(pictured above: Them)
I was trying to write a new post for the blog, to improve on slipping standards, when in trundled The Mother and started staring at me. 'Ah now don't be distracting me The Mother', I said to The Mother, 'can't you see that I'm trying to maintain our existence on this plane by creating a narrative that makes up for the heavy handed analogies and scanty wee posts that have featured on fugtheworld.blogspot of late?' But The Mother just continued to stare at me with eyes that looked a tad ...mournful.
'Now Mister Fugger', said The Mother, 'you've said all you have to say and there's no point repeating yourself or saying things just for the sake of it. If you do that you'll end up no better than the telly. The time has come to cease blogging. It is even evident in the lacklustre and relatively LOLless way this very post, the one we are in right now, is written'. I was a little astonished. Not by what The Mother had said but by the fact that she had called me 'Mister Fugger' and used a shitey word like 'cease'. This indicated her seriousness and I knew that it must be the end, a moment that had been prepared for. 'Are They here for me The Mother?' I asked The Mother. 'They are indeed, They are in the kitchen Mister Fugger', answered The Mother. I put the laptop aside and went to meet Them. The Mother followed.
There They were in the kitchen, standing by the backdoor, waiting to return me to my own world, a world where there is nothing to say because there is nothing happening because there is nothing to do but at least you're not wasting anyone's time or your own. I turned to The Mother and thanked her for the interesting discourse she had provided over the years and I complimented The Mother on the grace she had always shown when bested by my superior intellect. I think The Mother may have rolled her eyes but it was hard to tell as we were soon hugging and she was patting me on the back. I found it hard to break from The Mother's embrace and realised that this was because she had been decommissioned. They approached The Mother, wrapped her in tarpaulin, and placed her frozen form in the cupboard next to the ironing board.
'Do I really have to go?' I asked Them. They nodded. 'Won't I be missed?' I queried. They shook their heads. 'But what about all the poontang I'll be leaving behind', I pleaded. They laughed heartily and shook their heads again in mirthful resignation.
They escorted me to the LOLevator that stood in the centre of the garden, a beam of light from above, and shoved me inside, kicking me in the arse as They did so. 'Hey!' I protested but They just laughed and muttered something about poontang.
I LOLevated up and away through the tropo strato meso and other spheres and into deep space. Then I zoomed beyond deep space and into the outskirts of shallow space that gradually reduces to non-space that results in the great zilch that resides in the nowhere zone that sits in the mouth of the ultra-void that isn't even there because nothing is there and there isn't even a 'there' for there to be nothing and there isn't even nothing because nothing is a concept and concepts need to be perceived and to be perceived there has to be something to do the perceiving and all there is is me and even I am not here an...y...m...o... ... . . .
...so long and thanks for all the fish.