What's red and crawls up Mother's leg?

Was going to call this post ByePod HiPod, seeing as the fucking thing has broken and miraculously repaired itself twice since the last time I mentioned it. It'll probably continue this loop indefinitely until August 29th, at which point the warranty runs out, and it'll just explode, probably taking out my face with it.

Croak. CROAAAAAAAAAK. I sound a bit odd today. To be brutally honest, I sound like the unholy lovechild of Papa Lazarou, Darth Vadar and a 40 year old chainsmoking bullfrog. You know that advert for Strepsils with that little cartoon man, and every time he talks, it just makes engine revving sounds? Well, my voice is actually like that. When I say that, I don't just mean 'it's a bit croaky'. I mean that it does literally sound like an engine revving. Imagine a Hell's Angel driving his Harley up a 45 degree hill. Thats the sound that comes out of my mouth when I speak. Exhaust gases pour out of my throat when I sing tenor.
This interesting croakyness is probably somehow connected to the vast amounts of random yellow phlegm that keeps pouring into the back of my throat. This is probably the best symptom of my current condition, as every half hour I can have some long coughing fit and produce a great big hunk 'o gunk. I can then either re-swallow this, chew it for a bit appreciatively, spit it into my palm and poke it with my fingers while marvelling at its colour, size and texture, or just huck it off the side of a tall building and laugh as it hits a bald man wearing green overalls.

As you might be able to tell from the following paragraphs, I am ill. To be honest, if you were unable to figure that out, then you probably are too stupid to live and should go drink the yellow stuff under the kitchen sink. Go. Now. NOW!
That's right, my unassailably powerful immune system is having its yearly breakdown. Long-term readers of this blog might remember that it was nearly exactly a year ago that I threw up partially digested tuna-fish all over the toilets at school. Mmm, creamy. This just goes to prove my theory that, seeing as my white-blood cells are just the most awesome miniture fighting force this side of 2D, they have to take some time off once a year to allow the enemy to regroup and attack again. If they didn't do that, then there would be literally no germs left on the planet Earth. They would have all been drawn to my bloodstream and been plasmolysed into next week by my ninja-antibodies. There'd be no disease left. And then how would we get rid of all the hobos and weird-looking bald children? We'd have to do it the old fashioned way (pool cue to the back of the head).

So it's my theory that, in order to avoid all this unecessary bloodshed, my immune system just shuts down for a bit once a year. The antibodies all take some time off and go play golf in my colon, or smoke huge cugan cigars in my alveoli, or go skinny-dipping in my skin (HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHHAomgHAHahhahahahAHHAHAHHAH!H!H!H!H!!! LOL!!!!! HAHAHAHHA! BECAUSE IT'S SKIN AND THEY'RE [lmao]SKINNY DIPPING!!! LOLLERCOPTERS!11!!! ROLFF!!1HAHAHAHHA!!! YES I WENT THERE!!!112!). Perhaps they go to my bloodstream and laugh at all the red-blood cells as they go by.

"Hey, look at that dickhead."
"Yeah, he got no nucleus."
"And we're like fifty times bigger than him!"
"Hell yeah!"
*High five*

Whatever. It doesn't matter. It just means that all the hardass germs who think they can mess wit' me have a chance to pour into my body (because Christ, it's not like I wash my hands or anything. Hell, my chosen sporting activity has me slowly scraping the skin off my already hole-filled hands with a piece of rubber-covered wood soaking with water from the River Thames, the only river toxic enough to kill a whale in less than a weekend). These germs will cause a little havoc, mess with a few red blood cells, fuck up the mucus production for a bit. Because, after all, they're mean mofoing bacteria. None of this 'friendly bacteria' shit you get in adverts for Yakhult.
My white blood cells won't do anything, though. They'll just sit there, smoking their cigars, oiling up the bullets in their biological AK47s, watching everything and remembering everything. Then, in a few days, they'll decide that enough time has gone by, and they'll slowly stand up, stretch, do lots of cool clicky things to their guns, lace up their hiking boots, zip up their fleeces, then stoll into town. The result will be something like this:



Just check out all the cell death that's going on there. Actually, thinking about it, that diagram might be a bit complicated for people who didn't get A* on GCSE Biology (with 29/30 on the coursework), that is to say, genii like me. Here it is in a slightly more simplified form:


NAPALM'D!!!!

