The Man Who Had Balls On His Head

James Ballsalloverhead was a shy, retiring gentleman. Often found by those who like to observe strangers settled in their dwellings to be combing back the thick mass of one hundred or so balls from the forefront of his ample sized head.

It became apparent to James early in the 1950's when he was but two-and-ten years of age that he was no regular child. Indeed James situated in a crowd of youths his own age was like observing a bespectacled-red-headed child achieving the response of his club-wielding peers after remarking facetiously on the pleasures easily gained from the not-so-unlike-a-prostitute career of the gang leader’s mother.

A pained recollection, scars of diffidence, a huge loss of self-esteem and a MK-13 military machine gun were all that were at James’ disposal as he turned eighteen years of age and stared blankly at the clouding grey sky as the “Ha Ha Balls-on-head!” set sail for Pakistan.

After serving twenty years in the Pakistanley army fighting Batfink and Toejam (from the Sega Mega Drive’s “Toejam and Earl” computer game series) and their respective resilient armies. James flew back to England with every intention of living as quiet and reserved a life as possible. Ironically with his huge collection of sperm producing organs James could not indeed fertilise even the most tender of eggs. That placed aside his obvious unattractiveness left him single and friendless.

Moreover James had already been disfigured beyond his natural form when in his early teens, a fellow student freely exercising his youthful capacity, began to swing on one of James’ larger more protruding balls in a heavily oscillating maneuver, rendering James hospitalized for several months. After being discharged from the medical facility light on pride and minus the violated organ James swore revenge… that was until another incident occurred in which a sprouting, joyful youth, in his eagerness to impress his friends, attacked James with a baseball bat. This attack was far from what James was used to experiencing however. The youth swung the bat at every ball he could find on James’ head. As soon as one ball had been harshly batted aside the next one in sight would be struck upon by a fearsome forward jab. As the former ball commenced the latter part of its pendulum, the seething youth would administer a sideways thrust kick to it, thus buying himself enough time to scatter aside the already bruised and oozing testicles behind the swinging ball and find a fresh field for his wrath. The attack probably only endured the first half of a minute, but as James lay heavily sedated in the emergency ward, it was plain to see that half a minute was more than enough.

Several more attacks occurred at James’ expense and as he sat restlessly in his economy class seat on the Boeing 747 his mind played games relentlessly drifting back to these nightmares until a concerned medical team at Heathrow airport awaked him. After convincing the team and meddlesome onlookers that he was fine, he purchased some refreshments from a neighboring store and went about his search for his new property. It did not take long to find. The quaint yet shadowy bungalow that stood before him had an initial air of mystery about it, which was enough to deter his thoughts for a better-than-usual nights sleep.

After the first night in his new abode James began upon a spiritual journey. This sudden trek pushed him above and beyond any feeling he had ever experienced before. By the third year of his retreat James had become accustomed to a nightly ritual of intense meditation and by his seventh year James was immune to his past… and for the first time in his life he had found friends at the highly suited “People Who Smell of Wee” cult society who had approached James in the high street and inspired him to join their elite group. The society was nothing but extraordinary to James. They gave him attention, they gave him a social outlet, but more importantly than the aforementioned, they brought to him a companion never before introduced to him. Hope.

It was a clear night when it happened. As James strolled the smooth yet surprisingly bouncy tarmac sidewalk homeward after a gay night at the club’s occasional lodgings, he breathed in the fresh air and felt at peace. He could not describe his exuberance at that present moment. It was beyond words and not the cheesy beyond words that everybody says and nobody means much like the case of the selfish, obese, infertile auntie at the birth of her sister’s third child. No, this was true heaven. James was fully aware of his past but had built a watertight barrier against it and much like a niggardly old proprietor may bequeath his wealthy estate to his next of kin, only to bury all that is valuable deep below the average gardeners request. James’ conscience may pass by his bulging secrets once in a while, maybe even tread ever so delicately upon them, but the need to open the door and reveal the past will never be warranted. The larynx in James’ inner thoughts screaming for revenge had become long subdued and finally veiled. However even the wildest of psycho-analysts were risking heavy suspension to theorise that Darren Pugh the architect extraordinaire had been wandering his head for far too long not to notice the muffled voices… and now he was coming to excavate.

James felt the blow as if it came from behind and struck him on the side of the neck, just below his right ear. However in actual fact the masked assailant delivered his first blow to the thoracic section of the vertebral column and such a blow it was that James fell instantly to the ground. He was going to stretch out his arms to break the fall but his brain wouldn’t allow his muscles to extend. Luckily unconsciousness substituted.

