Can Penguin Soup Help Save the World?
Copyright by Dave Lassut 2011
Published by Wonky Books at Smashwords
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Important note: Don’t forget to laugh.
EPUB ISBN: 978-1-908796-00-4
EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-908796-01-1
A short, yet brilliant intro.
Ah yes, soul warming penguin soup.
Granny had to sleep with the fishmonger to get one of course back up there in the working class North West. It was a rare occasion when a penguin turned up in the mackerel nets; obviously its inner navigation system wasn’t working. The fishmonger would get it from the fishermen (who kept penguins especially for him), and then let my Granny know through the grapevine. Granny couldn’t use a telephone, as she would always pick it up and try and talk through the earpiece; the result made her think that she was going deaf.
She would go and see the doctor and say “I think I’ve got shit in my lugs. They’re ok most of the time, but I can’t hear anyone on the telephone. I think it’s the technology gone too far, the family say it’s me. What do they know or even care? All they want is my money. But they AREN’T GETTING IT! All they want to do is SPEND IT! And it isn’t for spending, it’s for saving. And when you die, you leave it to ‘your own’, but, they will just spend it, so you have to take it with you, but you can’t, so you have to leave it to ‘your own’, but they will just spend it, so you have to take it with you. They want me to use it for my care in a home one day, but I’m not going to waste it on that! I’m NOT going in a home! The money is for ‘my own’, but they will just spend it, so you have to take it with you, but you can’t! ...”
The doctor incidentally smoked heavily and was on sedatives, and died before her.
He could never find anything wrong of course, and he thought she had excellent ears for a 95 year old; and a loud shout which made ‘his’ ears ring.
“There’s nothing wrong with your ears Mrs Irwin”
“Ok. I’ll make another appointment for tomorrow then.”
“Why?”
“Well. Tomorrows another day, it will be a memory so faded it will be invisible to the naked neurosurgeon. And besides that, I have another phone call tonight; my friend rings me at my daughter’s two doors away. I’ll bet I can’t hear her.”
Granny? Think of Granny Clampett from the Beverly HillbilliesillbilliesH, with a couple more stone on her.
Keep off my money!
She would say “I can’t be doing with this new technology, just give me a penguin and a pot to cook the soup in and I’m happy.”
I would reply, “Ok gran. You get the penguin, you have the pot already. That leaves thirty quid a quarter bill for gas, and you don’t eat much as you still shop with your ration book ... so, may I have six million five hundred and ninety thousand pounds from your stash? You don’t need it.”
“No you can’t!” She would reply. “I had to suffer at work I hated ‘but it paid the bills’ for fifty years to scrape that together. It’s being buried with my poor burnt out, ragged, unthanked, worked to death corpse! And so you lot can’t get it, I’m being buried in a secret location, in a diamond, concrete and titanium reinforced tomb, in a diamond, concrete and titanium and reinforced bullet proof glass, ‘so you can all stare at me in the chapel of rest and feel that crushing GUILT. And don’t try and open the lid and make a grab at the bundles of cash which have been crammed into the specially designed, fully visual gully around the edge of the coffin, because there will be laser beam alarms protecting the lot. So just look, and remember, ‘you look with your eyes, NOT with your hands’. The Undertaker says he can set my face in a smile when he embalms me, make me more fetching to the family and ready to meet God.
What’s more, I’ve seen Father Morris ... Oh! Hail Mary mother of Grace, thank you thank you for sending Father Morris, and pleased make sure his brand new Jaguar doesn’t break down; I loved buying him that, as he is a lovely man of God. He is going to get in touch with the head of the Catholic church on MY behalf, whose roof I paid for with money I worked my fingers to the bone for, and they are going to get one or two beasts from the book of Revelations, those with nine nine nine on their heads, to guard the tomb door 24/7. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go and have some kinky sex with the fishmonger who has acquired me a penguin. Then, I’m going to make some Granny Irwin’s SPECIAL penguin soup for the soul; no additives but salt and pepper, and some E by gum, that’s nice Granny Irwin. It will make a change from chicken soul soup, as I’m sick to death of fucking chicken. Common muck!”
