NATIONALISM

(pictured above: The national flag of Insania)

Nationalism is great isn’t it? I think it is anyway. It’s cute. You have a bit of a fight and win your land and give it a little name like something-land or something-ania or just something. You make a little flag with a picture on it or maybe just a few colours or maybe a barcode and you put it up a pole and salute it in your little military outfits with the buttons all polished and you invent a little march you can do and blow a trumpet and sing a little song about your nation with little words about how great everything is and how good you are at fighting and how God likes you the best and all that. It really is very sweet the whole nationalism thing and practical too.

The practical element is the morale boosting that nationalism provides. I mean, if you didn’t have nationalism how could you muster the will to go off killing wogs just because they threaten your sweet deal on hot water bottle imports? (Oh dear, I’ve just realised I typed ‘wogs’ out loud. Please forgive me. I’m not racist or anything, it’s just the nationalist fervour.) If you didn’t have nationalism you might find yourself on a battlefield wondering just what the Hell you’re doing ramming a bayonet into a complete stranger. Where would your hot water bottle imports be then? I’ll tell you where, at the mercy of Wogland that’s where! The wogs would be exporting hot water bottles to you for top dollar and using the money to buy bayonets so they can stick them into you.

Of course, seeing as there would be a demand, you could always start making bayonets and selling them to the wogs. This might actually start good trade relations. Some important wog nation dignitaries might visit your nation and exchange gifts with your nation’s dignitaries, little tokens like a tasty cabbage or a fancy ornament or a fancy ornament of a tasty cabbage. And the wog nation’s dignitaries could stay for a few days and go see a few important statues or something and it would be on the telly and then the wog nation’s dignitaries would invite your nation’s dignitaries to Wogland and you’d be glad because the wog nation’s dignitaries liked your nation’s dignitaries.

National dignitaries are so called because they are dignified enough to represent their nations, unlike the rest of you. You’re not dignified like national dignitaries at all. You’re just normal undignitaries, shuffling around the place, blowing your noses and stuffing used tissues into pockets filled with old bus tickets. Jesus, when I think of it, the state of you. Really! All you’re good for is getting bayonets stuck into you. At least that way you’re doing your nation some service. Going forward.

They Are Outside the Door

It’s Halloween so I think I’ll tell you a story. The scariest story I ever heard. I remember it exactly as it was told to me. Carved into my memory as it was that dark stormy night, word by word. Prepare to be scared and don’t say I didn’t warn you. This tale is called They Are Outside the Door and it goes something like this. . .

This man was in a lorry and it broke so he got out and there was a monster and it bit him and he went home because the lorry got fixed and he met his wife and turned into a monster and killed her and ripped her head off and the police came and he ripped their heads off and then he ate all the heads like they were massive lovely oranges. Then the man that was a monster got really big because he got strength from the oranges, I mean heads, and he attacked the whole world so they sent all the armies out but he bit all them and they turned into monsters and so did everyone else and did you hear that? That noise? I think the monsters are here. I think the monsters are outside the door. They are. They are. THEY ARE OUTSIDE THE DOOR!!!
The End.

Chilling isn’t it? A tale to freeze the blood. It kind of creeps up on you and then pounces on you at the end. If you ever tell this story to anyone, it’s best if you act terrified, grab them, and scream the last sentence. They’ll be scared out of their wits. I was when my friend John told me the story a while back. That Halloween was the scariest ever because of that story. I’ll never forget it. I was seven. Some say the story has dated but to me it has aged like a fine wine. A blood red vintage.

There’s more Halloween scares over at Crap Man. Click the link: CRAP MAN VERSES GOSTS!