The Fishwhacker Swindle?

Quick! Tell me, when you're fitting a new toilet roll, do you hang it with the free end:

1. Nearest the wall?

2. Nearest the user?


The response I get will be of crucial importance to my next, more substantial post about my recent terrifying experience in a haunted shithouse in Mexico.

Will get round to visiting your bogs - sorry, blogs - when I've recovered.

'Gee, Jackie, I'm sure glad I got rid of that headache...'

To mark the 500th (-ish) month since the assassination of President John F Kennedy I thought I’d share with you some of the work I’ve been doing for the US government looking into just who did do the dirty deed. Strictly speaking this is classified stuff, but I’m satisfied that I’m anonymous enough on this blog that my employers won’t be able to work out who Foot Eater is. Also, if any of you snitch on me, I’ll deny everything and release the dossier I have on you (yes, you too, hiding there so pretty and sweetly loitering, to misparaphrase Keats).

Anyway: I reckon the man who did it was someone I’ve had my suspicions about for years. E. A. Presley was a drifter who had just got out of the US Army in 1960 and had embarked upon a critically disastrous acting career following a string of reasonably successful popular musical records. By all accounts Presley was a nasty piece of work. He was contemptuous of racial harmony and Kennedy’s liberalism must have stuck in his craw. He was under the mentorship of the shadowy ‘Colonel Parker’, a man whose title suggests sinister military links. Not one of the official reports on the assassination has queried, nor even mentioned, Presley’s whereabouts on November 22nd, 1963, which is telling in itself; and if they had, they would have come up against a wall of silence.

Nobody I have spoken to knows where E. A. Presley was that day.

Add to this the backwardly-masked refrain grassy knoll on Presley’s 1974 single Raised On Rock, and his suspicious ‘death’ in 1977, the circumstances of which continue to be disputed, and I think you’ll agree the case is, if not watertight in a strictly legal sense, rather compelling.

But if it wasn’t him then it was the KGB, the CIA or the Mafia.

This is it. This year, 2007, is the one in which I make my fortune, jettison the rat-race and get stinking rich. Look at some of these ideas.

1. People like to read in the bath, yes? But more people shower nowadays than have baths, because of time constraints in this frenetic world we live in. So the time has come for waterproof books and newspapers, to be enjoyed in the shower. A spin-off product could be a stand on which to prop the reading material of choice so that you can wash your genitals and other parts while perusing.

2. If the Pythons can rehash The Holy Grail as Spamalot and have a hit, then I’m damned if I’m going to miss out. Reservoir Dogs: we’ve all seen it, we’ve all loved it. It’s time for the ballet.

3. Non-illegal hashish. There’s got to be a way to do it.

4. Nanobot gargle. Swill a throatful around your pharynx and microscopic robots clean your glottis, your teeth and your tongue, leaving them all sparkling with minty-fresh goodness.

5. Naffness-detecting software. It erases poorly-conceived humour as you type it into your blog and replaces it with cutting wit.

6. Men! Ever catch your John Thomas in your zip, or slam your nads against a bicycle seat? We’ve all done it. New, silky BulgeGard, made from supple Kevlar, fits snugly around your meat-and-two-veg and shields them from injury (up to and including nuclear attack) while preserving those woman-enticing contours so you can even wear it under your Speedo on the beach.

7. Like you, I’m sure, I’ve always wanted to swing a chainsaw around in a crowded shopping centre without ending up in prison for it. How about a non-injurious chainsaw? Or, failing that, foolproof fake ID that allows you to pose as a government agent and thereby avoid charges of any kind?

8. Twat-zapper. Not a sex toy, this, but rather a remote device that delivers an extremely painful electric shock to the anus of the BBC’s executive directors every time I turn on the telly and despair at what’s on.

9. Graffiti-repelling front-door paint, so that I don’t have to wake up every morning with the word Wanker adorning the portal to my home.

10. Tiny garden landmines that can be triggered only by creatures the size of moles. They would get rid of the squirrels and cats too.

I need capital, though. Let me know if you’re interested, and please be assured that I will use your credit card details responsibly. We can do this, people.

Happy New Year.