Mooby Dick

Mooby Dick shunned all the other whales because he was embarrassed about his pronounced man-boobs, pronounced ‘man-boobs’.

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Why couldn’t he have mwoobs, or male whale boobs, like all the other middle-aged whales?

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His only friend, ‘Moogy Dick’, always carried a Moog synthesiser, together with an electricity generator, wrapped in a giant plastic bag, in his throat. Nobody thought he was weird.

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(Actually, everybody thought Moogy Dick was going through the most colossal mid-life crisis, but because Mooby Dick didn’t speak to the other whales, he didn’t know this.)

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Mooby Dick wondered whatever had happened to his other old friend, Moggy Dick, who used to wear a giant mask of the Cheshire Cat at all times?

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The mask, which was made of chewed-up wrecked ships’ timbers, required continuous repair-work, which meant that Moggy Dick never really had much of a life.

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Of course if, in the meantime, Moggy Dick had given up wearing his Cheshire Cat mask, Mooby Dick realised he would probably be unable to recognise him.

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Facts about Bats

Bats hunt chocolate using echolocation.

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Bats and people attempting to give up chocolate should try e-chocolate, which still contains an echo of actual chocolate if you insert it into your giant ears.

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Gianteers are people who climb giants instead of or as well as mountains.

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Giant tears are defined as tears so large that the weeper can themselves bathe or swim in a single giant teardrop.

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Victorian teardrop baths were often used to capture the lachrymations of mourners, the repentant, or the miserable, as instant immersion was deemed most efficacious.

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Hot giant tears were felt to be the best, as chocolate could be heated in the tub, creating a delicious if salty bath. If you could drink it all, you would never be sad again.

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After immersion in a hot chocolate tear bath, people would lie naked all night by open windows, and bats would come and lick them clean.

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Bats’ tears are so tiny they have to weep two tears of hydrogen and one tear of oxygen before anyone realises they are crying.

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Every bat carries a small salt cellar in their armpit to sprinkle on their tears. These are family heirlooms, handed down through bat generations.

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Bats’ favourite habitats are inside the ears of giants, who do not know they are there, and believe they are suffering from a giants’ disease called ‘tiny tinnitus’.

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Giants’ favourite habitats are mountaintops, where they blend in and remain so perfectly still that people believe mountains are hundreds of feet taller than they actually are.

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Gianteers, climbing in giants’ ears, have had the chocolate plucked from their rucksacks by light-clawed bats in mid-flight, and not had a clue it was gone.

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Bats use the silver paper from bars of chocolate to wrap their young in so that they can survive at the high altitudes of the upper galleries of giants’ ears. These twinkle at night, deceiving climbers they are unfamiliar constellations.

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After years of symbiotic coexistence with bats, the accumulated layers of tinfoil in giants’ ears block out the lullabies of star music, and they awaken, hungry for chocolate, and the flesh of climbers.

Undead Shoal


Vampire mackerel were the most awkward of supernatural fish: barely able to fly, they would take hours to travel to land in search of prey.

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As they flailed their tiny fins, bobbing inches above the surf, vampire mackerel hunters would simply pick them off with wooden darts.

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Only the fact they travelled in bloodthirsty shoals enabled enough vampire mackerel to get ashore where they would descend on weasels and mice.

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Anything bigger than a weasel could punch a vampire mackerel out of the sky, and even the weasels had to be caught unawares in case of biteback.

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Vampire mackerels’ most convenient sources of blood, pinnipeds and cetaceans, heard them coming due to subaquatic lisping thru their fangs.

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Narwhal Van Helsing dedicated his life to hunting down Count Mackerula, but he would hide in the heart of his Undead Shoal and could not be found.

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As the sun descends below the nautical horizon, there is a green flash which reveals that Count Mackerula is nothing but rune-covered bones.

The Adventures of Doc Moreau and I, 16: Good Dog Patented Nose Brain Grafts


Doc Moreau has been working on a nose/brain graft that will enable us and/or dogs to smell bad ideas.

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‘Dogs with human brains or humans with dog’s noses?’ he said at a recent press conference. ‘I don’t know, it could go either way.’

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In a rare move, Doc Moreau will run two advertising campaigns simultaneously, and see which gets the biggest take-up from people or dogs.

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‘Do you ever dither?’

‘Er…’

‘Have you ever havered?’

