Memo from OooLaLa3
Heavenly Father,
For some time I have been experiencing difficulties with my neighbour, and events seem to be fast approaching a terrible conclusion. I fear that he may – and this is only a hunch – be in league with the devil.
Merde! C'est mon voison Jacques!
The problems began a year ago, Lord, when my old neighbours moved out. They had been repeatedly threatened by a surly child with a large bike, so they had to leave. Some months later they were replaced by a Frenchman named Jacques (above).
Jacques is a mime artist.
As is traditional in this part of the world, my wife Deborah and I waited for a few days whilst Jacques got settled into his new home before paying a social call to introduce ourselves and welcome him to our street.
In the few days since Jacques had moved in, he had made many unsettling changes to his home. The front door had been covered in what appeared to be the tanned skin of a fat child, and the letter box had been replaced with a circular saw. The skin veneer on the door muffled our knocks, so it was some time before Jacques answered the door, but eventually we attracted his attention by jabbing twigs into the “letterbox”, which caused the saw to leap into noisy life.
The door swung back to reveal our neighbour, naked except for a black fedora, white body paint, mime facepaint, and a homemade Fingermouse puppet on his gentleman’s area.
Fingermouse, Fingermouse The never stop to think a mouse. The always on the brink a mouse. Fingermouse, that's me. I am the mouse...
My wife and I both grew up in Wales, so this odd costume didn’t alarm us in the slightest. Jacques, however, did not say a word to us, and preferred instead to communicate with us through threatening gestures and growls. By adopting this method we finally communicated our welcome wishes to him, and with a shout and scream he closed the door in our face. He slammed the door so hard that a portion of the door veneer came loose, but Deborah had a stapler in her handbag so we were able to fix it back. I think it was a bit of the skin you find under a flabby arm.
Flobby arm skin is generally the least suitable skin for covering doors.
Although he was obviously eccentric, we were happy that we had introduced ourselves to Jacques and we felt like we had done the neighbourly thing. Jacques, however, appeared to think otherwise. In fact, our act of social kindness appeared to have angered him.
Firstly, a few days after our visit, I awoke one night to find Jacques sitting on my sleeping wife’s chest, carefully cutting a lock of her hair using an old vinyl BeeGees record. On seeing me he growled, leapt off the bed, through the bedroom door and – quick as a flash – he was out the front door. The only evidence that he had been there was my wife’s distorted fringe, and a small grey mouse puppet.
Obviously I was shocked and a little upset but, once my wife had fully woken up, she was content to accept that it was just “the French way”, and to complain about him might be to throw his friendship back in his face.
The French way...
Things were quiet for a week or two, with nothing to report except the occasional scream from next door and some frenzied chanting on Wednesday evenings. Then my wife started to act weirdly as well.
Firstly, one morning I came downstairs to find her eating cornflakes. This was very strange, as she was strictly a coco-pops woman, in fact that was one of the main reasons I married her. I could never find cornflake-eaters attractive.
Recent surveys by top dating sites have shown that ladies who eat cornflakes are generally sluts and whores, and that girls who eat cocopops are generally charming and elegant like Sue Barker and Cher.
Worse still was her sudden tendency to talk in her sleep. In the middle of the night she would occasionally awake, grab me by the throat and scream “Crunch, crunch, crunch little boneys… crunch, crunch, crunch”, before rolling over to sleep again. I initially blamed it on too much cheese, but it persisted even on nights where she had merely enjoyed a few thin slices of brie.
When I thought it couldn’t get more strange, she then started to sleepwalk at night, climbing down the stairs and disappearing next door. She would come back a few hours later with shiny, glazed eyes, and smelling faintly of musk and sulphur.
Finally, Lord, things reached crisis point when I was working in the garden one morning to dig over my vegetable patch.
As I was digging, Jacques leapt over the fence into the patch. Trying to keep my polite neighbourly attitude, I said “morning” but he merely glared at me and hooted. Then he turned and mimed opening a door in the fence.
There was a flash of light behind the fence and suddenly, out of nowhere, a huge snake began to emerge from the from the recently Cuprinoled woodworm.
Honestly, really, truthfully... what did this bloke expect to happen?
It regarded me with narrow, evil eyes as I continued to poke the ground with the spade, trying hard to avoid looking at the snake. However, the less I watched it, the more it grew and grew until finally, when it was the size of a man, it began to drool. At this point Jacques, who I now thought was being very rude, jumped onto the snake’s back and began to howl with delight.
Of course I was shocked and stunned by this turn of events, but it got worse. My wife, with a bowl of cornflakes in her hand and wearing Winnie the pooh pyjamas, suddenly strode down the garden and over to the snake. As I stood watching she began to pour cornflakes over it’s glowing scales and then lick them off with noisy delight. Hanging off the snake, hissing like a drunken anteater, glared Jacques, and the three of them together laughed at me with a horrendous sound. Deborah crunching and chuckling, the snake hissing, and Jacques sneering and hooting in the background.
It was then I decided that things were out of hand, and thus I decided to send You this memo. Essentially, Lord, how does one exorcise a mime artist; a giant snake and a cornflake obsessed woman? I shall await Your reply.
Regards,
