I thought I saw a Farcebook post...

I thinks I be a-goin' mad!

"Wotcha mean 'thinks', Xym! You're a certifiable loon!"

Oi! Shurrup you! I resemble that remark!

Anyhow, just before we set off for a Team Lunch down The Queen Of Iceni, thought I'd quickly check Farcebook.

Now, you know as t'other week we wuz checking out The Marquee as a potential venue for a new Alternative clubnight coz The WhatACunt only caters for Modern Alternative.

Well, one of the EMO metal DJs threw a right old girly hissy fit over the whole damn thing, coz it clashed with his club night (being a totally different kind of music). Eventually, everyone was happy, as it's 2 different audiences.

So what was on Farcebook?

One of the Waterfont "alternative" guys: We are looking at the 2nd of 3 possible venues, to host an new alternative night. Punk, trad-goth, etc. To be on the same night as ShitPloppin' so it doesn't clash with any of OUR alternative nights"

Whoa - everyone agreed there was no competition as the music was totally different! And the 1st Sat was picked as it only clashed with Rawkus - every other Sat clashed with bigger, better alternative events - Wraith, Slimelight, etc. And out of the blue, The WhatACunt just happens to be looking to host a near identical event in direct competition?

As all know, The Xym is the last to cry conspiracy, but this has the stench of baby's thrown his toys out the pram and ran to his mam, and mum, all upset at her wailing offspring, has promised to put on a bigger performance to teach them bad bully boys a lesson!

So The Xym replied with query - is this in response to the DJ bawling his eyes out? Have they not spoke to Asylum about sharing the new night and working together?

Almost immediately it got a like!

Now, here's the maddening bit. Gets to the boozer, and Plink! off goes the mowbli. Ooooh, a Farcebook notification! "Hi Xymon! I'm confussed...". So I click on the link. Farcebook opens, and...

...The page you are trying to visit is not available. It may have been deleted or removed

But I almost instantly replied! It can't have gone that fast, surely! They again... And again...

Scroll thought Farcebook feed... Can't find the post... Heck... Can't find the Friend Page... Wait a minute... It's not in me link list anymore! Heck, mebbe it's this lastest crappification of the Farcebook app on me phone. I'll have a quick check when I get back...

And now the notification has gone too! All trace vanished! Has The Xym been blocked? Did he imagine it all? Is The WhatACunt still making their nefarious plans to challenge Asylum, but doing it all secret like? What's goings on!

Any nayone else has seen it! Not even notifications to those people/groups tagged!

I must've slipped into a parallel universe on me way to the pub, one where the post was never made, but I retained all details of the previous reality where is was made.

Or something.

A wise person once said: Remember, somewhere in an alternative reality, you are Batman. If you can be anyone - be Batman!.

Bugger that! Batman only got Catwoman occasionally, as she kept running off being a bad girl. If you can be anyone, be The Joker, coz you not only get Harley Quimm, but she'll let you boff Catwoman during Ms Kyle's off times during her on-off relationship with Bats!

What sort of people live about here...

"In ƬЋ∆Ƭ direction," the Ƈat said, waving it's right paw round, "lives a Ħatter, and in ƬЋ∆Ƭ direction," waving the other paw, "lives a Ӎarch Ħare. Ѷisit either you like: they're botɦ ɱдԂ."

"But I don't want to go among ɱдԂ people," ᵰᶅᴉƈᶓ remarked.

"Ѻɦ, you can't ɦelp that," said the Ƈat: "we're all ɱдԂ here. I'm ɱдԂ. You're ɱдԂ."

"How do you know I'm ɱдԂ?" said ᵰᶅᴉƈᶓ.

"Ɣou must be, " said the Ƈat, "or you wouldn't ɦave come here."

Toe to toe, dancing very close. Barely breathing (too much men's aftershave)...

"And the dead in Christ shall rise first.
 Then, we which are alive and remain, shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air.
 And so shall we ever be with the Lord."

Well, them Old End-timers believe that today is The Rapture.

At first, I misheard, and thought that the name of todays apocalyptic annihilation was The Raptor, and we were all about to be devoured by rampaging Jurassic Pork type dinoclones.

But, sadly, it's not saurian shennanigans - it's either the abduction of humanity by Space Monsters to be feasted upon by invading interplanetary interlopers, or the Hosts Of Heaven will descend and take us up into Heaven/Nirvana/Enlightened Sphere/Valhalla, or whichever religious paradise meets your favoured form of faith.

And you gotta have faith (Well, I guess it would be nice if I could touch your body. I know not everybody has got a body like you, my pretty! xxx)

Anyhoo, it seems like today is totally uninterrupted by the trumpeting of trumpets, and the sounds of harpers harping with their harps. So it looks like no divine divinity is coming to take me up into her boudoir bower of paradise for a lifetime of rapturous rogering any time soon.

Hold on - Rapture... that's one of them portmanteau words, isn't it? Rape + Torture = Rapture.

No wonder there's no angelic beauties raising up all up to the celestial domain of eternal joy - it's that bloody Lynx Excite! "Even Angels Will Fall". One whiff of that, it it's the tossing off of the halo, and the tossing off of the hero with the perfumed 'pits!

