Recently, Korea

Thomas Bottersfly here. The Editor is dead set on getting this "coin-operated-clown" asshat writing for his shitty webzine or forumagazine or gazette of fagzette or whatever the hell he calls this cyber pamphlet piece of shit toe-rag abomination. He torpidly, haughtily and heavy-handedly dispatched me to the "GaijinPot dot com" with instructions to "swipe a cornish-codpiece-guy headline from there then under the headline type a story so bloody horrid that the trundling tinny automata prick will be lured in here even if only to clear his good name." "So bloody horrid." Yep, The Editor, he does know how to suitably delegate his available resources (THAT BEING ME), I'll give him that.

So I swiped the story then ran it through the Daewoo Tardis 2000 time-retrograded printer, making sure to enable the "print as it would appear at the time if it were handwritten on paper" function. As expected, all of the article bar the headline was rendered unreadable by what looks like globbed great teardrop stains, island-shaped splotches of what smells like spilled ale, smeared grey streaks of tobacco ash, embedded filaments of gnashed and bloodied tooth chiclets and, finally, random black ink archipelagos which seem to evidence, at some point in time, a ballpoint pen having been brought to issue upon the paper with a great deal of force. Again and again.

Will endeavor to draw greedily from my half-day-deep reservoir of cadet training to employ The Editors "journalistic extrapolation processes to deductively and seductively bridge the gaps and seamlessly weave together the frayed threads of the tapestry" maxim or whatever he was slurring on about between the bouts of grog-induced narcolepsy.

Unfortunately for fucking me, the Editor has inexplicably subscribed to the notion that improbably prolix (another COC word nobody has ever fucking used except The Editor of The British & Royal Brittanica Tablet of London) and convoluted sentences are tantamount to impressive journalism. He has sent a "homing budgie" (?) carrying a wee whisky-sodden rolled parchment scroll in his undercarriage informing me rather sternly that if I type in any sentence under 30 words in this article he will confiscate my mechanical pencil as well as "give me a dashed good taste of the strap" (?)

Ah, well. I have my trusty rhesaurus here. Yes, right here on my enormous mahogany desk. Next to what's left of the budgie shishkebab. Good method of communication, those homing budgies. Mr Editor, I openly welcome this line of communication. The telephone? Fuck that thing, I just went down to Lawsons and gave the stupid contraption to the bemused peacock girl behind the counter. I can not fucking believe antecedent and precedent are synonyms. That's just fucking stupid.

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FLAG CARRYING JAPANESE TOUR-CONDUCTOR FALLS OFF MOUNTAIN: DEATH TOLL IN THE HUNDREDS.

The field plateau near the top of the mountain was pristinely green, a billiard table green baize, a manicured green, almost flat but gently sloping away towards an abrupt ending. At the end. Of the field. Where the field ended and the cliff started. As cliffs do. An ending that Yonsama 2005 Tour Party leader Mr... Sato never saw coming. He remains in critical condition in Chiba Petrochemical, I mean, Prefectural Hospital after having apparently tumbled 80 metres to his death. Uhh... no, I mean, tumbled 80 metres down, off, over the edge of a cliff. That was up a mountain. Hence the headline.

"I'm feeling a lot better now" said the bespectacled Sato-san as he plucked his truss around straight. "I held up my tour flag and told the blinkered, bug-eyed, bag-wielding sows in the tour group 'follow me, yes, get in line if you must, next stop is a grassy knoll quite similar to the one seen in the background of episode 4, scene 12 of Winter Sonata.' Then, lo-and-be-fucking-hold, I turned around, lost my balance, and fell over the fucking cliff."

Sato continued, chortling, "at first I thought I'd broken my spine but then I realized that I was lying on top of a mangled mound of mangy mingers. Yes, the cackling chorale of corpulent caterwaulering cake consumers & concubines comprising the wretched 2005 Yonsama Tour Party had, despite being behind me when they followed me in single file over the fucking cliff edge, somehow plummeted down faster than me and, as luck would have it, landed under me, thus cushioning my fall and breaking their own spines instead of me breaking mine. Fancy that."

The mound of living dead - most of whom appeared quite still while they were being bulldozed over (BY BULLDOZERS) - has been roped off. In an orchestrated and concerted display of rare public resolve, Town Officials have downed their tools, I mean, uhh, toothpicks and taken time out from their gleeful trips to the bank where they trundle in filthy great wheelbarrows laden with satchels of cash supposedly earmarked for public works projects, in order to pencil in a tentative date for a public symposium to ascertain whether to (fuck, thats gotta be over 30 words, Mr Editor, I should get 3 months off my internship for this sentence, HEY, EDITOR, YOU CUNT, COUNT THE FUCKING WORDS, CUNT, PROLLLIIIIX) sow the gravely shallow shallowed grave area with either creeping bent or whispering rye.

Two Task Force Tour (TFT) groups, each faction championing one of the favoured grass seed types, have been dispatched with sieves and ladles and plastic replica bugs to the field atop the cliff where the tour tragedy took place in order to determine potentially deleterious (yes, Mr Editor, deleterious, don't fucking edit it out this time, you bastard Aussie media magnate cunting Murdoch rootprick) and/or detrimental effects creeping bent or whispering rye may have on the alluvial topography.

However, prior to fieldwork commencing, for their own safety, both task forces have been assembled in fenced-in pens atop the mountain, on the field, while eagerly awaiting the arrival of their respective tour flags.

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