12. Classified


Verbatim Transcript of Captured Prisoner, Baron Von Schnitzel

(Captured by Capt. Douglas L Oakwood during the assault of Isla de la Cabeza del Mono Secreto.)


All rise.


Be seated everyone. 


This Tribunal is being conducted on this date at 0730 hours on Her Majesty’s Ship (HMS) Dreadlock just off the coast of Isla de la Cabeza del Mono Secreto. The following personnel are present: Field Marshal Mathers, Judge Advocate. Captain Douglas L Oakwood, Witness. Sergeant Amelia Luthar, Witness & Undercover Operative. Private Baxter Hollingsworth, Prosecutor. Baron Von Schnitzel, Prisoner of War

Let the records show that the witnesses have sworn and affirmed that they will faithfully perform their allocated duties in this court, so help them God.


Very well. Let’s get on with this. 


Yes M’lud. The Court recognises Baron Von Schnitzel, prisoner number 443, captured in the recent conflict during the assault of Isla de la Cabeza del Mono Secreto, lead by the courageous Captain Douglas L Oakwood. 

 [Jury cheers]


’Twas nothing chaps. Just a good ol’ spot of English bravery for Queen, and, of course, for country.


Have the prisoner step forward.

 [Jury boos and hisses]


Quiet! I will have none of that in my court. Besides, there will be plenty of time for that after we have a fair trial and find this man guilty of war crimes. Continue, please.


Yes M’lud. The Crown calls Amelia Luther to the stand. 

[LUTHER takes the stand]




Your name and rank is Sergeant Amelia Luther, is that correct?






Can you explain to the court what your mission was?


I was to infiltrate the Baron’s secret base, pose as a Chipmunk and relay information back to Captain Oakwood. 


Double backstabbing enchanting Harlot!




You asked to be extracted at one point, is that correct?




Why was that? 


Several reasons. After three weeks disguised as a Chipmunk soldier, I was promoted. This gave me access to the Baron’s plans that included an assassination attempt on the Captain, destruction of the moon and profuse bleeding out of my vagina, rendering me useless. Once I learned of these plans, getting information back to Captain Oakwood was essential. 


But you could have done this through telecommunications, correct? You didn’t need to be extracted?


The mission … got complicated. 


How so?


The Baron started to get … friendly with me.


So? It’s part of your training, is it not? To ‘bed’ the enemy if need be? Do what one must to get the information?


Yes … but …


I will remind you, you have sworn an affirmation.


A couple of months before my mission Capt Oakwood and I … started to ... know each other very well. One thing led to another …


You fucked him?




Well I’m sorry but … I’m surprised, that’s all. You are rather portly.


Well … you look like a thumb! 


A thumb? 


I panicked. 

[JUDGE bangs gavel]




Please continue, Amelia.


Anyway feelings had developed between the Captain and I. Needless to say I was eager to return to base. Then something happened. Something changed. The Baron is a cruel man, I have no doubt. I’ve seen, first hand, some of the atrocities he has committed and I don’t agree with them … but at the same time, there is this childlike aspect that is … attractive.


Attractive? That hairy baboon?


Please let me explain. One night the Baron came to me and sprayed me in the face with pepper spray. I couldn’t see a thing, I was in so much pain. When I asked why he sprayed me, he simply said, ‘I wanted a blind date with you’. It was the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me. I explained that wasn’t how blind dates worked and he apologised profusely. To make it up to me, he took me for a ride on his motorcycle and drove me safely, in first gear all the way, to the downtown area of Chicago. I gripped onto his sculptured chest and smelled his alluring cologne. He  took me to the Hard Rock Cafe and insisted I eat at his Hard Rock. He then sprayed me in the face with pepper spray again, gagged me, took me back to base, covered me in seaweed and ate me out like a fat man at a sushi bar …


Wow … Just wow.


