Drumpfulacrum


Citizens of Chimerica, for reasons which, since you removed your own cerebella, we can no longer access, you have elected a Cheesy Wotsit.

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A Cheesy Wotsit, moreover, which appears to be possessed by the demon Drumpfulacrum, long held to be one of the stupidest demons in Hell.

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A demon which, in the comedy clubs of Hell, occupies the position played by drummers in jokes about stupid musicians.

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As in, ‘Drumpfulacrum is so stupid he wasn’t thrown out of Heaven, he tripped.’ As in, ‘When he goes out to buy souls he comes back with haddock.’

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Last time Drumpfulacrum was loose he possessed a hot water bottle. Because he kept it constantly toasty, he wasn’t exorcised for 72 years.

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So far, other than swelling to eight feet high and filling the air with an odour of synthetic cheese malignity, the Wotsit has done nothing.

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However, murmurations of birds across this great land of ours have begun coughing *wanker* in unison before dropping from our great air.

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Is it a Brie? is it a Parmesan? No, it’s Supermoon!


Obviously the Supermoon can fly – that’s why it’s in the sky, stupid – but did you know it has X-ray vision and can see your underpants?

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Apparently the Supermoon is allergic to the green green cheese of Krypton which destroyed Supermouse in that unfortunate incident.

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On the dark side of the Supermoon is a pants-shaped region known as the Sea of Pants. In its middle is a solitary telephone box.

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Also on the dark side is the Supermoon’s Fortress of Solitude, but, as it is a structure on its own surface, the SuperMoon is unable to enter.

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Many people ask why the Supermoon doesn’t end all crime on Earth 2 at once, preferably by crashing into us? These people don’t read comics.

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It’s like the way atheists ask why God doesn’t just end all human misery right now – they haven’t read comics either.

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By day the Supermoon poses as a mild cheddar in World of Cheese, the most important cheese shop on the planet. It’s the cheese wearing spectacles.

Glow Cheese

The real reason refrigerators have lights that come on when you open them is so you don’t find out which cheeses glow in the dark.

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Certain cheeses by night have dull cubic exteriors, but shocking, pulsating shapes hidden within – heart-like ventricles, or glowing corals.

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Some appear to contain letters or hieroglyphs in some hitherto unknown three-dimensional language of cheese.

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Some cheese experts claim this is bioluminescence, or even a type of cheesy radioactivity. Others think it is triggered by phases of the Moon.

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Every now and then a prophetic ‘cheese-reader’ rides into town on the back of a cow or ewe, claiming to know the art of deciphering cheese.

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Great wheels of cheese are rolled to them like galaxies, each lighting up in the darkness with whole zodiacs of mysterious interior symbols.

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Their crusades would liberate Zions of illuminated halloumi; their pilgrims would locate the Solar Udder – all are blinded by their own incandescent cholesterol.

Stuff about Things

The phone book is full of descriptions of phones, but no numbers. Their attributes are delineated in great detail: some you think you remember.
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The remote only works in other people’s homes. You press, and a channel changes, hundreds of miles away. Do you even know these people?

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The tin opener seals up the tin as it opens it. You watch it, tearing and sealing, round and round. Is it the tin, somehow healing itself?

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The Hoover hoovers up the dust of Shakespeare. How did it all get here, in these carpets? But there’s no denying it’s him, in his entirety.

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The dog says things when no-one else is there. Mutters them, so you can’t be sure, but then looks at you in a way that leaves no doubt.

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You finally play your old vinyl again, but when you do, there’s no music, only smells. Burnt cheese, an exposed river bed, a pissed-on rug.

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The phone rings, and, when you answer it, milk begins to spurt from the earpiece. It’s delicious, but you feel guilty drinking from a phone.

The Moon Ladder

1 (the dark side of the Moon Ladder)

When you see it in the Katalog it looks great: an infinitely extensible ladder that unfolds when you cry ‘I want! I want!’

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The Moon Ladder is really only useful if you have to wash the Moon, and if you don’t know how to fold it, will not fit in your garage.

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Sometimes I get halfway up the Moon Ladder, and realise I’ve forgotten my chamois leather, and have to go back for it, which is a real pain.

