101 Handy Useful Household Things To Make With Cornflakes

 

Don’t be daft, why would I do a post about 101 Handy Useful Household Things To Make With Cornflakes when you can’t make ANYTHING useful with cornflakes, they’re too flakey? That’s why they’re called CornFLAKES. If they weren’t too flakey they’d be called CornLUMPS.

I like eating Cornflakes at night. When I tell people I like eating Cornflakes at night they go, “UURR, that’s WRONG – cereal is for BREAKFAST.”

Says who?

Idiots, that’s who. They’re the type of people who have never experienced the delight, the joy, the sheer and utter RAPTURE of emptying a box of Cornflakes out onto the kitchen floor and DANCING IN THEM UNTIL THE CRUNCH HAS STOPPED.

They’re the type of people who would never consider THE HILARIOUS TRICKS you can play with Cornflakes, like stuffing a big handful down the back of your brother’s pants while he’s in the kitchen pouring his new girlfriend a glass of Diet Coke, or stuffing them down your colleague’s carefully sculpted cleavage as she’s running out of the room to make it to her promotion interview. Or putting some in your Granny’s cup of tea so that when she’s tipping her head back to drain the dregs THE SOGGY CORNFLAKES FALL ONTO HER FACE and make her scream and throw the cup at your mother. (When they get wise to the Cornflakes in the tea trick and start hiding the Cornflakes, use a chunk of Steak and Kidney Pie instead- it’s heavier than Cornflakes so it hits the face sooner, usually well before half the tea is drunk so you get to see THE MOUTHFUL OF LUMPY TEA SPLUTTERED ALL OVER THE PLACE and A FUNNY LITTLE DANCE WHEN THE STEAK AND KIDNEY PIE FALLS ONTO THEIR LAP). NB. It might be a good idea to learn how to do the Heimlich manoeuvre or you’ll get all the blame if a choking situation goes wrong. 

They’re the type of people who will never put on a production of CORNFLAKE HEDDA GABLER.

They’re the type of people who have never seen JESUS in a Cornflake.

They’re the type of people who have never seen ABADDON THE DESTROYER, THE ANGEL OF THE BOTTOMLESS PIT in a Cornflake.

They’re the type of people who have never asked a Cornflake ‘HOW ARE YOU FEELING TODAY?’

They’re the type of people who PUT SUGAR ON THEIR CORNFLAKES WHEN THEY EAT THEM IN THE MORNING and also PUT SUGAR ON THEIR PORRIDGE if they have porridge instead of Cornflakes. In the morning.

SUGAR ON PORRIDGE IS DISGUSTING AND NASTY.

SALT goes on porridge. SALT. Nothing else.

They’re the type of people who NEVER have WORDY BLOCK, and if they ever DID have WORDY BLOCK they wouldn’t know how to try and bulldoze their way out of it with a shitey post about CORNFLAKES.

 

465 words. I need to do 500 or I can’t have my Cumberland sausages which are PROPER BREAKFAST FOOD, not SNACK FOOD FOR NIGHT-TIME which is what Cornflakes are.

 

HALLE-FUCKING-LUJAH!

500 WORDS.

BOSH!

 

 

The Hidden Horrific Horror Of Hermititis

 

There are some things in this world a woman should never have to see and her own fat arse is one of them. I saw mine. In a mirror, two mirrors to be precise – not because my arse NEEDS two mirrors to be seen (it’s fat but not THAT fat) but because with two mirrors you can do that looking-back thing to see what everyone else sees and I wanted to see what my new combat pants look like (the internet sent them) so I rang Lottie to tell her to bring round the mirrors.

Eight panic attacks (severe enough for two heart attack scares) later and I realised I should have just stayed curious.

Listen to me, She-Hermits – Hermititis is BAD FOR THE ARSE. Very bad. If you’re in the early stages and you’re still able to go out of the house, GET IT SORTED OUT NOW before it gets any worse or your arse will spread like a fucking HUGE blancmange and after a few years it will SUFFOCATE YOU IN YOUR SLEEP. I’m about a year away from having to have scaffolding erected to hold the fucker up when I walk.

And that’s what’s done it, not WALKING. I used to walk all over the place, I loved walking, but now I can only walk round the house so many times before I’m LITERALLY bouncing off the walls with boredom – walk, walk, walk, walk, BOING, walk, walk, walk, walk, BOING, walk, walk, walk, walk, BOING.

So I’ve made a decision (HALLELUJAH!) and what I’ve decided is that from tomorrow I’m putting my arse ON A DIET.