***
Can penguin soup help save the world? I reckon so. Austin Powers has requested this manuscript to be his CV. The worst people to have in charge of people are the people themselves. Managers fade in comparison. What is it some people who have certain skills (or have won a ton of cash maybe?) say?
Instead of saving the world, how about “If I can help just one person, or make one person breathe easier, it will be all worth it.”
So: “If I can make one person breathe easier, it will be worth it”... knowing my luck, I’ll get through to someone with emphysema.
Pre-warning:
Try not to laugh too loud, as I don’t want the bills for stitching up your hernias. And don’t get too pissed off at the bits about t’t working class, as I’m just having a laugh (and it’s about time someone said something).
First and foremost, I don’t ‘believe’ this next bit; I ‘know’. Knowing tops believing. Knowing is scissors, belief is paper.
Some people think that they are a human, and they’re here because of some crazy trillion to one accident in some bubbling primal soup quite a while back; it must have been a very clever accident. Isn’t bubbling Primal Soup in one of Delia’s books? Some think they are a body, and they are here to be punished by a wrathful God (some ought to be actually) for sinning when some mythical woman took an apple from a tree, encouraged by a snake. Whoever came up with that story and got so many to believe it should have been in marketing. Maybe they were? Some think they are a body, with a soul, having a hard time because of Karma (well, they will be Hitler in a former life, naughty, naughty people). That’s marketing too, but not as clever as the last guy or gal.
But a few know, that they (and everyone) are a powerful, powerful soul, with a body, here to create their life experiences, and have a good time doing so; which is my ‘knowing’. If you know that, you actually do things that would help preserve the world and not damage it. That’s not marketing, because no one is trying to sell anything. You only get the knowing though after not knowing (or good through bad, or right through wrong ... only labels), and then, somehow, you begin to remember; if you aren’t in the remembering process yet, I will sound ‘mad’, but, if I do, just think ... it is actually YOU who are mad.
Most don’t remember who or ‘what’ they really are though, and that’s why they believe what they do because their life seems thankless and harsh; and they may have talked to Granny on the way (or one of her family?). The problem with that is it tends to be planet wrecking. So, this is a ‘save the planet’ book; with a difference of course. If it offends you, cool; it may shake you awake, and, as Abraham Hicks say, “All is well, and life is meant, and was always meant, to be fun” ... (take no notice of the recent crap).
You’re going to hate the bit about the baby orang-utans (I really, really enjoyed writing that bit!)
And the bit about the cruelty to frogs and tadpoles (I LOVED writing that bit!)
***
You’ll never know how much fun I had writing this. It’s designed to be fairly offensive, and hopefully will take your mind of that living hell which is your life (I’m going off what appears to be the average person’s response to ‘life’ there). There is one reaction I cherish off some people. They say to me, when the conversation is the correct one; “I’m proud to be working class”. I can’t help but reply; “But, all the troubles in the world are caused, or more to the point, ‘enabled’ by the working class; those who actually do the physical acts, or the convincing acts, such as convincing their kids that they aren’t as good as they think they are, and not to get ideas above their station . The workers are the ‘yes’ men, especially if the persuader is money.”
They retort: “And who the hell do you think YOU are?”
Answer? ‘I’m a powerful soul with a body’.
Nuthouse! Meeeee maaawwwwwww meeeee maawwwww!
Would ‘you’ say this?
Years ago, when John Major was prime Minister, he invited a family to number 10, to greet their hero son who was back from a war somewhere. The lad’s mother who was in her sixties said, “Fancy a man like this inviting the Likes Of Us here.”
The Likes of Us! Can you believe someone from the working class would say that about themselves?
So really, I haven’t written anything I haven’t heard; or seen; it’s all real and happened.