That picture isn't exactly accurate, I admit. The white blood cells would probably be screaming "YEEAH MUVAFUCKA!" or "WHOOPEE!" or "LETS GO SURFING!" or "RUN RUN RUN LIL PIGGY, AS FAR AS YOU CAN!" or "This is fun isn't it Timothy" or they'd be playing some Wagner or Mozart or Spice Girls or something as they blow away those pesky bacteriums. But I was somewhat lacking space in that picture and I feel that I'm pressing my luck on the whole 'speech bubble' thing already. And you don't know how hard it was to avoid having the bacteria saying "OMG RUN!!!". Hehe. I think that inanimate objects saying OMG is really funny, sue me.

But that's besides the point. The POINT is that, having bent all the bacteria in my system over a chair and viciously raped them, my immune system will be rejuvinated and ready to take on anything that the world has to throw at it.

Seriously, the first enemy bastard that thinks it's a good idea to enter my inner sanctum will rue the day it decided to mess with Thomas HW Phipps. And it doesn't matter how big or messy that disease is, my digestive system will take em all on and win. It'll see polio, machete its little spotty arse, then spit it out, bruised and bloody and incontinent. Flu? It'll kick it's fecken teeth in, before jumping up and down on its crotch and then beating it to death with the blunt end of a pillow. Smallpox won't stand a fucking chance, my white blood cell will castrate it with a pool ball before it gets past my epidermis. And if that twat typhoid comes near, well, fuck it, my immuno-system will pull out a towel, soak it with water, stuff it down typhoid's throat, leave it there for a few minutes, then wrench it back out, along with typhoid's stomach and gullet lining.
Who else wants some?
Oh shit, there's Veil's Disease. No, wait, panic over. My antibodies broke all its bones and punted it off a flyover.
Cholera? DRAGON PUNCHED backwards into a box of cheap chinese explosives.
Behind you, immuno system, it's branched-chain ketoaciduria! No, wait, you knew all along and you nailed it to the floor with nails made of splinters of branched-chain ketoaciduria's own TEEYH.
But wait, it's a double team of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease and rosai-dorfman disease! And they're both armed to the teeth with grenades and small asian people! What'll happen now? I think we all know. BLAM. PUNCH. POW. KAPOWERY. KICK'D! OH MY GOD, IMMUNE SYSTEM, YOU JUST SET FIRE TO BOTH OF THEM THEN HURLED THEM INTO A ROOM FULL OF ANGRY KILLER BEES COVERED IN PETROL!
WATCH OUT, IT'S CANCER, AND IT'S NOT EVEN SPREAD BY MICROBES BUT MY IMMUNE SYSTEM KICKED IT'S ARSE ANYWAY. NO TUMOUR FOR ME. Whoopee.

I could continue. But you now see how great my immuno-system is. It's just so incredibly powerful. I walk down the street and germs literally bounce off me to either side. When somebody sneezes at me, it's like that bit at the end of the Matrix. I just frown slightly and the germs stop a few inches from my face, apologise profusely, then turn round and give a pensioner pneumonia. I go out and have sex with HIV+ prostitutes, just so I can get infected and laugh heartily as the virus attempts to take over but is brutally ejected. You know what? I hope that birdflu DOES evolve and DOES make it to Britain. I feel that my system needs a TRUE challenge. And I'm pretty sure that I'll win. Everyone else will get ill and die cuz they're pussies, but I'll just stand there, hands on hips, and CACKLE. Then the only one left will be me, laughing away atop of a huge pile of corpses of people who didn't have as good an immuno system as me.

MWAHAHAH! I AM UNBEATABLE! I AM BARON SAMEDI! I AM BORIS FROM GOLDENEYE! I AM CHUCK NORRIS! I AM THE WALRUS! I AM THE EGGMAN! I AM THE CLAM! I AM THE LEEEZARD KING!!

