The Man With A Long Chin's Diary


How To Be An Inventor



I've got a new job as an inventor. Every morning I go into the big red shed at the bottom of my horrible garden, and think of new products that nobody has considered before. This might be overstating things, but I honestly think I'm the greatest inventor of all time.

Indeed, for motivation, I have a half-size wax figure of Thomas Edison that I scratch in the face every time that I think of a new invention. I have now invented so many excellent things that Edison's face has taken on the appearance of a particularly sloppy Danish pastry (and, to be frank, he wasn't much of a looker to begin with - in every photo I've seen he looks like he's trying to silently identify the culprit of some particularly peppery anal vapours... while secretly hoping nobody realises he was responsible).

Why, only last night I invented a new type of wind-up radio that was at least nine times better than anything Edison ever invented. My radio looks, for all intents and purposes, like a regular radio, except that it constantly mocks the listener with fictional news, and taunts.

The wind-up radio was created with the developing world in mind. My hope is that those who use the radio will become so incensed with it that they'll soon forget about their more pressing issues - such as war, famine and flies - and spend their days stomping around their village, saying stuff like "I can't believe the radio just said that!" and "Why did I waste so much money on a radio that constantly makes fun of me? There isn't even a way to turn it off! This is an awful, rude radio".


Being an inventor is going really well. I'm aiming to take on the big vacuum cleaner brands, with my new type of vacuum cleaner - the Die-Son.

The device is part vacuum cleaner, part Terminator, and was designed with the parents of horrible adolescents in mind. Should a teenager be refusing to do their chores, parents simply flick a knob and the Die-Son goes into attack mode - crashing through the youth's bedroom door, shining a strobe in their eyes, and threatening them with lethal spinning blades, a big, plastic pipe full of worms, and a wasp-thing on a string.

If the teenager still refuses to do the hoovering, it administers a lethal injection that induces death in seconds. Unfortunately, I admit to having a few teething troubles - early models have defiled the corpses of my test subjects by pulling nearby shelves down on top of them, and squatting over their bodies while bouncing on their robotic legs, chanting "Ooka-chakka-ooka-chakka!".


I've decided to stop being an inventor, following a disastrous appearance on the TV show Dragon's Den. Unfortunately, the "dragons" were unimpressed with my new type of spicy condiment - Preggo Preggo Sauce. They felt that there was no place on the market for a relish who's primary ingredient was the blended amniotic fluid of four different mammals - a loris, a rat, a cow, and a human - saying it was disgusting on several different levels.

I was so upset that I threw an unopened bottle of my sauce at Theo Paphitis, striking him on the cheekbone. And to think... I'd even gone to the trouble of writing and performing a special Preggo Preggo sauce reggae song:

Put some womb juice in my food,
Tastes so good it improves your mood,
If you like the taste of unborn kin,
You'll love my sauce running down your chin.

My Preggo Preggo Sauce it did protect a foetus,
Now it's here in a bid to feed us,
It's got foetal essence which is Heaven sent,
Just try to ignore that yeasty scent.

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