One day, awhile back, there was a sight in the street where I live. Cars were parked everywhere, and there was a massive queue five deep which went around the block. It was quite a sight. And guess why?
Because the training centre close to where I live were holding interviews for factory jobs at an unheard of ‘nine quid an hour’, I’d never seen a queue anywhere near this one at the job centre. It was an unbelievable sight.
But:
I was told the other night by a compadre who read this for me, “You sound angry and pissed off for the first few pages, had you been talking to your mother?”
Well, no. If I’d have been doing that, this manuscript wouldn’t exist because I’d have smashed the computer up, plus the room, in my frustrated rage. I wasn’t angry or pissed off at any point, but I was trying my best to tell it as I see it, and did actually laugh malevolently in several places. I think what I say tells a truth, but most people don’t like to be told what they don’t want to hear (their sensitivity settings are very high)
Can you calm it down a bit? Perhaps you should say things in a different way?
My reply? But that wouldn’t feel as good and I wouldn’t have such a good laugh while writing it; and that goes for the first few angry sounding pages. I like my planet, and don’t like seeing it wrecked by a mass of stupid, weak individuals living in forgetfulness; and that’s that.
Eco systems don’t wreck themselves.
LOL!
In reality, when the working class come to realise that they have been specially bred and trained for a life of hard ‘proper’ Granny graft and empty headedness, and they must breed children who are their clones; who they do try and educate; but that’s liked banging your head against a brick wall. They will then be grateful for every minute spent inside a factory; it is their destiny; their dream accepted, and realised. So, be happy when you work, as ‘you’ chose it, and had a lot to celebrate when you realised you had landed the job, especially if you’d been unemployed for a while; remember?
Work isn’t therefore something to hate, loathe or regret in a time wasted fashion, or to waste time counting down until retirement, or holiday time, or break time or home time. Don’t be miserable at work. You have no need to dream about your ideal life, you’re already living it; it is your birthright.
You’re born. Nurtured for a few years. Go to school. Taught things. Then the concept of work is introduced. Then you’re told to get good exam results for a good job. Then you’re told you have to start thinking about getting a job, because you’ll have a house and have bills to pay; you might get married?
Then you leave school and job hunt. You land a job, you celebrate. You’re going to be an engineer, or a toolmaker, or work on the production line! Or, you’re going to be a ‘bored’ housewife, with kids. If you want to be a career girl, get a job on the till in Tesco’s or somewhere similar (that was told to me by a woman). You then grow to hate it, and all you can think about is holidays or retirement, or domestic chores i.e. quality time. Then you retire at say 65, or just carry on cleaning and cooking. Then some fade and die. Some end up in rest homes.
That’s it for the most, so why not be happy during the ‘conveyor belt’ process? It IS yours.
The alternative is strange. I was a photographer, and was told many, many times, ‘Why don’t you get a proper job?’
So there you go.
I was a guitar teacher. I got told the same thing, many times.
“I’m a guitar tutor”
“Oh. So you haven’t got a proper job then?”
Sometimes I was told that ‘I didn’t know I was born’. So what’s the truth with the working class? A life of misery is as good as it gets? If that’s the case, why not enjoy misery if it’s all you’re destined for?
Kathleen — 01:25 PM
Well my mum worked hard all her life and retired at my age (52), took ill after 6 months and died 18 months later. I don't intend to regret the time I didn't spend in the office! My mother’s mission was only just starting when she died, (to be a wife and a mother).
A mate of mine read a woman’s profile on a dating site. She was 63.
I’m 63. Retired (yeeeehaaaaaa!), kids have flown the nest. Now it’s time for me to live, live, live!
I added the yeeeee haaaaa!
How sad is that? Does that mean that kids are a hindrance and life is a misery?
Does that mean that proper jobs are crap, but Normal?
Another was, ‘I like to go pubbin n clubbin wi me maites, and live life to the full’.
(But she didn’t like work).