There's us, all waiting to be enraptured, and these winged women are too busy tumbling into crowded foreign streets, and rising up like Arnie Terminators before rape-torturing undeserving muppets on mopeds based on their deodorantal preferences!

Right. That's it. Sod everlasting happiness in the afterlife - I'm off to boots to buy Lads stuff - Nuts, Loaded, For His Masturbation* magazines, and a stackload of Lynx.

Then I'm guaranteed a bit of "Rapture" from gorgeous goddesses.

Although it's going to be a bugger hoovering up all them feathers after all that rapturous shaggery.

* THERE ARE THEMS WHAT THINK THAT "FHM" IN FHM MAGAZINE STANDS FOR "FOR HIM MAGAZINE". THAT'S BECAUSE THEY'RE GORMSTERS, BECAUSE THAT MAKES IT "FOR HIM MAGAZINE MAGAZINE". IT'S QUITE CLEARLY "FOR HIS MASTURBATION" MAGAZINE, BEING FILLED WITH NAUGHT BUT PHOTOS OF FEMALE CHILDRENS TV PRESENTERS PORNING IT UP, AND HIGH STREET (NUBILE NEIGHBOURS THAT READERS ARE CREEPILY PERVING OVER) HONEYS.
IT'S A BIT LIKE SMARTARSES WHO MOAN ABOUT PIN NUMBERS, WHO THINK THEY'RE SO CLEVER BY POINTING OUT THE "N" IN PIN STANDS FOR "NUMBER", SO PIN NUMBER = PERSONAL IDENTIFICATION NUMBER NUMBER. IT HAS TO BE PIN NUMBER, YOU CRETINOUS TWONK, FOR IF SOMEONE ASKED YOU TO KEY IN  YOUR PI NUMBER, PEOPLE WOULD BE KEYING IN THE PHONE NUMBERS OF THEIR MAGNUM STYLE INVESTIGATORY TYPES BY MISTAKE.

And they said Elvis was dead! Pay attention, 9 seconds into the video evidence for the above mentioned lack of rapture. A great fatarse old Elvis is there, masquerading as one of them old italian momma in a big black dress. Rule #1 of Faking Your Own Death - stay away from cameras, especially video ones for televisiual transmission:

Calling orca pants of interplanetary, most transdimensionally craft..

Rufen Sie mich Ishmael - Nein! Nennen Sie mich Adolf anstelle von!

Leider ist mein Deutsch nicht sehr gut. Ich sprach nicht Deutsches für ungefähr 22 Jahre, folglich muss ich auf englisch für die unwissenden Dummköpfe schreiben, die einen on-line-Übersetzer nicht sogar benutzen können…

Oder etwas.

Anyhoo, it's often proposed that if you had the ability to go back in Time, would you shoot The Baby Hitler (not, note, The Baby Jesus), thus preventing WWII and all it's horror? Philosophical types will then smugly sit back, puffing on their penile substitutory pipes, pondering on paradoxes and the like.

"Why," they say as they stroke their long grey beards and sniff snuff (whilst watching Snuff on the under-the-counter DVD), "you could prevent World War II and change history. Which you can't, as Time Travel hasn't been invented, otherwise we'd know about it."

That's coz they're gormsters.

We all know that Hitler had Spaceships, Teleportation, The Spear of Longinus*, The Ark of the Covenant, the San Gréal and he signed Indiana Jones's Dad's diary. He also modified his estoteric Flugelrad with chronological displacers and did a Marty McFly by going Back... To The Past!".

And like Marty McFly, his mum probably tried to cop off with him - which just goes to show what a depraved family he came from!

And that's why you can never go back and kill Hitler. Obviously, being highly skilled in the evil and nefarious plans department, it would have occurred to him that he wasn't all that popular by the end. And so, Doktor Wer flew back in his Flugelrad TARDIS to try and mend his image.

First off, he adopted the name "Charlie Chaplin" and did some silent movies so no-one would recognize his evil germanic voice. Unfortunately, he was too fond of his 'tashe to shave it off, but his plan to walk with a bendy cane threw many off the scent. "Hitler didn't walk with a cane - It can't be him". Ah, the age of gullible innocence.

Anyhew, it didn't work, and despite his jestery, people never forgave his homicidal holocaustery.

So now he's trapped in the past, keeping a nasty Nazi vigil on his pram. Any futuristic chrononautical babykillers with heroic dreams of preventing WWII atrocities are shot by the lurking despot as they creep up on his infant self.

And being equipped with his own TARDIS, he can be in two times at once. Being the Antichrist he is, he often pops back to watch his parents nobbing each other (he really is THAT evil!) and shoots any additional time-travellers with ideals of bullet based contraception.

And that's why there's no evidence of Time-Traversement. Everyone's first goal is to kill Hitler, and he bumps them off in the past, and then burns the evidence with a quick jaunt to a concentration camp, before coming back to await the next idealistic visionary.

Take my advice - when you get time travel, forget Hitler - go back and find out the identity of Jack The Ripper. And I'll just bet the irony of that'll be that the Whitechapel Melodramatical Maniac will turn out to be your future self!

And then you're in a bit of a pickle. Pickled on Absinthe, probably.

* LATIN FOR "THE COCK OF LONG JOHN HOLMES". PROBABLY.