‘Um…’

‘Try Doc Moreau’s Good Dog Nose Grafts: everything’s coming up nosethinks!’

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‘My dog has nose idea.’

‘How does it think?’

‘Terrible!’

‘Get Doc Moreau’s Patented Canine Brain Grafts today: wake up and smell the cerebella!’

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So far dogs have been slow to grasp the advantages of Doc Moreau’s Patented Canine Brain Grafts so the Doc is throwing in a free opposable thumb!

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‘A big problem at the moment is the dogs bury the thumbs, so I give them an IQ booster jab and we talk, Doc to dog. Then they form militia…’

The Thirteen Fridays

It was the 13th Friday in a row and victims were sick of the hockey masquerades-slash-slashfests, the sheer badluckcliffs and the slipping on black catskins.

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Letters of protest sent to the Ministry of Time were purloined. Phonecalls were made but the handsets turned into lobsters and snipped off ears.

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The Ministry finally announced that the run of Fridays was caused by sunsprat shoals, and victims should increase their Sprat Factor to 13.

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Victims pointed out anything over Sprat Factor 11 caused your face to melt and your eyes to migrate to the top of your head like flatfish.

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The Ministry of Masks undertook to issue their famous face wax, which replaces victims’ original faces with those of historical figures.

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However, due to the ectospasmodic effect of a sunsprat megashoal the size of Mercury, the wax took on the features of famous murder victims.

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When Saturday finally arrived, the airports were full of exhausted serial killers heading out to abduct a few day’s R&R on Murder Island.

Fear Feller’s Master-Stroke

A new study discovers that people who think they’re arachnophobic are actually afraid of disembodied hands with lots of eyes in the knuckles.

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New studies conclude that all claustrophobics remember being placed in a coffin while still alive in their immediately previous life.

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A new study shows that people who believe they are afraid of snakes are actually troubled by the thought of elongated severed zombie penises.

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New tests have established that agoraphobics are genetically immune to gravity, and could potentially fly off into space at any moment.

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A new study proves that fear of heights signals a rare disorder called Magnetic Dropsy, in which you are drawn at a cellular level to the abyss.

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New studies fairly sure that ailurophobes have been experimentally chewed by their own cats while in a post-public house ‘napping’ posture.

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A new study establishes that fear itself is more afraid of the fear of fear itself than the fear of fear itself is afraid of fear itself.

The Adventures of Doc Moreau and I, 15: Ringo and the Dormobeetle 

Doc Moreau would like to announce that, after reaching an agreement with Ringo, plans for his new Dormobeetle are finally going ahead!

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Imagine: a giant black Beetle you can sleep in as it crawls around in the dark, lulled to golden slumbers by the music of The Beatles!

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Doc Moreau reassures us that Ringo definitely agreed to all this after an extended drinking session saying, ‘I’ll get the lads on side.’

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This agreement (and the extended drinking session) either proceeded or followed his failed attempt to attach Ringo’s head to a brontosaurus.

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Doc Moreau says, ‘Give me a day or two for the precise legally binding memories to come back to me. In the meantime, prime the giant beetles!’

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To manufacture the Dormobeetle, Doc Moreau has to deploy the radioactive substance ‘Kafkanium’, extracted from the excreta of wild Kafkas.

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Wild Kafkas are notoriously shy and difficult authors to track and trap, and even then can be extraordinarily retentive of their excreta.

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‘The last one didn’t do a crap for seven years,’ Doc Moreau reminisces, ‘then finally he says, “You have captured me for no reason,” and poops.’

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The excreta is dry and firm to the touch. It has no detectable odour and resembles a thick biscuit. Sometimes it has ‘Ecto’ embossed on top.

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Hundreds of distillations containing Kafkanium can be extracted from a single ‘Ecto-Biscuit’, triggering the growth cycle of the beetles.

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‘Sometimes, before I start pimping up the beetle with speakers,’ Doc Moreau confesses, ‘I have me a little nibble of that Ecto-Biscuit!’

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It’s not clear what effects the ingestion of Kafkanium may have on the human body. But delusional states and random chitin growth are likely.

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What Doc Moreau dismisses as ‘pimp surgery’ is actually a complex procedure creating a luxury sleeping cavity in the giant beetle’s abdomen.

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‘This is gonna be better than that time we put bathyscapes in cows!’ enthuses Doc Moreau. ‘Tomorrow never knows how many we’re gonna shift!’