There are now seven billion people on the planet, and a section of those people are boring individuals who are always crowing about saving the planet; impossible when you have at least six billion ‘in denial’ a******s, who will believe any old poo-poo that’s told them; at a very conservative estimate.
But the thing is, the world ending isn’t what bothers people; what bothers people is ‘will it hurt’? Or, if it’s a flood of biblical proportions, will it ruin the carpets, because I’m still paying for them. There’s that horrible feeling you get when you’re running out of air, so, who the hell wants to drown or get eaten by a shark if and when the oceans rise? That’s the only problem with global warming.
It can’t be much fun getting melted by acid rain either? Or being caught in the blast of a very large bomb you just happened to be under because a couple of assholes couldn’t agree? (They happen to be, arm, responsibly leading the ones in denial). It’s called being ‘lost’.
Imagine the disappointment if you die during sex, but before the orgasm? Just after would be okay, but even so, having a heart attack when you’re still in orgasm mode. Imagine passing another soul on its way here:
THE PASSING SOULS
Returning soul: “Hello”.
Becoming soul (seems to be one with ‘attitude’): Hello. Hey, you ‘were’ meant to be my dad!”
R: “Oh sorry, have a good time (breathes sigh of relief ... sort of; no ‘body’ you see).
B: “I might get all messed up now and need a therapist. My dad died at my conception and my mother remarried her cousin who’s a lesbian, and I’m all messed up because of it etc. Wotevaaaaaa”.
R: “Well, if you get messed up, you’ll be in very good company, there are billions of messed up people on the earth; including your therapist. Good luck anyway. I’m going to immerse myself in my last memory experience for a couple of thousand years. Goodbye!”
The best way to die at the end of the world, or any other time, must be to get popped by an alien’s vaporisation gun or cannon; that’s sure to be pretty quick; unless that is, the bastards have it set to agonising slow mode.
Or, imagine standing there seeing a stream of lava coming towards you and knowing there’s no way out. That wait must be horrible. It must be similar to being taken to theatre in a hospital, knowing that some bastard or bitch is going to stick a needle in your arm, and ask you to count to ten, before you pass out and then get ripped open by some psycho surgeon ... and then, after being needled and wondering why the anaesthetist is smiling like Rose West, you ‘expect’ to pass out (it should be called, ‘pass out of control’); which is awful. Do you know what they ‘should’ do in hospitals to make that particular experience more pleasant? I’ll tell you.
If you can walk, they should let you lose in the grounds on a duck or frog spotting exercise by the chill out pond, and hunt you with a tranquiliser rifle but without telling you. They could even make the darts look like wasps, so that by the time you realise, you’ve gone to oblivion. If you’re stuck in bed, they should shoot you with the same from the other end of the ward, but while you’re listening to hospital radio or reading a good book.
If they say: “Well Mr/Mrs Johnstone, you’re going for your op now, and the good news is, as it is so beautifully red hot outside, they are short of playthings, ... sorry sorry, corpses, and actually have a spare fridge unit in the morgue for you; which is better than being bagged and then put in the car park. Plus! Your family are over the moon because a buyer for your lungs has been found on the internet! Just one question before the lights go out. Your wife wants to know if she should order an ice sculpture to poshen up the wake a little? She says it’s a brand new design from Don’t ‘Wake’ Up Ice Sculptures.com, which consists of a beautifully sculpted coffin and a detailed crowd, sculpted off actual photographs, stood by it, cheering and throwing ‘your’ money in the air.”
That isn’t good, ‘unless’ you were already considering suicide but couldn’t work out how.
Be very careful reader, because if you feel totally fed up with life, the Universe works in mysterious ways to grant your desires.
Nevertheless, YOU’RE ALL GONNA DIE! But, I thought I would have a go at saving the world anyway (what the fuck for, I do not know?), so that you don’t all pop your clogs at the same time.
I’m going to have the all important laugh too, and not forgetting, ‘offend’ as many people as possible.
The word offend is music to a writer, because it means, at least they read some of it, at ‘least’.