*Coughs bitterly, spits out some phlegm, blows nose*

Incidentally, the answer to the title question is: A Homesick Abortion. Heh. I'd like to say that I'm sorry for that joke, but I'm really not.

If you're a newcomer to chainsawzombie.blogspot.com, read the previous post before even trying to decipher this one

... back? Now go and read as many of the comments as you can manage. At the time of writing, there are 154. By the time I'm finished with this blog, who knows? They start off pretty sensibly, but it all starts to go to hell at around the 95 mark, which proves my belief that humanity is essentially savage and, given enough time on our own, we're all going to dis-evolve down to our primitive savage monkey forms and throw poo at each other and listen to Crazytown and murder our captors, like in that book by HG Welles.

But I digress.

154 comments. 154. Wow. Woweee. I'm literally speechless. And I thought the way to get people to comment was to write clear, inciteful posts in which you get to the heart of certain social and moral issues in a way that is both thought-provoking and amusing. I had no IDEA that all you had to do was to write a load of random shit insulting various people, and then the entire bloody fan-club would swoop down like a pack of metaphorical harpies (or herpes, go wild) to support and argue their way through ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY FOUR COMMENTS. Note to self: Include pointlessly contentious issue in every post from now on.

So, those arabs, eh? With the tea-towels on their heads? Kerazy lil' fellas. I reckin we should just give 'em all the bombs they want. They'll soon get bored.

But I digress.

But seriously... ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY FOUR COMMENTS? WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU PEOPLE THINKING? Why does anybody care that much about the relative fatness of Lucia's sister? I mean, its not that we'll ever really know her true weight. It'd require a set of power-lifter strength scales and one of those huge industrial construction cranes to winch her onto them, and I'll be damned if I'm sorting out those. Let's just chalk the lardisitude of Ali as one of the great mysteries of life (Like the meaning of Stonehenge, or the average weight of a blue whale). Perhaps she's fat. Perhaps she's not. Let's just leave it at that. Although, Googlefight seems to agree with the theory that she is. I'm not saying anything, but that's just what the fight concludes, and I've never known the fight to be wrong before.

But I digress. Seriously, people, 154 comments? Why? And who gives a shit who could have won in the wussfight between Nat and Paul? The point is: they're both women. That was what I was trying to get across, ok? I mean, for Christ's sake, THEY WEAR PINK CLOTHES. Pink is a girl's colour. Wasn't it one of God's commandments when he came down from his bungalow on the Moon, back in the Bible? THOU SHALT EAT FISH FROM THE SEA AND THOU SHALT GROW CROPS FROM THE GROUND AND IF I SEE A BOY WEARING PINK CLOTHING, I'LL BE PISSED OFF AND WILL BE FORCED TO DO SOME RITEOUS SMITING. Come to think about it, immediately after Paul wore that pink tshirt on Saturday, the London Whale died. THANKS A LOT PAUL. Whalekiller.

But I digress.

I guess that I should be pleased that so many people in accordance with me with me about everything. It's not often that you have 154 people totally agreeing with you and validating your every word. Hey, I probably have a greater approval rating than President Bush!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(Blogdog: "OMG POLITICAL JOKE!!!!!1!!!!!1!!1!11")
Oh yeah, did I mention that, by commenting, you automatically agreed with everything I said? Perhaps I should have made that clear. By commenting, you automatically agree with everything I say, and you must love me as your father and God. You also owe me money. Sorry, that's just how it goes. Should have read the small print.

