Silence Is Golden, As Long As You’re Not In The Precious Metal Business

Written by Logan Bluetooth and his assorted hangers on

A most peculiar thing occurred over the past fortnight, or rather, it did not. After month upon month of hard hitting, well researched and balanced articles, an eerie silence blanketed the Mobar Gazette (syndicated in Myanmar and China’s Xinjiang Autonomous Region as The Truthful Times) headquarters for not one, but two ghastly weeks.

While most media coverage was uncharacteristically restrained (The New York Times carried the limp headline “Online Smut Peddlers Fall Silent”), the British tabloids stepped up to the plate and gave us the attention we crave, like the filthy base-heads that we are. “Nobar: Gazette Staff Abducted And Probed Repeatedly” chortled The Sun. “MG & MJ Dead, World Mourns MJ” guffawed The Mirror, whilst the fork and spoon operators at the Daily Mail went for “Mobar Gazette Silenced: Immigrants, Gays and Gay Immigrants Questioned By Scotland Yard”.

So what really happened? Lamentably, none of us were abducted or probed repeatedly, though not for want of wishing. Truth be told, we just dropped the ball. I was the keynote speaker at the17th Annual Efficiency Experts Conference, where I was giving a presentation on the streamlining of macro attrition techniques in the current economic climate. Ironically, the conference was anything but efficient.

I neglected to name an interim chief editor in my absence, partly through carelessness, though probably more through a well placed distrust of the capabilities of my underlings. Upon my return, I discovered that my lack of faith was absolutely justified. All staff members had been working on various articles, however the quality of these pieces was at best poor, at worst on a par with lyrics from a Des’ree song.

Asking them to turn in another article would have been pointless. If you pay your staff with expired antidepressants, you get garbled nonsense with the occasional sentence of genius. So instead, I have selected from each article the paragraph with the least spelling errors, then spliced them together to form a confusing and pointless article – business as usual, in other words. If you can work out which writer is responsible for each paragraph, seek medical advice immediately, though preferably not from us. Enjoy. Or don't, whatever.

It is difficult to recall a product that has provoked greater ethical and moral bewilderment; it is a hot potato being passed from neo conservatives to liberals, though neither of them are able to pinpoint exactly why the potato is hot nor if it should be eaten once it cools down. Fairtrade® cocaine is the brainchild of Diego Escobar, nephew of the late cocaine godfather Pablo Escobar. After seeing his family’s business decimated by draconian anti-drug laws, while at the same time watching the fat cats of the Colombian banana industry grow even richer, Diego saw a business opportunity and grasped it with both hands. Fairtrade® cocaine ensures coca farmers and cocaine manufacturers receive a fair price for their product. At the same time, white guilt symbolically vanishes up the nostrils of society, leaving it with a grossly inflated sense of moral superiority and a strong desire to tell anyone who will listen how unbelievably amazing it is.

Perhaps I am just getting old. But I tolerate many other stupid fads adopted by the youth of today: touch screen phones, social networking websites, The Pussycat Dolls. The yashmagh is where I draw the line. The only people fit to wear such an item are members of the Palestine Liberation Organisation. Wearing one does not show your solidarity with the freedom fighters of Gaza. You just look like another spoilt middle class arts student debating the meaning of Donnie Darko with your mother’s tea towel tied around your neck. Get a job and a haircut, you wanker.

Deliberately contracting swine flu was by far one of the worst ideas I have ever had. It is now painfully obvious why there are no decent swine flu jokes. This is just common or garden flu with a new name. What’s in a name? That which we call Puff Daddy, by any other name would still be a talentless moron. And so it is with influenza. I put it to you that even if it were called platypus fever, swine flu would not be funny. Perhaps if the animal rhymed with flu it would be better. Emu flu? There’s nothing funny about emus. I think I’m delirious.

Not for a minute am I suggesting that there are blogs with any artistic merit whatsoever. My point is that Mommy (or Mummy, depending on where you’re from) bloggers have less worth than every other thing on the internet. Unsatisfied with mastering what the majority of women on this planet accomplish and keep to themselves, Mommy bloggers feel it necessary to give a blow by blow account of rearing their snotty, screaming, bed-wetting spawn. Get out. You made lunches AND drove the kids to school today? Call NASA immediately, this could be valuable information. On second thoughts, why don’t you shut your word hole and concentrate on raising your children so that they don’t develop into the obese little delinquents that pollute the streets these days? You cook the dinner, and the internet will do what it does best: hardcore pornography.

So how exactly does a superstar international DJ and acclaimed music journalist find himself watching the most boring sport on earth? An ill-conceived office bet with a colleague whom I was unaware possessed superior staple gun archery abilities. I could have been “researching” Fairtrade® cocaine. Instead I am watching a collection of fashion victims stand in a field in Wales for five days hitting a ball to each other. There is no music, just polite applause, and for what I don’t know. If I wanted to bore myself to the point of sterility by watching creatures in woollen vests stand in a field doing nothing, I am certain there are plenty of Welsh sheep farmers that would have indulged me. From a musical perspective, I can only hope that cricket has an evil doctor that will soon inject it with a fatal dose of Demerol.

So anyway, there I am, balls deep in Bolivian marching powder, dead hooker on the pool table, Johnny Lampshade and Joe Tuckus passed out drunk in the corner, and who do you think shows up outside? The Feds, bells and whistles goin’ like openin’ night at a disco or a prize fight! Marone. They’re bangin’ on the door like they’ve got somethin’ to discuss, real important like. I’m hooverin’ up the posh, and what can I do but throw a towel over Starla, God rest her smutty soul. They kick the door in, pieces out, tellin’ me to keep my hands where they can see ‘em. The big cop, he sees Starla and asks her if she’s alright. And what can I do but say, “I’m sorry, Officer, you’ll have to speak up, she’s wearing a towel!”