This is my diet (below)

 

DOTTY’S FUCKING FAT ARSE DIET.

No more McCain’s Chippy Chips

No more Hobnobs (when I’ve scranned the two packets in the cupboard)

No more Double Gloucester cheese (which is FUCKING LOVELY when grated over a plateful of McCains’s Chippy Chips and thick Bisto gravy (beefy).

No more Goodfella’s Thin And Crispy Twelve Cheeses Pizza (AHA! Betcha didn’t expect me to eat Italian cuisine – I do have SOME secrets I don’t tell you all (y’all)).

 

I think that’s it.

 

As for exercise, I haven’t been able to do my own invention exercise (which you can find HERE – CLICK IT CLICK IT) because I can’t hear the Jaws music properly so I can’t tell when Jaws is circling close to my table. So I looked up arse exercises on the internet and found some that I’ll have a go at, but one I WON’T BE DOING is the one where you have to get down on all fours and cock your leg like a dog pissing on a lamp post. I might have a fat arse but I still have my DIGNITY.

 

I’ll let you know how it goes.

 

 

I Am About To Die If I Don’t Eat The Bunny-Wabbit Pie

 

Pies. What do you think of them? Do you eat them? I NEVER eat pies and right now I’m very close to having a vomiting panic attack because little Emily will be here soon and she’s bringing me a pie. She went home this morning to bake it for me. It’s a rabbit pie. Full of rabbits. Cute furry hoppy floppy bunny-wabbits. She TRAPS them up on the moors and WRINGS THEIR NECKS and DECAPITATES and SKINS and GUTS and BONES them and then she CHOPS THE MEAT and puts it inside THE PIE SHE HAS MADE FOR ME.

Oh.

Oooh.

What do I do?

 

I ate the posset she made a few weeks ago and it made me violently sick because what I think of as a posset isn’t a pudding, it’s the term used for BABY SICK. So I was eating the pudding posset, which was white, and trying to batter away thoughts of BABY SICK, which is also white, when I was sick. Terribly sick.

 

NBI’m not apologising for the above paragraph, even if you were scranning your dinner and it put you off, because I WANT YOU TO FEEL MY PAIN AND MY PANIC AND MY QUEASY DISGUST AT THE THOUGHT OF EATING THIS WABBIT PIE that is due to arrive here very, very soon. Any complaints about being put off your dinner should be sent to David Cameron, 10 Downing Street, London, England. Tell him Dotty did it and he’ll have a word with me when we next meet up for one of our regular shin-kicking fights.

(That’s a big lie I’ve just told you because how can I go to shin-kicking fights when I CAN’T GO OUT. Fool. Just write to David and he’ll write me a formidable note telling me not to do it again).

 

If I don’t eat this wabbit pie little Emily will be offended and quite possibly angry. I don’t want to make her angry, not that I think she’d punch me to the floor or use other physical violence on me, she only does that to HELP me (she said), but there’s one important fact I can’t get out of my head and it’s that little Emily is an AUTHOR. And what do authors know about? I’ll tell you what they know about – they know about POISONING. She has a POISONER’S HANDBOOK. I’ve seen it. It’s twice the thickness of my own POISONER’S HANDBOOK (I am not an author (god forbid), I’m a COLLECTOR) and will, I presume, contain poison recipes that use PLANTS TO BE FOUND ON THE MOORS – where little Emily walks every day. And if she fails to find what she wants all she has to do is get Branwell to get it for her. And if Branwell is having one his fugue days she can just dawdle down to the Apothecary and buy it there.

 

 

IF I DON’T EAT THE WABBIT PIE I WILL DIE IN HORRENDOUS WRITHING AGONY, POISONED BY AN AUTHOR WHO KNOWS ALL ABOUT POISONS.

You should know where my will is by now.

JUDITH! GRUMPY! You both know where it is, don’t you?

I’m not exaggerating here, I WILL die if I don’t eat the wabbit pie, no doubt about it.

I need a speedy plan but I can’t think of one.

 

Oh.

 

I need my brick. Where did I put it?

 

 

 

bangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbang

bangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbang

ouch

 

 

 

Right, I can think a bit clearer now.

I need a list –

WAYS TO AVOID EATING THE POISONED WABBIT PIE

1

2

 

 

Oh.

 

I know, I could get her pissed – I’ve still got some Horehound & Wormwood Tonic Beer left from a couple of years ago when I made some to try it (Gypsy Petulengro’s recipe book p26). It was strong then, it’ll be stronger now.