Afterwards, I fell asleep. When I woke up, he was gone but on my bedside table there was a brown paper bag with a bottle of Wild Turkey Bourbon and a bucket of fried chicken with a note that said, ‘Do not eat! This is for me tonight. I want to eat this while you shave my back. Remember, piss on the razor. That makes it hygienic’. No one had ever uttered such sweet words to me. 


I think I’m going to be sick. 


Well, I think we have heard enough. 


Hollingsworth, did you get what you needed from this witness?


Um … well … to be honest, I can’t even remember what the point of this witness was. 


Very well, you may step down Sergeant. Who’s next?


The crown calls Captain Oakwood to the stand. 

[CAPT. OAKWOOD takes the stand]

Your full name and rank is Captain Douglas … Sorry sir, are you crying?


I feel ugly.


Oh no sir! That is far from the truth. You are dashing, sir, dashing! Your golden moustache reminds us how manly you are, yet your round and plump bosom with rose coloured nipples emanate your delicacy … er … I mean … delicate nature. But if you were a delicacy … such a yummy delicacy you would be …


Private, I warned you about nibbling on me before.


Yes sir.


Besides, this is neither the time nor the place … Well it’s pretty close to lunch, actually. What say you, Field Marshal? Shall we stop for a bite to eat and a spot of tea?






But you can have a cup of tea and nibble on a danish while you testify. 


We can? I didn’t think that was allowed. I just told off Private Hollingsworth for nibbling on me … 


A danish is a pastry treat. 


Oh … Right … Well, just a cup of tea for me then.


Captain Oakwood, you captured the Baron, did you not?


Yes. I mean no! Wait ... am I in trouble?




Then yes.


May I ask why you attacked the Baron’s forces?


Why … I? 


Attacked the Baron’s forces?


Well … it’s obvious isn’t it?




No, of course not … it’s not obvious … Why did I attack? Let’s see … Why did I attack?


You were ordered to observe and defend your current position, is that correct?


Yes. I mean no! Wait ... am I in trouble?



Then yes. Hmmm, let’s see. Why did I attack?


I put it to you sir, that you misunderstood a report from Sergeant Amelia Luther.


Misunderstood? There was nothing to misunderstand! The Baron had his cock out and could have seriously hurt her, maybe even take out one of her eyes. 


Do you even know what a COCK is?


Now hang on … 


This is a COCK.

[PROSECUTOR produces a bag]


Let the records show that Private Hollingsworth is holding up the Baron’s COCK in a plastic bag.


That’s not a cock! That’s a pen!


No sir, that’s a Climate Overdrive Controlled Kamikaze machine. This is what Amelia was talking about in her report. This is what the Baron was putting down her cleavage.


Oh … I see


So it’s fair to say you made a mistake and accidentally gave orders to assault on the Baron’s position?


Yes. I mean no! Wait ... am I in trouble?




Then yes.


Thank you sir, no more questions. 


You may sit down, Captain. 


Crown calls on Baron Von Schnitzel

[Jury gasps. BARON takes the stand]


I put it to you that you are Baron Von Schnitzel. Is that correct?




M’lud, I would like it recorded that the prisoner is naked.


Very well. 

[to BARON]

Can I ask why you are naked?


Ask your Captain over there.


We found him like that.


What a load of horse dung! You stripped me! You fondled me! You covered me in honey and dipped me in chocolate mousse!


That’s a lie! You wanted the mousse!


I can’t handle the mousse!

[JUDGE bangs gavel]


ENOUGH! I will not have my Courtroom filled with bickering and terrible law parodies! Now bloody well get on with this!


Yes M’lud. 

[to BARON]

Are you or are you not the leader of the notorious Hairless Chipmunks?


Well I wouldn’t call them notorious.


No? What would you call them?




But they have committed notorious crimes, have they not?


No, they carried out my orders. If what they have done is considered notorious then it is by my will and no one else’s. Let’s get one thing straight you tie wearing, snot wad, cow licker. My army is not the notorious one. I’m the one people should fear. I’m the one that’s notorious and if I don’t get the proper trembling of fear from you that is due, I will be inserting a large pineapple up your bottom. 