It was the year nineteen and ninety-four when consciousness greeted James with a severe migraine. Luckily it passed within five days and James was able to get out of bed to some weak applause offered by the staff. It was nine years he discovered. The coma that is. Nine years lost. He peered weakly into the full-size mirror shown to him by the trainee nurse and there before him stood an inverse image of a fifty-five year old monstrosity. In spite of the world’s callous and criminal attempts to shorten his conscious life James was as astonished as humanly possible under his drug-induced state, to find that his memory was still clear. Admittedly, trifles and minor details had vanished, and it did seem some time, maybe prior to the nurse’s medical statement James would have conjectured a rough estimate of three months since he was last active. But nine years! Surely not!

He could still remember that night as clear as the sky was when his eyes blinked from the horizon to sheer blackness. He could still feel the sickening thud that took him by surprise just below his right ear. As he stared vacantly into the mirror, his sallow, bony arm weakly crept up to the ear and then flumped underneath to his clavicle. The nurse viewed with great pity as James’ fingers wandered aimlessly the outskirts of the organ until they finally pressed gently against the right side of his neck. It was then when James muttered his first words since he told Harry at the club back home to fare well.

“I’d like to see my head now.”

Amidst the top of his ears the rest of James’ cranium was covered in bandages.

“Why James!” the nurse cried “You seem to have balls all over your head”

“And there are some growing on your face too!” shouted another patient suffering from consumption.

On a regular basis James tied his balls away from his face. However this night was much different than the rest. After finishing a most satisfying supper James wandered over to his dresser to find that he was fresh out of ball-bobbles. To make matters worse he was also growing a rather nasty rash on his cranium, easily surpassing any rashes that had once been present upon his broad skull. As he turned away from his dresser he noticed a large hole in the floor, he walked up to it to observe but a monkey jumped out said “BISTO” and then pulled him down into it”

James now lives with a monkey at the bottom of a hole.

When Liam's Dad Left Home

It was a peaceful, star-ridden night in the whimsical Cheshire woodland. The diurnal creatures had been soothed to sleep as though the nocturnes sang nursery rhymes during breakfast. A similar, almost identical ambience presented itself not so far away, in the woody, neighbouring village of Blastam. It was on this night; in this village that 5-year-old Liam awoke to find a half-eaten curry next to his head.

As the restless boy tried to adjust his vision to the dazzling torchlight, which shone upon this mound of mixed rice and lumpy, brown chicken, he was suddenly stricken with a bludgeon. Luckily Liam was born with a dense skull and not more than a second had passed between the attack and the time Liam had pounced upon the late night visitor swearing vengeance. Just before delivering a fatal left hook to his assailant (for Liam was a champion boxer), an interruption occurred in the corpulent form of Liam’s mother. Kicking open his bedroom door she cried “Fuck you!” and with a deep breath aimed a large rifle at her son’s head and fucked him up.

The obese woman then turned her head swiftly towards Liam’s late night visitor, but as she cocked the rifle in his direction a cry of protest was made: “Don’t shoot me” the masked villain pleaded, “I was being really quiet! It was him who was screaming ‘Eat my dick!’ The woman paused for a moment. “Oh fuck!” she exclaimed, surrendering the weapon to the surprise of the youngster “I’m sorry me laddie, I was only tryin ta help ya puny body. When ya up gainst va champion boxer round these parts ya haven’t got a chance less his mummy come in wiv rifle like. But ven I fought ‘vis fucker woke me va fuck up.’ Meaning you! I didn’t know ya were bein quiet like. Aww, lets take ya doonsturs and fix ya up wiv some lovely, yellow porridge.”

The stranger stood up and followed the hefty mammal down the thickly carpeted stairs. Once at the foot he was shown into the sitting room where he settled down in a comfortable brown armchair and unmasked. Liam’s mother had disappeared into the kitchen. Meanwhile the boy had become anxious and restless and had begun to pull at the skin on his face. Presently she returned with a bowl of steaming porridge and a big, blue plastic spoon. “Aww yuv got a bonnie face ma lad. Tell me what’s ya name.” “Michael” the boy replied with trepidation, “…Michael Percival Stampford.” The woman nodded cordially and squeezed herself in-between the arms of a 3-seat sofa, which lay opposite to the armchair. “I can’t stay long,” said Michael with a trembling, apologetic smile. “I’m, um, doing some errands for my dad.” “Tis fine” replied the woman “Jus finish ya lovely porridge, I’ve got hooswork ta do anyway.”

Silence echoed throughout the room for a considerable time until Michael eventually finished his porridge. His appetite had been satisfied before he had even reached halfway, but he was too scared of the woman’s wrath to leave any signs of ingratitude. With an uneasy flicker of eye contact he stated “Well I’ll be off now.” Liam’s mother showed him to the door and bade him farewell as he set off.