Imagine if you will, the end comes, and everyone dies except undertakers. They could do a body count:
“Ok, that’s the first thousand, that’s a new Porsche. Another four thousand, that’s a great house with a cinema room and a bar. Another, erm, nine hundred and ninety five, nine hundred and ninety six ... oh shit! I need another four for the executive swimming pool. I fucking hate small towns. I ‘knew’ this would happen one day. He gets his mobile out, rings a friend undertaker:
“Hello Jim. I’m four short for an exec swimming pool, do you have four spare. Yeah? Oh good ... swap for a bottle of embalming fluid? Ok, done! .... Yesssssssss!”
Here’s something worse:
Everyone dies except you, which can be inconvenient. You decide to go for a walk to think things over. If you’re like me, you’d pointlessly wait for the postman to come first.
Because your toilet won’t flush any more, you decide to have a pee on the street (you got fed up of waiting for the postman, who is obviously dead). What you forget or didn’t realise in the first place, is that the laws of the Universe are ‘see through’ i.e. they work all the time, but you don’t know they’re there, busily governing. The famous one, the Law of Attraction, which few believe, is similar to a fart i.e. you can’t see or feel it, but it can affect a whole room of people.
You begin to pee on the street, and then, because Sod’s Law is still in full swing (and is delighted to see you); someone walks around the corner, and goes past you without saying anything to you, but gives you a dirty glance. You are red faced of course, but what can happen. Even so, if you are a man, you put it away too quickly and your leg is now wet; I suppose the same goes for women? The next day you go to raid the corner shop, and the only news spare is from the passer by, who owns a local newspaper, and the report is, “Last man on earth on indecent exposure charge.” When you get home, the Court summons is waiting for you!
This little offering though isn’t ‘all’ about saving us from inevitable doom, and thrown in for good measure is some crap about toilet seats, abusing frogs, innovative medical key rings, the world’s lowliest bum, LS Lowry etc. It ends with an account of an idea which is really simple, yet a deadly weapon which causes terrible damage to the mind, inspired by a young lady called Liz Piffany.
She hates the system, so there’s a good chance she won’t sue me. If she does, I’ll refuse to pay maintenance for the 12 babies we had together; although I can’t remember a thing and I suspect they’re actually Jimmy Fantastic’s (one of her friends). The one thing that negates Jimmy as dad and could make me dad, is that they are all fairly attractive. I say fairly, because, well, I’m a bit of a stunner, but Liz? Hmmmm ...well ... she’s ... ‘ok’. One more thing before you die, make sure you hear Jimmy Fantastic perform with the Wrote Under group of entertainers, in the Adam and Eve, Digbeth, Birmingham. I tell you that because some people who have had near death experiences have been told by God himself, “Go back, go see Jimmy Fantastic perform, and then when your life is complete, come back, and tell the person on the gate why you’re late, and that I’m expecting you.”
See?!
***
SAVING THE WORLD?
People are always going on about saving the world (or its poor cousin, peace), but they don’t seem to ever have a good way of doing so. In fact, what does ‘save the world’ actually mean?
Does it mean save its life supporting qualities? Does it mean send all University students on free world cruises, and then sink the boats? (After they have paid the nine grand of course).
Does the term ‘world’ mean ‘earth’? But even then, when someone digs a garden, they dig ‘earth’, as in soil; so what about the brick bit? Or the water bit?
I don’t think people who want to save the world have actually thought it through properly i.e. they haven’t utilised pubs or takeaways properly.
Definition of ‘earth’, from the net:
“The globe or planet which we inhabit; the world, in distinction from the sun, moon or stars. Also, this world as the dwelling place of mortals, in distinction from the dwelling place of spirits.”
Well, that’s a load of old bollocks! If you can extend your mind an inch or so and see that each body is the transportation/experience device for a soul, or spirit.
Mundus, orbus terrarum ... Latin terms for world.
Therefore, if they hated the beginning of the week, Latin people from Latin-via would say, “Oh how I hate Mundusses.”