M’lud, I do protest …


Oh shut up Hollingsworth, it’s widely known that you lick cows. I think it’s fair to say we know who this man is, why he is here and how evil this son-of-a-bitch can be so let’s move this along to a pace that suits me. 


Very well sir. 

[to BARON]

After hearing the evidence against you, how do you plead? 




You … you do? 


Damn straight I do. I know I’m the bad guy of the piece.


You do realise that you will be hanged by your own admission?


Ah, well no. 


So you didn’t know. 


No, I mean, I won’t hang.


Be assured, sir, you most certainly will be. The Queen’s justice is harsh, yet fair. 


Well, I'll let you in on a little secret. A sort of a client-attorney-privilege type of a secret … I wanted to be here.


You wanted ..?


I wanted to be captured. I allowed myself to be captured. You see, the good Field Marshal Mathers has been a thorn in my side for quite sometime. Oh sure, Captain Oakwood is my enemy but he’s not the one calling the shots. It is through the Captain that the Field Marshal has thwarted my efforts, and it was through my capture that I am close enough to do … THIS!

[BARON produces gun]









Can’t see anything … Where did this smoke come from?


Secure the room, turn the lights back on and open a goddan window to get rid of this smoke!


Sir … Oh my god …


What is it? 


The Baron is gone … and Field Marshal Mathers … is dead!





11. The Island Of The Secret Monkey Head

Prepare yourselves, my soldiers. Prepare yourselves for victory. 

This report comes to you live from Isla de la Cabeza del Mono Secreto, a small island off the coast of Spain where we intend to plunge the knife of victory into the soft, unsuspecting underbelly of evil. I am currently sitting in my red leather Chesterfield armchair, smoking the finest of fine pipe tobacco and sipping a delicate brandy from a mug. I’ll say that again. Sipping a delicate brandy FROM A MUG. So as you can see, for the good of my people, I’m roughing it. 

I will bring you all up to speed. 

As you have read in my most recent battle report, approximately a fortnight ago I intercepted a nuclear attack. This flying, radioactive nugget of terror was shot straight from the Baron’s headquarters and was threatening to destroy what was left of China. 

This presented me with a promising opportunity. 

In war one must know one’s enemy. For if one does not know one’s enemy, one might as well attempt to defeat his enemy by breaking wind in a pillowcase and putting it over his mother’s head. It’s just not going to work. As luck would have it, I, Captain Douglas L Oakwood, know my enemy better than my mother knows the smell of a fresh fart trapped in Egyptian cotton. 

When I heard that Baron Von Schnitzel had stolen Nuclear Missiles from North Korea I knew that he would bring them back to his POO for the trademark Baron Von Schnitzel Seven Point Check. Check One: inspect the casing for dings, dents, abrasions, graffiti and human fluid stains. Check Two: ensure all radioactive and nuclear material tastes correct and hasn’t gone sour sitting in the sun. Check Three through to Six: make love to the warhead. A beautiful dance betwixt man and missile. Check Seven: inspect the casing for dings, dents, abrasions, graffiti and human fluid stains again. Once the missiles pass the checks, they are readied for deployment. 

When these turds of terror were destroyed it was a safe assumption that they were deployed directly from the Baron’s personal POO.

So I sent my elite clean-up crew, Kevin & Kevin, to collect what was left of them. 

‘Kevin & Kevin?’ you may be asking. Well I’ll be honest: I ask myself that same question every day. These six men approached me some years back now, wearing the finest matching tweed jackets, with the proposal of setting up a covert ops cleanup crew. Their sole task would be to recover hard-to-acquire items and make unpleasant happenstances simply disappear. 

And that they did. 

To prove their skill they shot me in the leg, three times, and left me to slowly bleed out and die. When I woke up, it was three years earlier and I was lying in a comfortable bed with all six of them standing around me, wearing matching tennis tunics, and nodding smugly. No scars. No regrets.

