|Baron von Scheisse|
|He's scared of quite a lot of things.|
|Today the Baron is scared of:|
|Alien Babies + Beards|
I'm scared of alien babies because they eat my soup when I'm not looking. Alien babies live in tanks of vinegar in giant, big, huge aeroplanes that fly around the world so fast that you can't touch them, even if you have the biggest stick in the world with a flange on the end.
The alien babies arrive from the planetoid Obliteron in pre-packed tubes. There are seventeen alien babies to a tube and they cost a dollar ninety-eight a tube. They have colour coded socks with a different colour for each type of cheese they own. The tubes force themselves through our atmosphere with the power of raw water and rendezvous with the hideous flying planes which dominate even the nightly government-sponsored bat patrols.The newly arrived alien infantoids watch helplessly as they are pelted with rubber coconuts by the evil alien baby masters, who are all employed by the nefarious sugar cube industry.
The evil baby masters send their even eviller babies to wreck havoc on humankind in sinister and overtly heterosexual ways. Firstly, the babies find a lax security loophole in a domicile. An open window or an outdoor picnic device is an invitation to a date with Mr. Disaster. You may as well sit outside in the dark wearing a light-emitting jacket and scream "Free pancake spoons for slitty-eyed alien types!" into the cold and popular evening sky.
Once inside, the alien babies waste no time trying to find the downstairs bathroom or mix colourful cocktails. For them, the temptation for evility via 'Gremlin'-style pranks, possibly involving pineapples, is too great. Almost at once, they will be gently nudging your granny just north of her donkey harness, placing bogus Post-It notes on the fridge reminding the unsuspecting homeowner to buy 12 metric tonnes of 'fancy' trousers and removing the third leg of your monkey dress.
Vigilance is the watchword of pornography, my friend. So be prepared and sew up your chimneys and sewage overflow outlets with a high quality (not Italian) thread. It is very hard to spot an alien baby in a crowd. Therefore, avoid crowds like a hammer avoids a nail. I have survived this long only by shooting anyone I meet in the face. It is also prudent to shot them in the face twice, just to be sure. Shoot them in the groin too, in case they're not alien babies.
Make no mistakes, my friends, I am scared of Alien Babies.
What's even more frightening than alien babies?, I hear you scream through four layers of corrugated cardboard. Why, simply beards, of course. In case you're wondering, beards are facial attachments for men which grow in dank ponds in Estonia and Paraguay and attach themselves to the male face at night. To rid themselves of these, men all over Europe and the Hebrides must scrape their faces with mulberry bushes every morning before sun up, in a heathen ritual dating back tens of thousands of times.
But why are you afraid of these seemingly fun-loving and attractive creatures?, I hear you cry from a subterranean soil storage facility located six kilometres under the burning wreckage of Rome. Well, it's quite simple. They remove man brains and replace them with high-powered cat fuel. While this is actually quite a tonic in the short term (especially to a man's sexual innuendo, wink, wink) in the long term the results of the beard infestation are quite catastrophic.
One only has to gaze disquietingly at the first race to be overrun by the acursed beasts to see the hideous and earthquakingly bad things that can happen. I speak, quite openly and fragrantly, of the Vikings. These noble rapers and pillagers had no access to mulberry bushes or alarm clocks and their faces soon resembled a hairy donkey's left tit. Their fantastically hexagonal heads were quickly awash with high-powered cat fuel, meiow.
They soon forgot all about their come-hitherly and frighteningly ugly women folk and instead persued felines of every persuasion. The tranquil, lemming-scented air was rent with the sounds of frustrated teenage penises and the triumphant sex wails of the homo-feline orgasmonauts. The cat-crazed males were soon assimilated into a new and attractive feline species, which survives to this day in explosive pockets of the Norwegian woodland, the European Four Headed Lion, which, of course, has only two heads and a beak. All the women folk were left to fend for themselves in the treacherous minefields of ancient Scandinavia and were all soon devoured by giant space bats.
Make no mistakes, my friends, I am scared of Beards.