Last year, I decided to learn about the arse-side of the internet. God, it could have been two years. Time speeds up when you get older! Doesn’t it! It seems like only last week when I would sit down and slide down the stairs, enjoying the impact of carpetted stair against my coccyx.
In case you’re thinking “I recognise this joke, he’s going to say he really did do that last week“, then you’re wrong. Although I did try it out very recently, which is why I thought of it just now, I didn’t fucking enjoy it. I didn’t count on the fact that I weighed about three kilograms back then, and nowadays I’m 75% pepperoni. It hurt. Instead of going “urrr”, so that the impact on each stair would make my voice go “urr-ah-urr-ah-urr”, I said “Urrraow, fuck that” and walked the remaining ten stairs.
I may have lost one of the joys of my childhood, but at least the government recognises this by letting me drink vodka. Take that, seven-year-old me! You ain’t all that – I’m considerably drunker than you ever were!
So, I was learning about the internet. And databases. And how best to make the whole of disappointment so that everyone in the world wrote it except me. And I wrote Fan Fraction, the idea being that Fan Fiction was generally written by people who cared far too hard and wrote far too much. Not to mention they were fucking weird. Take He-Man. Years and fucking years ago I wrote Snake Mountain Nights. It wasn’t very funny, but it certainly wasn’t serious.
“Orco hit me with one of his energy bolts while I was looking at Teela’s tits,” for example. Hardly hilarious, but certainly harmless. But a few cheerfully demented sorts took it seriously, and emailed me. And I had to pretend I fancied Skeletor because I suddenly had real people on my hands and didn’t want them to think I was poking fun out of their sexual tastes. If I say “look, you really shouldn’t be wanking over hooded skulls”, they have every right to come back to me and scream “O RLY WELL GOD HATES FAGS SO FUCK U..U.. U FAG U”.
As a gay/cartoon aside at this point, I’d like to make it clear that Vicky the Viking was a boy. In one episode , he swam with some dolphins, and you saw his cock. I saw this and ran around the house telling everyone I had seen a tiddler.
I don’t think even Vicky’s European animators would have been so honest as to draw in a little bald cock-like hoof, so it must have been a cock, right? Say I’m right, because I fucking am. This only makes me angry because I once used the fact that I fancied Vicky The Viking as a way of proving I was gay. Nowadays I fancy his dad, of course, but back when I was sliding down staircases I just wanted to help Vicky have his ingenious ideas. And the idea of helping a stupid girl to have ideas was nauseating. Vicky the Viking got his ideas by rubbing his nose, you see. And I didn’t want stupid girl bogeys flying around while I was pretending to think of ideas. (InÂ my fantasy, I was really just waiting for Vicky to have his idea so I could say “that’s brilliant, let’s go paddling with our knickers down”).
Oh, fucking hell Log, get to the point. MY POINT IS THIS, and I shall not deviate from making it;
I wrote a website called Fan Fraction and it broke but I’ve fixed it and here it is.
Here are the stories I wrote for it.
Here are a few of my favourite seams.
There! That’s what I was trying to say. Look at the new site thing, which is why I’ve not posted for a while. It’s because I’ve been up to my elbows in ifs, thens and Elsie Tanner getting her fanny out for Moschops.
If you like it, you could even post a story. Something about Adventures in Babysitting maybe. Yeah, go on. Write about Adventures in Babysitting.