They left. Three years later they entered my office wearing matching tweed jackets and proposed setting up a covert black ops cleanup crew. Their sole task would be to recover hard-to-acquire items and make unwanted happenstances simply disappear. 

And that they did.

To prove their skill they … well I’m not sure what they did … but I hired them then and there, no questions asked. They introduced themselves as Keven & Kevin and I never dug any deeper for every time the thoughtful notion danced across my mind a dull ache in my leg made me think better of it.

Sometimes I get headaches. Sometimes I fall asleep on the toilet but wake up in the bath. I get nervous when they’re around. But never mind that now … 

So Kevin & Kevin collected the remaining rubble and bought it back to the base where it was analysed by my phalanx of Computer Hobbits. I spared no expense on this. I pulled out all the stops and got my best men on it. Sam, Merry, Bilbo, Frodo, both of the Gandalfs, Eyebrows, the dwarf and the little goblin man with the jewelry fixation. 

Now I don’t know much about computers – in fact I wrote my first ever battle report on the underside of a concrete slab thinking it to be an iPad – but the self-proclaimed Fellowship of the Ping’ told me they reversed the polarity something something something which allowed them to track something something something with a bucket of fried noodles something something something Star Trek Star Wars Battlestar Galactica giving us the exact location of the Baron’s hideout. 

Isla de la Cabeza del Mono Secreto – The Island of the Secret Monkey Head.

What step was next to take? Simple. Leave the comfortable dwellings of our New Caledonian Headquarters and covertly set up camp on the island. 

On arrival, we familiarized ourselves with the lay of the land and located Baron Von Schnitzel’s POO. 

And that is why I’m drinking brandy from a mug like a common peasant.

We intend to stay here on Isla de la Cabeza del Mono Secreto for a few more weeks before we attack the Baron. I feel that it would be foolish to rush in, guns blazing. We need to be patient and bide our time. Formulate a really ’triffic plan and execute it with precise precision. 

Before I bid you all a fond fare-thee-well I have one more piece of news.  Operation LETHAL UREMIA was a raging homosexual! I mean success. Operation LETHAL UREMIA was a raging success. Our double agent managed to integrate herself so well into the Baron’s ranks that she was promoted twice before her first Chipmunk Breakfast. 

In fact, after only a week she was promoted to second-in-command of the entire Hairless Chipmunk Army. Delightful. 

However, shortly after promotion things got a little too hairy (excuse the pun) and she requested immediate extraction and I graciously obliged. The agent is currently on her way back to New Caledonia as we speak for debriefing and delousing.

I suppose I can now reveal the identity of our double agent. The mission is over and there is no longer a security risk. The agent was none other than Sergeant Amelia Luther. You may remember Sgt Luther as the attractive, full bodied brunette who dwells within our trenches. I, on the other hand, know her as the integral cog in the giant robotic spider of peace that sprays its sticky white web of righteousness all over the face of ne’er-do-wells and miscreants. 

In fact, I received an email from her, containing important information about the Baron’s set up, just before starting my battle report. I haven’t had a chance to read it yet. Well, no time like the present I suppose. We shall read it all together. 

Operative: Sergeant Amelia Luther
Location: Isla de la Cabeza del Mono Secreto
Objective: Gather intel from behind enemy lines. 

Greetings, my Captain. 
I am pleased to report that the mission was a raging homosexual. Bugger. 
I am pleased to report that the mission was a raging success. 

I infiltrated the Baron’s headquarters and ranks with a surprising amount of ease. The Baron was being, as you’ve so handsomely put it, a big girl, and was too busy weeping, then touching himself, then weeping some more, to notice a new and unregistered soldier drifting freely through his ranks. 

For three long weeks I passed through the halls of the Baron’s POO. Three lonely weeks. I missed my cot in the trenches. The scent of a well maintained and oiled rifle. The radioactive glow of the New Caledonian sunset. But most of all, Sir, I missed my Captain. 