One ancient Latin songster, about the same time as Chaucer, actually wrote a song called “Tell me why I don’t like Mundusses?”
Then you have Tuesdus, Wednesdus, Thursdus, and Thank Deus it’s Fridus (lettuce get pissedus).
So, it’s a globe that is covered with soil and ice and water that orbits a sun. Humans don’t like it very much and enjoy kicking the shit out of it; the earth that is; but, at the same time, they’re scared of wrecking it ... Hmmmmm? (That’s complicated. Only a woman could sort that behavioural theorem out).
I would take it then that the term, ‘saving the world’ involves the sustaining of human life? After all, our bodies do come from the soil. Then, after we have finished with them, those left behind then do things to them to stop them going back to the soil? There’s a bit of twisted logic there for the women to sort out, again.
To live, humans need water, air, food ... so humans pollute their water, fill the air with shit, eat everything in sight, and then warm the place up until the all important ice cap begins to melt ... then they say, well, some of them who actually give a shit do anyway ...
“What can we do to save the icecaps? Protest? Form a group! Make banners? Chain yourself to a lamp-post? Blame the leaders!” ... Easy! The trouble is people get too complicated when trying to save stuff; they can’t even stop a group of verminous wankers killing fur seal pups for God’s sake. You need to get people to value something before they want to save it or have it, or keep it, or embrace it; otherwise, it means Jack Shit to them.
But don’t worry. DO NOT WORRY!
Don’t worry if you hear something about global warming on the news telling you about the icecaps melting. And DO NOT feel the need to go running to the DIY superstore to get sandbags to put around your door to keep the water off that HP carpet. DO NOT worry about not being able to get to work tomorrow because the water is in your car electrics (wouldn’t it be funny if you worked at a boat factory?). NO! DO NOT WORRY, because I, that’s ME, Frankie Lassut, has had a few sleepless nights on YOUR behalf, figuring a way to solve this particular problem. Here are my early morning inspired ‘answers’.
A SURE FIRE WAY TO STOP GLOBAL WARMING IN ITS TRACKS ‘AND’ SAVE THE ICECAPS.
NB:
I wrote this and then watched the marvellous frozen planet with the equally marvellous David Attenborough and the teams of marvellous cameramen etc. Polar bears live in the Arctic, whilst penguins live in the Antarctic.
If I make any errors, please forgive.
***
One day, God was bored, having created the heavens and the earth. He thought, what can I do now? She was hit with some self induced inspiration, and made a factory; a place where bosses, or ‘factors’ could create work for their employees. ‘Employees!’ Thought God, and immediately created the working class.
She put two and two together, and a marriage was made in purgatory.
***
Antarctic Penguin Soup
To get the common, hard up, hard working masses to ‘care’ and value, and cherish, hold, embrace and love the icecaps, simply build a factory on each suitably sized iceberg (there are many), and offer jobs at, let’s say, eight quid an hour (that’s about two dollars?). Remember though, if you wish to invest, you must first chop the icebergs top off, or chop it halfway up its exposed height to get a decent platform for the factory (its hard building on a point). And then you must anchor the iceberg to the sea bed to stop it floating off and getting hit by a luxury cruise liner, which may disturb things such as a world record attempt at domino toppling in the factory; it can get tedious you see, but if you were born for it, tedium is luxury. If this happened, you may end up with people with a lifelong phobic hatred of luxury cruise liners; and then what would they do if they went on Family Fortunes and won a cruise? (The workers could never afford one working for the cash). So anchor it down, or you may ruin someone’s ‘holiday of a lifetime’.
This series of Antarctic ‘and’ Arctic factories would certainly have the working class people from Britain clamouring for jobs, and, as their factory/home is on an icecap, they would then have a massive interest in stopping activity that promotes global warming. Funny really, they will take massive measures to stop the water coming through the floor, but half heartedly place buckets when it comes through the factory ceiling as rain, which they really don’t give a toss about.
