Dolly's involuntary euthanasia

Good! These clones must be taken down a peg or they'll think they own the place.

There's no need to rip off MITs bandwidth.

This is even better than prison. I feel so soothed. I may play a tape of whalesong.

Not any more though. This white is harsh and painful. I may listen to some nine inch nails. Then I may remember that I am in my mid twenties, and stop.

Breaking the habit of a lifetime and getting back on topic: this is, of course, very sad news for Dolly’s extensive network of friends (chiefly undercover journalists and gold-digging Welsh lesbians).

But every ill wind has its silver lining, and Dolly’s monstrous martyrdom – for who ever heard of a sheep being put to death against its will? – may yet help to resolve what has so far been an entirely separate controversy.

A country known as ‘France’, which, I should explain for overseas readers, has long been in open rebellion against the British Crown, is now in a state of near civil war regarding the final resting place of the composer Hector Berlioz. (Anyone feel like starting a rumour that he was secretly German? Just a thought.)

The present dispute is between those who want Berlioz’s mortal remains to be re-interred in the Pantheon, close to the bones of other Great Frenchmen (Sacha Distel, Inspector Clouseau, Les Dennis, etc.) and those who wish them to remain where they are, in some Godforsaken provincial pet cemetery, surrounded by those of his wives, mistresses, masseuses, toadies and the little bald bloke whose name no one could remember who actually wrote all the music while Berlioz was out on the piss.

Until now the question has seemed insoluble, but surely the solution stares us in the face. I merely point to the astonishing physical resemblance between Hector Berlioz and Dolly the Sheep!!!

Couldn’t be simpler. Stick her in a crate, shove her down the Channel Tunnel, off to La Gare des Nonpronunciables, add a few sashes, rosettes, caps of liberty, exposed breasts and so on, five minutes in make-up, jam a hastily forged manuscript of a previously unknown Chanson à mon vieux mate Colin Davis under her arm, or leg, or wherever seems appropriate, and away she goes to the Pantheon! while millions of French persons make those weird bronchitic noises and elaborate shrugging gestures that they supposedly like to make, not that I would ever dream of going to find out.

And no one need ever be any the wiser. Unless they read this, of course. But I expect it’ll be deleted long before that. (Did I mention I’m thirteen?)

It all sounded quite sensible until you got to the bit about you being thirteen

With the (hopefully permanent) removal of a certain unwelcome underage drinker, it appears that there's an opening on this forum for an unfunny pest with a congenital lack of personality, whose job it is to butt in, ruin the flow, and stall the thread.

Hello Folks!
Did I ever mention that 362 is the funniest number in the ENTIRE UNIVERSE?

Did I also mention that I can make up jokes to order?
(punchlines not included... no guarantee of mirth or merriment.... corners of mouths may go down as well as up)

Ban him.

Hey! Don't be too hasty.
I haven't told you about my passion for the music of Neil Sedaka and Billy Joel yet.

I can post all their lyrics if you like.

Piano Man by Billy Joel

It's nine o'clock on a Saturday
The regular crowd shuffles in
There's an old man sitting next to me
Making love to his tonic and gin

He says, "Son can you play me a memory
I'm not really sure how it goes
But it's sad and it's sweet
And I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes"

Sing us a song you're the piano man
Sing us a song tonight
Well we're all in the mood for a melody
And you've got us feeling alright

Now John at the bar is a friend of mine
He gets me my drinks for free
And he's quick with a joke or to light up your smoke
But there's someplace that he'd rather be

He says, "Bill, I believe this is killing me"
As a smile ran away from his face
"Well, I'm sure that I could be a movie star
If I could get out of this place"

Now Paul is a real estate novelist
Who never had time for a wife
And he's talking with Davy, who's still in the Navy
And probably will be for life

And the waitress is practicing politics
As the businessmen slowly get stoned
Yes they're sharing a drink they call loneliness
But it's better than drinking alone

Sing us a song you're the piano man
Sing us a song tonight
Well we're all in the mood for a melody
And you've got us feeling alright

It's a pretty good crowd for a Saturday
And the manager gives me a smile
'Cause he knows that it's me they've been coming to see
To forget about life for a while

And the piano sounds like a carnival
And the microphone smells like a beer
And they sit at the bar and put bread in my jar
And say "Man what are you doing here?"

Sing us a song you're the piano man
Sing us a song tonight
Well we're all in the mood for a melody
And you've got us feeling alright

Oh God. He's channeling Sean Hall.

That's it...I'm going for the duct tape.

Ban him.

That's my answer for everything.

Ban me.