Oh my. 

I got through the long and lonely nights by casting my mind back to happier times. Remember that night in May? You took me out to New Caledonia’s finest eatery? We drank, we danced, we dined. Then you took me back to your quarters and fu---

Not important … Skip ahead … Skip ahead … 

---upside down  and with the garden hose firmly shoved---

Keep going …

---covered in marmalade---

Little bit more … 

---gasmed all over the place. 

That will do. 

It was memories, such as these, that got me through. 

After a few cunning maneuvers, taught to me by a very dashing and manly Captain, I was able to assert myself at the pinnacle of the Chipmunk Hierarchy. I stood next to the enemy, so close I could see the salt on his cheeks.

But things went south. 

The Baron became very friendly. On more than one occasion he awarded me superfluous medals just so he could pin them to my chest. 


On more than one occasion he insisted on being present during ‘morning ablutions’ so that he could confirm that my chipmunk was hairless. 

I’m going to kill him. 

I decided to make the call for extraction after I discovered he was hiding his COCK in his pocket. He pulled it out and wedged his COCK between my breasts. He then suggested that I get breast surgery that would allow him to slip his COCK in and have me manipulate his COCK and blow white Christmas everywhere. 

I should explain that the Baron’s COCK is a device that---

I’m going to kill him. I’M GOING TO BLOODY KILL HIM! 








10. Wee Willy Wanker


Back to business! Although I have suffered a slight defeat at the hands of Captain Douglass L Oakwood, the result of which being that he blew up one of my nukes headed for China (finally), we shall now move on and come up with a new plan to take over the world, destroy it, eradicate the Captain, consume some pancakes and hop in bed for a little nap. Not necessarily in that order. For example, we could go to bed, destroy some pancakes, eradicate the world and consume the Captain. Or even eradicate some pancakes, destroy the bed and be in the Captain. Not too fussed really, but what I am fussed about is the plan.

(Insert Amelia Luther coming over to the Chipmunk Dictation microphone and standing next to the Baron)

Amelia? Can I help you?

(Insert Amelia Luther shaking her head)

Oh, by the way Chipmunks, this is Amelia. She is my second-in-command, if you didn’t already know. Don't worry, I have ... investigated her thoroughly and have concluded that her ... ‘Chipmunk’ ... er ... is without doubt ... um ... hairless.

(Insert Amelia Luther nodding)

And now, to the PLAN.

(Insert Amelia Luther removing a notebook and pen)

Ah, you see Chipmunks? This is a great way to get ahead in my organisation. Look how dedicated she is, my Amelia. Writing down every word I say so that she can follow all of my orders to the last letter. Well done Amelia, let me award you with a medal ...

(Insert the Baron removing a medal from his medal box and pinning it on Amelia's Chipmunk jacket)

Wow ... right there on ... your breast ...

(Insert inappropriate groping)

(Insert Amelia Luther staring at the Baron)

Soft ... almost cushiony really, isn't it? You know, sometimes I wish breasts were moldable. When I was a kid I wished my mother's dirty pillows were. Would've saved money on Play-Doh and there would have been a certain satisfaction in shaping Mum's tits into Dinosaurs ...

(Insert awkward ... everything)

Well ... enough of that. 

(Insert the Baron dusting Amelia's breasts)


(Insert Amelia Luther staring at the Baron)

Aren't you going to write this down?

(Insert Amelia Luther removing a notebook and pen)

Stage One: to begin, I must first assassinate Captain Douglas L Oakwood. He has too long been a thorn in my cute little bottom. To achieve this I have hired a top-notch, high-class, five-star, tip-top assassin named Alfie-Jay. He calls himself THE HYPHENATOR, which is the stupidest name I have ever heard but the results speak for themselves. In the one week that I’ve known him he has killed two cats, slaughtered a Portuguese alpaca, destroyed 12 pancakes and maimed a landscaping job with uncanny skill. The man is a killer; no-doubt, fo-sho, cold-as-ice. And  as I think back on  my word choice  I realiseTHE HYPHENATOR has  butchered my grammar in the short time he was here. No matter. He is now out in the field, hunting down his prey, and I foresee it won’t be long before the Captain is another victim of THE HYPHENATOR. 

