Can I bury you alive?


I know that might seem like a very strange request, but let me tell you why…

You see it all started in the summer of ’99. I was younger back then, so I wasn’t as old as I am now. You got that?

Anyway, so I’m on the beach and I see these two guys in black hoddies carrying a big plastic bag. They also have a couple of shovels, so they start digging a hole. I think they’re building a sandcastle so I go over and start helping them dig their hole.

They seem like nice guys, and tell me that they’ve got buckets and stuff in the bag. We keep digging the hole, and it gets so big that I can stand up in it.

Then they throw the bag of buckets down into the hole. So I open it and look inside, one of the guys tried to stop me, but I had already seen what was inside.

I ran away and haven’t told anyone what was inside the bag.

Well, that’s the story. What do you think? Can I bury you alive?

When were you born?


I’m not surprised when people dismiss what I say. It happens every single day. What I say is so absurd that people probably think I’ve escaped from the local mental institution.

Recently I have been telling people that I was born in eighteen-eighty-four.

However, people don’t seem to notice that this good-looking guy in his twenties is apparently 130 years old. Surely they aren’t grasping the importance of what I just said.

It could mean any number of things that are very important!

I may have met The Doctor, who transported me in time forward to this date. Maybe I’m a vampire that wants to suck your blood. I could have immortality. I might have the best anti-ageing cream ever. I could be Superman, or have a watch that adds years to my life.

On a side note, please don’t tell them I’ve escaped.

Can I have a chocolate milkshake?


You would’ve have thought ordering a milkshake would be simple, but I am sad to report that it is not, as I found out on the weekend.

I was at this fancy cafe place on the weekend and I ordered a simple chocolate milkshake. A pretty simple request I thought. The menu did say various milkshakes.

But then the waiter asks “What would you like in your milkshake sir?”

What? Does he not know what’s in a chocolate milkshake? So I give him a quizzical look.

He does the same.

Obviously he doesn’t know what to put in a milkshake. The only problem is neither do I. So what do I do? I panic! I start blurting out random items that sound seemingly like ingredients.

“Horse radish, a hint of mint, a pinch of salt, some ground chilli, and some tree chilli, a dash of lemon juice, a sprinkle of sparkling water and a garnish of garlic.”

Don’t ever ask me what to put in a milkshake! I don’t know!

But I must say that this one wasn’t bad.

Am I going to die?


You might think a call from a telemarketer is the worst thing that could happen. But I see it as an opportunity, an opportunity to mess with their minds.

The job of a telemarketer is to call you at inappropriate times and talk in an Indian accent. And this normally makes most people despise them. But I play a game with them. I try to get them to hang up first.

A few years ago that was easy. I would just wait while they talked, they have a lot to say, but they don’t always ask the right questions. You see I need to be over 18 for them to sell me anything. So I would wait and listen, and after 15 minutes (sometimes more) they would ask if I was over 18. I would say no, and they would hang-up. Too easy.

But now that I’m older I can’t use that trick anymore. So I made a new one.

Recently I have had three or four calls from telemarketers trying to sell me funeral insurance. And that gave me an idea. If they’re trying to sell me funeral insurance, they’re telling me I’m going to die!

So I ask, “Am I going to die?” And they hang-up.

Did I break it?


Hi miniature human. What are you doing here? You’re just lying there, in the middle of the living room. I came here for lunch, are we going to eat you?

You don’t talk much do you? I like your smile, it makes you look very cute. But because you have short hair I think you’re a boy, which means you probably don’t like being called cute.

You smell a bit. It’s probably your manly body odour. But I must say that it smells vaguely like something else. It’s also getting rather strong. I hope you don’t smell like this all the time.

Sorry. Don’t cry. Look, you don’t smell that bad. Please stop crying. I didn’t mean it, you smell very manly. Don’t get depressed. There are these things called showers and baths. We can get you smelling like a man in no time. Please stop crying.

“Thanks for watching her for a minute. Does she need a change?”