are trying to find out ways in which Mr Mould can roam about freely and not have adverse affects on others around him. Currently they have him in a bubble, similar to the one for Yogurt Boy and those two have become good friends, often seen bouncing around the playground together.
The novelist has under very poor financial situation tied to sue Mr Mould for being a replica of him but the case is not going very well for him as the public are backing the mould because they feel sorry for him. This novelist has taken full advantage of his situation with his first book coming out called ‘Mould, my story’. We hope Mr Mould a lovely future and maybe one day he can fit into society and not as bathroom pain. That’s all folks see you next time.
08 September 2011
Tampons
http://www.google.co.uk/search?q=tampon&oe=utf-8&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&client=firefox-a&um=1&ie=UTF-8&tbm=isch&source=og&sa=N&hl=en&tab=wi&biw=1155&bih=634
01 September 2011
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