Except nobody obviously told this girl. Known only as Anon, she was obviously upset, both by my blog, and by the surgeon who stuffed his arm down her throat and ripped out her sense of humour with a ladle, and is probably riding the cotton pony, so she posted a very hurtful comment on my blog. I guess that she decided to take out all her stresses and insecurities about the world out on something, and I was the most attractive nearby person for her to focus her female attentions on. But hey, its ok, I can take it *sniff*. If she thinks that this is the worst tongue lashing I've recieved from a girl this week, well, then... boy oh boy. Here was the comment in question:

OK, Tom Philips, or whoever you are, whatever, I dont care. Now, you dont know me, and I dont know you, but what I do know from reading your blog is that you the most:
selfish, self congratulary , egotistic, arrogant, sexist, know it all, sad-loser-who-spends-a-substancial-time-blogging, pathetic, shallow, insulting PRAT I think I have ever been unfortunate enough to come across, why dont you just take some peoples advice and stop being a cock.
Have a good day,
Anon

(by the way, if you were wondering how I knew it was a girl... well, only a girl would count 'sexist' as being a bad thing. Everyone else - ie. sane people like me - sees sexism for what it is: an infinite source of comic potential. Alternatively, the anonymous commenter was Paul/Nat, or one of these touchy-feeling "new men" types. Which means that I'd still be technically within my rights to use the feminine pronoun... ba-zing)

Well, first things first: I'll give credit where credit's due - she was very polite at the end. I will have a good day, thank you. Also, most of her words were spelt correctly (with the right number of letters and EVERYTHING!!!!). Several words necessary for it to make complete sense are missing, but the ones that ARE present build up a very nice picture of what was running through her head, along with all the horses and pretty flowers and topless pictures of Prince William and all the other pointless crap that girls think about.

To be honest, I enjoyed this comment so much, I wanted to share it with ALL MY FRIENDS (read: action figures... I don't have any REAL friends, I scared them all off with my acid tongue and caustic wit). Anyay, I decided that I'd make a night of it. So I printed a load of cards, rented out the church hall, invited all my action figures round, made some punch and buns, dressed up in my most dapper tuxedo, then played Weak-ass Insult Bingo!



In case you were wondering, I won. This is because I'm amazing, and I win everything. But I digress.

I mean, you'd think that this comment would make me slightly annoyed (I mean, she didn't even get my name right, even though it has been written roughly 15,000 throughout the comments, and requires less effort to spell than "Philips"). But no. It has actually made me deliriously happy, for two important reasons.
Firstly, I thought that the art of good debating had died along with Stalin, but this girl's FABULOUS use of the 'ad hominem' argument structure has proven to me that this is anything but true. I also liked the interesting way she directly contradicted herself several times, and way that she failed to finish the first sentence... magic.
Secondly, this comment offers me some sense of security for the future. Because now I know that as long as there are there are brave people like Anon out there, I can be safe in the knowledge that when our Ant Overlords finally come down from Up-High to invade, crush and enslave us, there will ALWAYS be people willing to work in the sugar mines. Because, Christ, I was worried that there wouldn't be enough menial labour to go around when King Anthoteph strolled into town. You've managed to dispell that fear, baby. Thank you.

Ok, that's enough of that.

Honestly, how fucking stupid are you? It's like somebody tied a plank of wood to a doorstop, beat it with the stupid stick for an hour and a half, then kicked it down the Stairs of DUH into the University of Yokel where it took a Masters in NOT BEING VERY INTELLIGENT. Does nobody understand the basic concepts of irony, hyperbole or even SARCASM any more? I SAY THE WORD 'IRONIC' ROUGHLY THREE TIMES EVERY BLOG, JUST TO KNOCK IT INTO YOUR HEADS, AND YET STILL PEOPLE THINK THAT I'M BEING SERIOUS. WHY DO I EVEN BOTHER?
You know what? I give up. You're all a lost cause. In the future, I'm just going to fill this blog with racist jokes and reviews of William Shatner's teeth.

How many black people does it take to change a lightbulb?
Three, because they're really stupid.


I really like Will's teeth in this picture. You can see every nook and cranny of his big 'bugs bunny' gnashers. If he had a piece of spinach stuck in his teeth, I bet that you'd be able to see THAT, too! God that's hot. LOL.