Example: This is a factory offering one job at eight fifty an hour. The queue can start from either side of the factory you choose; that’s why I didn’t put noses on the queuing, hopeful worker. As you can see, the job is so precious and will pay for a holiday, Christmas, and t’t bills. The factory isn’t on fire or blowing up, it is shining with Divine light, be it a little grey with despondency. The winner, the ‘one’ who is chosen for the production line will be the one with the XF Factor.
The Xanadu Factory, factor.
What would the factory do?
Well, as ten a penny penguins like to sit on icebergs and hang round in the Antarctic, how about the manufacture of penguin soup? Think about it, all you would have to get your workers to do (assuming YOU want to be an industrialist?), would be to open the window, and stick a sprat on the windowsill. When the penguin came to get it, just grab it by the neck and clonk it over the head; simple.
I have watched Saturday Kitchen Live with James Martin loads of times, and like the part where they cook lobster, but also put the shell in the blender and make sauce from it. This in mind, wouldn’t it be good if the workers in your factory didn’t have to go to the trouble of actually plucking the penguins (those Emperor ones are pretty big, and at eight quid an hour, there is no time to waste), they could just shove them whole through a special blender?
Each factory could have a large sliding door (size dependent on the size of the iceberg), and behind these could stand three harpoon guns of different sizes. The small one could be for penguins, the middle sized one for seals or sharks or stuff of that size, and the large one, for passing whales? Maybe they could be designed the same as Hugh Jackman’s Vampire dart gun in Van Helsing?
Here though, we have to be clever and learn from past mistakes i.e. we don’t want to eat our way through all the penguin stocks, as they will be the most common foodstuff, for the working class of course, and the rest of the products will be treated as luxury Harrods’s style foods for those with taste and money. This in mind, there will be breeding factories for penguins i.e. battery penguins. This could prove difficult though, as penguins lay one egg each breeding season, so the common folk would probably see the entire species off in a week on their quest for brain building Omega 3 (I’m not convinced it actually works).
In preparation for nine or ten eggs laid each day, the penguins are being ‘test fed’ a mixture of chicken hormones, together with the hormones of a queen bee and a queen ant. That should do the trick, and then egg production will be so rapid that the laying penguins may need a Reiki specialist to heal their stretched and smarting fannies. The good bit? The male penguins are going to have a field day, so don’t be surprised if you see Frankie CocKozza from the X Factor buying a penguin suit for this mass gang bang. Well, he did say he would shag anything with a pulse. Mind you, after a hundred or two, how big will the letters be when he gets all their names on his back? Will it be a magnifying glass job?
It will be a bit repetitive though i.e. Penny Gwynne.
Meet Frankie, the happy willy
Just think. As the world ends and the people die en masse, there will be a maternity ward where Frankie is producing babies at such a rate, it will equal the number of people dying, so, no one will notice the drop in population, but just the rapid decline of adults, and loads of babies everywhere.
Don’t use a condom Frankie, the world will need you. If you’re tempted to up the Durex share price, become a Catholic! Just think of the child benefit payments! You’ll be a billionaire. Rock star? Naaaa. You’ll be too busy nappy changing.
Fancy me having the same name as a guy who made Russell Brand look celibate.
When the working class begin to save Australia, ostriches are going to have a real problem; Reiki may prove inadequate (and I think Frankie is too small to reach).
There will be another type of factory concerned with the barbaric force feeding the penguins ‘blended sprats’, in a paste form. This will give us penguin liver paté. The liverless bodies will then be thrown in the soup blender. Some of the paté will have truffles mixed in it, and be sold in Harrods’s, whereas the rest of it will have some tasteless mushrooms in it and be sold to the workers in mass supermarkets. Truffle penguin liver paté will not be for the likes of the workers.
Should a tin with truffle in it mistakenly land in the hands of a worker, the worker, and indeed the whole family may go into catatonic shock after actually ‘tasting’ some food meant for those with, erm, ‘lives’ and ‘money’(mass market food has no taste).
