mousehands : ask philip

I don’t think you’re an apple… Okay, I do. My reasons are perhaps unique. After we fought that night, I watched you as you left. I won’t go into how much you hurt me or how much my heart was crushed, that would be cruel.

As you bounced away (that you travelled everywhere on a Space Hopper just made breaking up harder) you seemed to be leaking apple juice. It may have been urine, I realise that now, but for a long time the vision of you as an apple was all that kept the tears at bay.

Oh yeah, that… *sheepish look*

Did you ever get that working?

A is a monkey man, man monkey.

I’m not a doctor, but on advise from, wait for it, a doctor, it appears you suffer from a rare form of childhood trauma. Possibly related to having a favourite toy swallowed by a beastly lawn mower, or having a fridge crush a parent.

Once the cause of your eye-water is known, it can be stopped over a period of time, by slowly reducing the amount of savoury and confectionery goods you stuff into the visual mini-caves slapped on to the front of your bloated head.

After years of reductions, the final steps are bacon bits and Nerds, you can stop bloody stuffing things in your eyes, you freak!

Ahem.

There is where the birds sing a pretty song.
There is where the sun always shines.
There is where you’re always funny.
There is where love can be found.

While you’re visiting, pick me up a chicken, okay?

Have you ever noticed that I wear long sleeves at work? There is a reason for that. Every night, at exactly 10:27, I gouge huge holes out of my arms with dry beans and am rushed to the hospital by my trusty servants. By the next morning, the blood has dried and with copious amounts of drugs I can move up to seven of my fingers.

Soon, time is all I will have.

Without the full details of the abusive songs, I can’t really do anything to help. Get your local ombudsman to get a recording of their musical insults, and send it along with four tokens and a cheque for €5 to the usual address, and I shall make a full solution known then.

Bring on the ladies! Fact: The female humans (I am told, I’ve never met or seen one out outside of a “textbook”) are irresistibly attracted to the sweet scent of rotting, leaking hen’s eggs. Put on your glad rags, a fresh pair of open sandles, and let the women sniff you out.

That fish is a hussy, a tramp, a floozy and a no good painted Jezebel to boot!

However, if your cat has found its one true love in that tainted mollusc, I say let the two of them be. Let a smile be your umbrella, and let my people free.

Wedding plans are a difficult matter, and ones which should be discussed with your local haberdasher.