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Friday, 13 November 2009

image for 'Miss Marple and the Case of the Flying Duck' 'Whose language am I trying to - in this time - speak?'

As Miss Marple reached for her knitting needles she heard the ting of a bicycle bell, and looking out of her window she saw the imposing figure of the village policeman Sergeant Constable coming up her path, and then there was a knock on the door.

'Why, good morning, Sergeant', she said, and then opened the door, 'what can I do for you?' 'Could I have a word with you, Miss Marple?' 'Certainly, come in, and put your bicycle bell down there.' 'Thank you.'

Passing the policeman a slice of bubble and squeak pie, Mrs. Marple asked him to what she owed the honor of this visit. 'HonoUr', the Freemason corrected her, for if there was one thing that was criminal in his world it was inbred gits with no brains who had yet to learn to spell English correctly, 'I have come to ask for your, to wit, assistance. There was another murder in the village last night', the copper continued, 'and it involved nobody but none other than none else but nothing less than -'

'More tea, Sergeant?' 'Thank you. Where was I?' 'You were talking about sad gits with no brains or originality that need education, and need lessons in what to write correctly.'

'Never mind Americans, Miss Marple, there was murder most foul last night, and I think we need you to spectacularly solve the mysterious crime, but not until your publisher pays you handsomely for three hundred pages of drivelling pish first.' 'I'll write Barack Obama's next speech tonite, Sergeant. Now, forgetting about those inadequate idiots that nobody cares about in the USA, where was the body found?'

'In the library.' 'Ah hah!' 'Ah hah?' 'Quite elementary, John. The neck bone was connected to the - anyway, the case is now solved.' 'What!' 'What?' 'What what?', and rapping the copper on the head with a UN resolution, Miss Marple continued

'When you take all the world's failures and morons and put them in one island or continent, sooner or later they'll try and steal all of your ideas and pass them off as their own. And try and pass them off as their own in a website that has about as much originality as the American Declaration of Dependence on Britain and France.'

'And so, Sergeant John, the case has ended without even starting, and without even mentioning Susan Obamoil. If you could pass me that lighter-than-air helium balloon, I'll get the US police force believing there's a grand piano inside it in two minutes.'

'Why does everyone laugh at Americans, Miss Marple?' 'I have no idea, Sergeant. But at least they know how to laugh at themselves.' 'No they don't.' 'No, they don't. Well, who cares? More unsatirical idiots to pad out this place with unfunny drivel, I suppose.'

'Looks like it. Who else could the advertisers get to write endless articles about anatomy and fake celebrities to fill it all out?' 'There's 250 million of them out there, Sergeant. More tea?' 'No thank you, Miss Marple, I have another Sherlock Holmes parody to copy, just as soon as I gets me lack of originality licence repaired. Evening all.'

'And don't forget, Miss Marples - be careful out there when you thieve other people's ideas.' 'I will, Sergeant, I most certainly will.' 'Good night, Miss Marple.' 'Goodnight Sergeant Constable.' 'Night night, John Boy.' 'Night night, Obama.' 'Night night, Mycroft.'

And the 30,000 Londoners who died in the Blitz made movies about the Twin Towers ever after.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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