Do you like that? Do you? Do you? Is that what you'd rather see? Racist jokes and Shatner's teeth? Because I can do that. Any time. So easily. That's what this blog is going to be like if you lot don't buck your ideas up. I mean it. Sigh. Ok, one more time. This picture was aimed at ANON, but I'm pretty sure that it could be fired at humanity in general, so pretend that 'fuck' has an s on the end and pluralise yourselves:



The Twin Towers? Oh yes I did go there. Cutting.

I hope that everybody noticed that I altered the shadows on the lettering, according to the relative distances from the "sun". That's an artistic touch that the little shit who drew this picure failed to include. Clammy palmed retard.

If you go to Tiffin, just don't bother reading this

Well, I was going to title this post HiPod, seeing as my iPod has mysteriously decided that it wants to return to life. Yes, that's right, no more unhappy face, just acre upon acre of quality musical vibes. It was going to be a happy post, making absolutely no insulting comments about anybody. However, that is a story for another day (and, possibly, never), seeing as I have to report back upon the party I just attended. Well, I say party. I mean shambles.

There are certain rules that one always must abide by in life. "Don't eat yellow snow" is one. "Never kick a sleeping bull in the testicles" is another. Possibly a third rule is "Never go to your ex-girlfriend's Birthday Party, no matter how many times you get invited". I was going to follow this rule myself, but then I realised that she still had my tent and I needed that sucka back to make a fort in the garden where I can smoke opium and listen to The Doors (no, not really, and it's better to just not imagine why she has my tent). Upon arrival at the house, all cranked up on acid and weed (read: blue porridge and apple juice), I found out that she hadn't bothered to get the tent out of the shed, and my primary mission for the evening had already been failed. I probably should have just cut my losses then and gone home to play three and a half solid hours of Resident Evil 4, but did I? Did I HECK. I'm made of sturdier stuff than that. No, instead, I wandered around, digging myself into a massive and seemingly bottomless hole with pretty much every female at the party.

The problem with girls at Tiffin School is that they have no sense of humour. I mean none. Well, I guess they probably laugh at jokes about Justin Timberlake or butterflies or pink things or something funny that happened to them at school at some point when I wasn't there or ponies or whatever the hell it is that humourically-retarded females laugh about during their slumber parties, but for some reason, they don't understand the simple concepts of irony. Or hyperbole.

EG: if I say "OH MY GOD, YOU'VE GOTTEN FAT, YOU UNHOLY WHORE OF BABYLON" to Steph (who does not go to Tiffin), she knows that I am being purposefully and playfully over-the-top in an attempt to teasingly play with gender stereotypes and the respective roles of males and females, with particular respect to taboo language and obesity in this increasingly PC culture. She doesn't take it as a literal comment, gasp, run off and tell all her friends, and then glower at me from the corner for the rest of the evening. This is because Steve is not stupid (just fat and ugly), and she has a sense of humour. Every other female at the party failed this very basic sense-of-humour test, which meant that after about twenty minutes, most of them wanted my dead. Well, I'm sorry if my sense of humour is too complicated for you, ladies, but you take everything far too fecken seriously. This meant that everything kind of exploded when Nat entered the scene.

As you all know, Nat is the guy who tried to steal my ex-girlfriend with a combination of MSN seduction and prolonged whingeing. For those of you who haven't met him, just imagine a scrawny 5ft2 jelly-baby, wearing a pink designer shirt, stupid gloves, an assortment of delightful bangles, £120 jeans specially aged by French monks, with an obsessively petulant whining streak a mile long, and probably a tear-stained teddybear called Mr Kiddlykissums whom he dresses up in an assortment of cute little sailor costumes in the middle of the night when the rest of his Halo Club have gone to bed. He's in love with my ex, and has the singular ability to NOT TAKE A HINT.
Anyway, about an hour after I arrived, he waltzed in like an infinitely less hard emo version of Dale Winton, to take on Paul, the second participant in tonight's comedy of errors.

How can I describe Paul? It's hard. Well, does anybody remember that episode of Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers when there was that really cool Power Ranger with the beamsword? The one with the healthy disrespect for females and the rules in general? The awesome tall Power Ranger with the amazing monster-slicing movez and the cool costume. Remember him?
Yeah, well, Paul is nothing like him.