He walked hurriedly away but suddenly felt a powerful urge to turn around a few paces later to admire the quaint mystery surrounding the little house, which was draped in almost total darkness, (save the single light in the sitting room). It was seconds later when his instincts told him to turn around again. Liam’s mother was standing at the door. “FUCKER!” she cried abhorrently “You left your fucking half-eaten curry in my fucking house!” With that she unloaded 77 rounds into Michael’s fragile body using her late husband’s M-16 sub machine gun

Reasons Not To Shop at Niké Town

Although pragmatic at heart, starving kangaroos residing in the heat-consumed Australian outback often commence their plight to procure nourishing sustenance by devising a set of steady theoretical blueprints. On the completion of this somewhat arduous task the hungry kangaroo will then set into motion his (or her!) plan of action.

One famous example of a promising blueprint is that of Horace the Ninja Kangaroo. Horace had been lost in the desert for days through consequence of his peculiar habit, eating chalk. On a weekly basis Horace had been eating all the white chalk from the White Chalk offices in Perth. He used to sneak in through the back door every Saturday morning whilst the security Koala Bear was taking her regular 11.30am poo in the White Chalk lavatory outhouse. Horace would then infiltrate the White Chalk offices and begin to eat all the supplies of White Chalk located in numerous safe keeping boxes throughout the building. Horace could crack the individual codes of each respective box by chanting “THRUSTING BLAST, KALLY MAST, FUSTAN PRAST” which is a universal vocal skeleton key for any safe keeping box in the country of Australia. Anyway after 20 weeks or so of fun Horace’s chalk eating came to an end when Kirsty the Koala Bear didn’t take her usual poo and caught Horace trying to sneak into the offices. Horace was unfortunately kicked into the desert (unfortunate as it just so happened that on this very day Kirsty had selected to wear her Nike “Kick-Kangaroo-Into-Desert” Air trainers) and left to wander for eternity/until his death.

Anyway, Horace had struggled by for about seven days without food or water. Well that may be considered slightly fallacious. See Horace was a rather greedy kangaroo and had stored in his pouch 17 12-packs of Rocky bars. However, on the 7th day Horace had concluded his Rocky bar eating and soon afterwards his delicate kangarooy facial features had distorted into a countenance of extreme ferocity. He convulsed in a paroxysm of anger and hatred. How dare the Rocky bars go so quickly!! How dare Fox’s chocolate make the crunchy biscuit center so crumbly!! How dare the sun melt the lovely Fox’s chocolate!! Especially in this heat ridden desert! Horace became redder and redder until finally he could stand it no more. He pulled his preserved Rocky bar wrappers out of his pouch with his left paw and with his right he delve deep into the bottom of his pouch and lifted out some of the most terrific kangaroo-pouch-slime ever seen by the Gordon the vulture, who by the way just happened to be flying above at that time (sadly Gordon was involved in a fatal accident the following day when his best friend Thomas pulled a switchblade out on him. Thomas was never allowed to watch Hard Target featuring Jean Claude Van Damme ever again).

Displaying the first signs of what would come to be an unparalleled merit of ingenuity Horace tactfully used the slime from his pouch as an adhesive to stick all the empty Rocky bar wrappers together. When the slime eventually dried Horace gave a squeal of delight as he looked down upon what he saw to be a huge canvas. With the aid of a cactus spike and the fragility of the piles clotting his rectum Horace drew his own blood and began penning a work of profound brilliance.

It was late at night when the famished kangaroo finished his blueprint. He hopped back and forth achingly trying his hardest to block out the violent cold. He placed the finishing touches upon his canvas, wrapped his arm-type-things around himself, sat back deservedly upon his haunches and allowed his eyelids to flicker away what was left of the arid landscape.

The pernicious desert seemed unusually peaceful, almost tranquil as twilight arrived. In fact such a singular ambience seemed so spectacular to Gordon that an overwhelming compulsion to observe this wonder arose him from his light sleep and took him to the dusky skies.

Looking down perusing his familiar territory, Gordon felt delighted. He had boned his first chick the previous week and was finally able to relate to the abundant virility of his friends. And now… to feel this! This awe-inspiring aesthetic climate. This stupefying contentment with all that is in his life and with all that has past. Gordon felt truly alive!
These thoughts had kept him occupied for a short while but presently Gordon was scanning the ground much less pensively, searching for scraps of food. It was at this moment when Gordon visualized the heap of brown on the ground.

Gordon began to reduce his speed until he was hovering quite some distance, but directly above the brown heap beneath him. Everything became silent save the odd swoop of Gordon’s wings keeping him airborne. Gordon stared down… his heart beating.