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The view from the top of the Moon Ladder is mostly of the Moon, which could do with a good wash. It’s like someone smeared cheese on a mirror.

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What people think of as moondust is really that instant porridge crap. You don’t want to spill a bucket of dirty water in a crater of that.

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Then there’s all the people on the Moon. They don’t like you but they want to use your Moon Ladder. Trouble is, they’re up there for a reason.

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Turns out the ladder they used for the Moon landings is a Moon Ladder too so they didn’t need to go to all that trouble but don’t tell them.

2 (the lighter side of the Ladder)

There are those who say the Moon Ladder was faked, and that there couldn’t be a ladder extending from anywhere on Earth to any moon.

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These are clearly people who have never walked out beneath the freight of stars and cried ‘I want! I want!’ and saw the Moon Ladder appear.

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When you see the faint glimmer of the thin tubules of the Moon Ladder extend from your feet up into the night, your hand is drawn to grip it;

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your foot is drawn to the first rung of millions of rungs: the Moon Ladder doesn’t just extend from the Earth, it extends from the heart.

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Often, halfway down the Moon Ladder with a basket full of freshly picked lunar mushrooms, I find a thick web has formed an orb about it.

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This is the glowing nest of a giant spider drifting in from the asteroid belt, and is filled with millions of its babies like beads of jet.

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I let go of the Moon Ladder and it dissolves, except for the section with the orb, which floats away. Then I say again, ‘I want! I want!’

Cheese Robotics: An Expert Speaks

IMG_0125 Who will say a piece of machinery might not one day be developed capable of differentiating between the enemy and a cracking piece of cheese?

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I’m not saying it could be done, but I’m not prepared to say it couldn’t be done. And if a machine can do it, why not a cheese?

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And therefore is a ban on cheese robotics which has yet to be full developed to maturity an appropriate course of action? I suggest not.

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There may only be a narrow window of opportunity between developing nuclear Cheese Robots and global warming rendering them lethally unstable.

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But for that fortnight we would be Lords of Creation! Therefore I urge you to invest in Autonomous Cybernetic Death Cheese technology.

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In your press packs you’ll find a prototype processed cheddar processor which may enable us to hack into your higher centres of reasoning.

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This nutritious instrument of experimental mind control comes with a delicious sea salt cracker and is quite irresistible! Eat! Enjoy!

Are you my queen?

Chess pieces copulating without regard for rank or colour in the darkness and damp of the Great Maze.

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Giant pawns impersonating balustrades on high balconies till you lean on them, then sneering as you all tumble, ‘We shall survive the fall.’

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Going into the important office to renew some license you are confronted by a large seated chess piece. It is a seemingly inanimate bishop.

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Other people insist your house, which looks perfectly normal to you, is a chess piece. They stand beside you and take a photo: it’s a castle.

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You look at your house, which is still just a house. You look at their camera – it seems normal. You ask a passerby: ‘It’s a chess piece.’

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You have a pepper grinder in the shape of a pawn. You suspect it is having relations with a bottle of olive oil. At night you hear grinding.

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One morning you come downstairs and find eight little glass chess pieces, each full of grass green oil. The doorbell rings. It is a Grandmaster.

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You can only negotiate the grid of the city blocks by moving like a knight. You waste days in elaborate ‘moves’ to get where you want to be.

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On your complicated way to work you pass a shop selling edible chess pieces: cheese chess, jelly baby chess, meat cheese, vegetarian chess…

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One set is crustaceans versus fish. Pawn prawns, of course, a king crab. But the ‘fish’ team is a mix of shell-fish and cephalopods: you complain.

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The shop owner is the same Grandmaster. ‘Everyone else likes it,’ he says. ‘It’s freshly prepared every morning and flies from the shelves.’

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‘I was born in this quarter,’ you say: ‘I don’t remember all this chess.’ ‘There’s always a strategy,’ he says. ‘This is your middle game.’

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You sit in the park where the chessboard tables used to be. Each has been crushed as though by a giant foot. There’s a crashing in the trees.

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You ask: ‘Am I the player or the piece?’ ‘How many moves can I think ahead if I don’t know how many pieces there are?’ ‘Are you my queen?’