Paul is an officious little prick whose level of over-niceness to girls is seen as sweetness and thoughfulness by the girl in question, and disturbing and annoying sucking-up by everyone else. He emotes. He is also roughly two feet tall. He wears pink jumpers, and in his spare time he enjoys writing wanky essays about basketball for the School Newspaper, baking cookies for his latest obsession, or wearing a leash and being walked around Norbiton. He's become best friends with Lucia, my ex, for reasons unbeknownst to everyone, and has apparently taken it as his solemn duty to keep her away from anybody who might be dangerous (people carrying sharp objects, those who talk slightly too loudly, anybody who isn't part of her cabal of female friends, and me).

I'm not sure why Nat and Paul decided to have a fight. Paul probably borrowed Nat's lipstick and didn't give it back, or something. Whatever.

Now you've met the two combatants, you can see why I found it so hilarious. It was literally the least manly fight EVER. It was like a battle between a pansy and a daisy to decide who gets to be the prettiest flower in the hanging basket. But everyone was dancing about sqealing as though fecken Martin Luthor-King himself had risen from the grave, fully roboticized with a wicked-awesome mecha suit (complete with missiles, a submachine gun, and some incendary grenades) , with the intention of defeating a fifty foot tall flame breathing skeletal dinosaur-king, Barray-Murteene, who was marauding through Norbiton, kidnapping damsels, stepping on cats, and raping teenagers.

Luckily, though, this powderkeg of explosive fighting power was defused without anybody being seriously hurt (But, seriously, the way that Paul was hiding behind two girls and hopping nervously from foot to foot... I swear, if he hadn't been held back he would have ripped poor Nat clean in two with his teeth). But it was a close thing. I helped to calm the situation by running around excitedly and cackling every time I saw Rocky (aka Nat), standing, fists (or as they are otherwise known, "The Duel Diplomats of Agony") clenched, smouldering in sexy rebellious energy.

After the situation was averted, Lucia failed to tell Gnat to fuck off, and was instead tried to talk him into calming down. This was a mistake, and pretty soon Nat was holding her hands and crying like a fecken woman. This in turn made her burst into to tears, which made me metaphorically stab myself in the left temple with a hypothetical pen-knife. While Nat was traumatising my ex-girlfriend with his own special brand of moronic whiny bullshit, Paul did the proper thing by running to hide in the house.

Then the SWAT Police arrived in a riot van, no doubt reasoning that the awesome battle of NatPaul had wasted half the neighbourhood and left hundreds dead. They looked pretty disappointed that the epic fight had been averted, and told everybody to stop hanging about outside. We were making the neighbourhood look scruffy. Well I wasn't, but there were a lot of ugly people at that party who would have made the monkey enclosure at London Zoo look scruffy, and it was a good idea to lock them inside the house, and possibly set fire to it.

This was the point that I made my primary mistake of the evening. Having been told by Lucia's totally thin and attractive sister to make everyone go back inside, I wandered about yelling at people until I came to the two high Witch-Queens of Lucia's Coven (her best friends, who are called Susan and Bez or Bex or Frank or some fucking stupid name like that). All of Lucia's friends hate me with a passion. I don't know why. I guess it's because I don't wear pink sweaters. The conversation went like so:

Me: Yeah, you have to go inside.
Bez or whatever the fuck her name is, I don't care: Why? I live here.
*She gestures to the house next door, which is where she apparently lives.*
My internal monologue: For fuck's sake. What I wouldn't give for a sledgehammer right now.
Me: Yeah, you live THERE. But this is MY TERRITORY, beeyatch. You gotta go inside. Whatserface, you know, uh, fat girl, sister... you know, her... she says go inside cuz of the police.
Bexyzzesxz: OMG YOU CALLED HER SISTER FAT!!!1111 !OMGFOMGOMGOM!111!!ONE!11! She's not FAT omg omg omg.
Me: Yeah whatever. Just go inside.