There is one luxury item here, possibly for the middle and upper classes at Christmas. Whole hatchling penguins, in a hand polished tin, filled with aged whisky, brandy, or port (that’s why the males will be fertilising them).
The only problem would be goods transportation to the supermarket, but, once again, easily solved.
A tube (not unlike one used on a vacuum cleaner, but larger) would be run from the ‘goods in’ part of say a British supermarket. This tube would run underground to the sea, then under the sea to ‘your’(?) iceberg. Then, a powerful suction would be put in it, and all you would have to do is get someone to put the can in your end, and it would whizz at high speed to the supermarket. Tests were carried out with orphan baby orang-utans from the Palm Oil plantations where their mothers were macheted because they are in the way of backward human forward progress, and the air was turned down a little when the tangs were getting their arms ripped from their sockets; and a can still in the tang’s grip was being received at the other end. It is surprising how quickly you can fill a bin bag with baby tang arms when undertaking such an experiment.
Tubes to exclusive shops for the ‘select’ people will be gold plastic of course, to distinguish them from the, what are fondly called; rabble tubes.
Joke:
My tang’s got no arms
Really, how does he swing?
He doesn’t, thanks to penguin soup.
But it has been found to be profitable when arms that were jammed in the tube at the iceberg factory, and retrieved, were put through the seal sausage machine instead of being incinerated. Some workers with hearts took pity on the armless tangs, and instead of condemning them to a life of misery, shoved them through the sausage machine too; headfirst, as feet first produced too much screaming. That’s cruelty? Not when it’s in competition with profit and jobs it isn’t; saving the world is a mere sideline.
If you do buy a tin of ‘Flavour Feature Leopard Seal hot dog sausages’ (if you have friends coming round) that contain orange fur? Scientists have found that it acts as brilliant roughage. So good it will be like shitting a fur ball or cleaning your teeth with a chewy toothbrush or having an intestinal pull through with a Christmas tree. It’s a bloody good job that these stupid looking animals are expendable.
There are also plans to harpoon passing ten a penny ‘common’ seals etc, and make them into ‘penguin soup’, because common seal is cheaper pound for pound than penguin. To be safe in your knowledge that your guests/family are getting the ‘real deal’, make sure the can has Penguin Soup, Made with REAL penguin, written on it. It is worth the extra few quid.
Personally, I live for the day that someone sells bags of ice cubes, made with REAL water. I shall fill my freezer with them, just ... because; well, then I can tell all my friends that my freezer is full of ice cubes made with ‘Real Water’ ... which do incidentally cost four times the price of the cheaper synthetic tap water, chemically laced ones.
Exclusive Arctic Products.
Polar Bear is also a very nice meat for the well off, and so, to enable you to fill your cans, a high powered rifle is also supplied with the harpoon guns. It may be quite a distance to the icecap ‘land’ from your iceberg, so this rifle will ensure an accurate head shot at the bear which should drop it in its tracks (they are dying anyway due to pollutants they pick up from their prey). It is then just a matter of turning the pressure on the large harpoon to max, ‘spearing’ the bear’s non struggling corpse, and pulling it to your factory. Polar bear meat is obviously pretty expensive, and the rarer it gets, the dearer it gets. So, to get into this lucrative market, a solution is being tested to enable iceberg factory owners to get in on the act.
The problem that requires this solution is this: polar bears are white-ish, so is snow; so they can be difficult to spot, especially if it’s snowing.
Hmmmmm.
After extensive tests, it has been decided to sprinkle the Arctic clouds with black ink, but an ink that has toxic additives that make polar bear fur resistant to it. Therefore the snow will go black, while the polar bear will remain white; hey presto! Easy to spot targets.
If Eskimos complain about this canning of their livelihoods so that the rich, uncommon people in Britain for instance, can enjoy it, they will be shot, a weight tied round their necks, and then thrown in the sea.