He was too slow to react when the noises came. The crashing sound, the ear piercing squawks and the flick of what could only be his own switchblade, passed onto him by his father. Nor was Gordon agile enough to avoid the blow, the stiff, dull pop of the action and the ferocity in which it was delivered. However the only part of this artistic masterpiece that Gordon consciously registered was the evil, maniacal stare and the huge bloodshot eyes of he who delivered the blow. He who brought the thunder. His best friend. Thomas.

Thomas looked on with a vehement sneer as his victim swirled to his demise. He wiped the switchblade clean of evidence and sped off into the horizon.

Gordon hit the ground and felt the blood pouring from his throat. He glanced up at the heap lying beside him. He was quite certain that heaps of brown didn’t usually possess a face. Yet this one did, it was rather peaceful too. Gordon’s eyes trailed off to the deep red slits in the mangled torso of the heap and he wondered if it were his friends who had feasted upon this animal whom was lying so peacefully upon the sands.

Kirsty the Koala bear came upon the pair one week later. She convulsed in despair when she found the remains of Horace whom she had come to relieve from his punishment. She had forgotten to tell him that his penalty was only temporary and had set out to locate him the same day. Sadly her trainers were too powerful, her legs too small and her task too huge for much optimism, but this dreadful realization that not only an innocent victim had been taken by the perilous desert, but that the remainder of her own life would be spent in Koala Bear prison was too much to bear and thus she curled up beside Horace and shuddered away her grief.
She returned back to Perth 17 days later carrying very little save the remains of her rations and the rather large document she had found beneath the torso of Horace. Judging by the stretch marks on the sheet, Horace had been using it as a blanket in the perishing cold of the desert night.

Kirsty the Koala Bear was sentenced to life imprisonment for her unprofessional conduct and was sued by Nike for using the “Kick-Kangaroo-Into-Desert” trainers to actually kick a kangaroo into the desert when it was plain to see in the adverts that “kangaroo” was simply a pseudonym for “harmless-plastic-ball”. Kirsty was however granted parole when it was learned that she had done all in her power to rectify the tragic mistake and that she had recovered the hugely publicized document found beneath Horace. Kirsty was finally allowed her full freedom and began work at her old firm “White Chalk Ltd”.

Kirsty now wears Reebok Classics.

I suppose now you are wondering what was etched upon the document found beneath the carcass of Horace the Ninja Kangaroo. Well I suppose it had better be revealed, as it is evident from your enthusiasm that you will endeavor to find out the contents regardless of any further prose. Well, beyond the bloodstains, the disfiguring stretch marks and the abstruse distortion provided by the desert climate, a blueprint of a somewhat ingenious plan was discovered. It was a plan that would result in Horace achieving food and water whilst out in the desert alone.

Firstly Horace had decided that as a kangaroo he possessed the ability to bounce reasonably high, so as part of the blueprint he drew a picture of a kangaroo bouncing rather high. Then Horace had decided that if he could refine his bouncing technique somewhat during the next few days he would be able to bounce even higher due to the growth of his quads. So, on his makeshift canvas Horace drew a picture of a kangaroo bouncing rather high with the caption “Monday” above it. Next to that he drew a picture of a kangaroo bouncing even higher with the caption “Tuesday” above it. By “Friday” the picture of the kangaroo bouncing also featured clouds, suggesting that Horace planned to have strength enough to be able to bounce into the sky at that point. Horace had also shown on his canvas how during the days of medium height bouncing (not quite reaching the clouds, but much higher than normal) he would feed himself by eating desert birds such as the desert eagle and any stray vultures he happened to catch during his bouncing into the lower regions of the sky.

By the following Wednesday Horace had drawn pictures of the kangaroo bouncing out of the Earth’s orbit and into space and by the Friday the kangaroo had landed on the moon and lived happily ever after eating green cheese.

Well there it is, that is the legendary Horace’s blueprint. So if ever you are stuck in the desert and you run out of Rocky bars remember you can always train your quads so you can eventually bounce to the moon and eat the green cheese that the moon is made of. It’s a horrible shame that Horace died before even the first stage of his plan could be put into action. However the fact that his plan was left undone is of trivial importance, Horace is loved and respected deeply throughout the country for his determination, his mental prowess, his ambition to succeed despite the odds and for his undying heart which lives on in everyone of us today. God bless you Horace.

“Horace was a god among kangaroos, he strove to succeed where most would just hop submissively into the bowels of defeat. I have nothing but good things to say about Horace. Keep going brother, drink your milk and take your vitamins, believe in the holy ghost and ask yourself what you’re gonna do when the 8 inch pythons are around you!!”

Excerpt from Hulk Hogan’s autobiography “When You’re Old”