I can only imagine this female's internal monologue, but I guess that it went something like this: OMG HE CALLED HER FAT OMG WHAT A BASTARD! I'll GO AND TELL HER THAT HE SAID THAT! LOL!! Because that's what this situation needs... more stress!1!! I'm so smart! GO FEMALE LOGIC!

So, like, forty five minutes later, after I'd:

a: Hidden in the bathroom with some of the only sane people in the party to bitch about everybody else and to compare Lucia's sister to various large sea mammals in the Thames,
b: Tried to see if Lucia had stopped crying yet, but been repelled back by the combined hate-vibes of Lucia's bodyguard friends and Paul, self-elected King of the Lucia Fan Club. But I guess I can't complain. After all, he did go out with her for four months, having known her for an extra six first, whereas I'm just some creepy little guy who invited himself into the social group and attached myself to her like a limpet after meeting her three months ago and thus I have literally no right to say hello (Oh, the uncompromising levels of irony in that sentence would cause even the most steel coated superhero to implode!!)
c: Slowly fallen into a deep spiritual depression,

... I was sitting on the stairs with Cassie [Cassie is a sensible female, who looks like a short fat version of Joanna Dark], when Lucia's fat sister game barrelling down the stairs, in the kind of fury usually only seen in Greek Myths and The Shining.

Her: WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE?
Me: Sup.
Her: YOU CALLED ME FAT! YOU'RE FUCKING FAT! YOU'RE FATTER THAN ME!!
My internal monologue: Perhaps I should take off my shirt and show her my six pack to highlight the fact that she is, in fact, far more obsese than I am. I mean, I'd have to recline back on the stairs to get the best lighting conditions but... Uh, maybe not. I had better say something diplomatic.
Me: *Stifled giggle*
*At this point she grabbed me and tried to throw me down the stairs. And, you know, she's a big girl, she probably would have been able to. And then, if she'd tripped and fallen, I could have been crushed, killed, even. Luckily, her hands were slippery, no doubt from the huge jar of extra-fatty bacon fat she'd probably been eating before our big confrontation, and I managed to wiggle free.*
Her: GET OUT. GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU WITH A HATRED THAT BURNS INTO THE DEPTH OF MY ETERNAL FUCKING SOUL!
My Internal Monologue: Boy, she's really annoyed at me. Better not piss her off any more.
Me: *singing in a high soprano voice* You touch my sooooooooooooooul, baby!!! OH YEAH! Sing it to me!
At this point, she probably would have ripped off my face and eaten it (I guess she was still probably hungry), had Paul not entered the scene.
Paul: Right, everyone, go home. The police have been called again. So piss off. Especially you, Tom, I hate you.
Me: Can I PLEASE go and see if Lucia is alright, you officious little twerp?
Paul: No. Fuck off. I know what's best for her, and only I declare who may go and see her, and I do not count you as being worthy. Fuck off.

My memory of the conversation gets a bit hazy after I started singing to Lucia's sister, but I'm pretty sure that that's exactly what happened. Then everyone left the party, which was generally considered by all to be a roaring success by all the neighbours, seeing at it ended at like 1030 without anything being burnt down. It wasn't really considered a success by anybody else, least of all by Lucia's Sister, who has suffered the ultimate penalty: she can no longer count me as one of her close friends. I feel sorry for her, I really do.

The funniest thing about this entire situation is that her sister isn't even that fat. She's just a healthy size. However, as soon as she took that much offense to an untrue comment said in passing to someone else, I've decided to make it my life's mission to promote the "Lucia's sister is fat" message to the world. Because I'm obnoxious like that. But, if I'm going to be serious here, I don't see why she was so upset. It's not like I said it to her face. It's not like I said it as an insult. It's not even as though I meant it. And hey, at least I didn't make a picture and stick it on the internet, where it could be viewed by thousands of people, did I?



Whoops.

I do realise that, by writing this post, I have forever lost any invitation back to that house that I ever had, and I also will probably never see my tent again. God damnit, that's the last time I give a handy portable living space to a girlfriend.

(clam)