But she doesn’t drink. AAAAHHHH – she’s here!

She’s here and the fucking plate is MASSIVE.

And it STINKS. It smells like — I don’t know what it smells like, I’ve never smelt anything like it before so I can’t think of an appropriate analogy to convey the FUCKING FOUL RANKNESS of it.

 

Pity poor Dotty.

Pity me, please.

 

Dotty Headbanger, Star Of The Dark Satanic Screen

 

Sometimes I feel like I’m in a film of a tragic, desperate character who goes through a lifetime of SHITE only to die a horrible death at the end. Except I can’t act. And I don’t know who’s directing the film, maybe Nurse Ratched who I always thought was NURSE RATCHETT until 2 minutes ago when I checked I was spelling her name properly – unless everyone else is spelling it wrong and I’m right which is more than likely the case; it happened to Galileo, it could easily happen to me.

So NURSE RATCHETT is the Director, I’m Dotty, the unfortunate main character (who we in the acting world like to call the unfortunate MC), the Producer is a CARTESIAN EVIL DEMON named Clive (do you see what I did there with the name?) and the people in the camera crew are THE SPYING, PRYING EYES OF HUMANITY.

The film I’m in isn’t The Truman Show (which, as we all know, is not a film, it’s a documentary). It’s not Lassie – the last time I looked I wasn’t a dog (actually, that’s not true – after 3 nights with no sleep I admit it, I look a right fucking dog at this moment in time). It’s not any of The Matrix films either because okay I might be having psychotic delusions but they don’t include alterations to the laws of gravity and I KNOW Keanu Reeves can’t run up walls and move at speed x 100 because if he could he’d have done it in The Lake House to get to the letter box on time.

The set is grim (it’s grim up north – which reminds me, did you see that t-shirt with THE YORKSHIRE RIPPER on it? VERY BAD TASTE, A HORRIBLE WAY TO MAKE MONEY, YOU VULTURES – I HOPE YOUR BUSINESS GOES BUST AND YOU GO BANKRUPT AND STARVE).

Yes, the set is grim, filled with all things DARK and SATANIC. The camera pans out across the moody moors and lingers on a carrion crow feeding on the carcass of a dead ewe. The crow caws, a sound that chills the soul, viler than the screeches of BANSHEES ON HEAT. Heathcliff strides over and bats the crow away with his hairy, manly fist. He turns and looks at the camera, his broody, lowered eyebrows meeting in the middle. Little Emily runs up behind him, her skirts muddy and wet. In her inky hand she holds a feather – ‘GET BACK IN MY PEN, HEATHCLIFF, OR I’LL KILL YOU OFF ON PAGE ONE’ – and she stabs him in the neck and he disappears. And so do I.

The End.

 

 

Come Back Runaways And All Will Be Forgiven

WHERE THE FUCK HAVE MY TWO ABSCONDING FOLLOWERS GONE?

I got one new one today which should have taken the total to 81 (or 80 if you don’t include me) but TWO OTHERS RAN AWAY FROM ME. Why would they do that? I’m not horrible to you all, am I? I don’t hit you with big sticks, do I? I don’t make you do dances for me (though I have thought of asking), nor do I make you wash the dishes or make my bed or cook my Cumberland sausages. So WHY would TWO OF YOU run away?

Have they eloped? Good luck to them if they have, but COULDN’T THEY HAVE LEFT ME A NOTE? What have I done to make them reject me so publically and so cruelly? Don’t they have hearts? Don’t they know what rejection DOES to a SHE-HERMIT? 

I’ll give them till tonight to come back and BEG FORGIVENESS. If they haven’t returned by 10.oopm that’s it, they’re on their own, I don’t care what trouble they get themselves into – they’ll have made their choice, they’ll have to live with it. And I’ll disinherit them. I’ll cut them out of my will and out of my LIFE. And I’ll give all their clothes to the charity shop. And I’ll write all over their shoes with a BLACK MARKER PEN. And I’ll sell their computers on Ebay and KEEP THE MONEY.

10.pm. That’s your deadline, traitors.

 

 

EDIT EDIT EDIT — A KIND WORD FROM ME TO YOU

You are all like my children, innocent and needy, and I AM AFRAID FOR YOU when you venture out into the big wide WordPress alone. Come back, Child, and other Child, and I’ll make you a nice cup of HOT CHOCOLATE and give you a HOBNOB to dunk in it.

 

ANOTHER EDIT —

PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE COME BACK. I NEED YOU. I MISS YOU. I LOVE YOU. I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT YOU.

 

 

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