(Insert Amelia scribbling furiously in her notebook)

Stage Two: next, I will destroy the Moon with our last nuclear missile. I will do this for three reasons:

a) It will cause massive tidal waves. Landmass after landmass will be swallowed by the ocean, destroying cites and armies that may stand in my way. 

b) It will disrupt women’s menstrual cycles. Currently, women ovulate when the moon is full. With the Moon destroyed, women will be incapacitated and the men will be too busy to stand up and fight against me as they will be tasked with obtaining Nurofen from the local chemist. Whilst they are otherwise occupied, red victory will gush from thighs around the world, drowning me in salty success. 

c) Ok, I admit it … there is no third reason. I don’t know why I said there was. Evil plans always seem to work better in threes. FOR EXAMPLE …

Stage Three: once the moon has been destroyed, I will unleash upon the world my greatest invention yet. This machine controls the weather, destroys cites with a single thunderstorm and zaps armies with a multitude of thunderbolts. And the most ingenious aspect of this invention is that it is a size of a thimble. 

(Insert the Baron pulling out a slim, small metal device from his pocket)

I call it my Climate Overdrive Controlled Kamikaze machine, or  COCK. 

(Insert Amelia scribbling furiously in her notebook)

As you can see, what I said about my COCK being quite small is true. I can slip my COCK in my pocket and no one will ever notice. There … you see? You don’t even know I have my COCK in my pocket, do you? Chipmunk #664, come over here. Speak honestly. Is there anyway you can tell I have my COCK in my pocket? 

(Insert Chipmunk #664 shaking his head)

I take my hand out of my pocket, and can you see what’s in it? Looks like nothing, right? Wrong! My COCK is in my hand and you didn’t even know! Amelia, come here for a sec. The beauty about my COCK is that you can slip it anywhere without drawing too much attention to yourself. For example, observe as I slip my COCK in Amelia’s cleavage without anyone being any the wiser. And there it sits. My COCK is sitting quite comfortably between your breasts and no one can see it! However, there are future applications that we haven’t even considered. If we were to, let’s say, make Amelia’s breast moldable, turn my COCK on and switch it to the setting SNOW BLOW, the breast could wrap completely around my COCK, hold that position, be invisible to enemy strip searches and await the right time to pull out and shoot an early white Christmas all over the enemy’s face. 

By the way Amelia, report to the medical lab to have moldable breast surgery performed tomorrow at 0600 hrs …

(Insert Amelia Luther staring at the Baron)

So that is my plan. 

(Insert Amelia saying she needs to make a phone call)

Hmmm? Yes, yes. Fine. Now where was I? Oh yes! My plan! Rather devious, isn’t it? However, as smart as it is, only one thing will ensure its success. The latest intelligence. The lay of the land, as they say. 

(Insert Chipmunk #093428 handing the Baron the latest intelligence report)

Ah! You see? Without even asking for it! I have trained these Chipmunks well. Their foresight and my leadership have turned us into a well-oiled …

(Insert the Baron scanning the report)

The HYPHENATOR has been killed in action? The nuke has been destroyed? My COCK has been stolen?

(Insert the Baron slapping his pockets)

My COCK! It’s gone!


COCK-less and Hyphenated



09. Take A Memo. Don't Write That Part.

Greetings soldiers. 

Well this week has been a good week. It has been a tremendous week. I may even go so far as to say that this week has been a fantastic week. Not since August of 1999 has a week been so good as to make me want to literally dance with glee. 

Rest assured though, my loyal soldiers, that I will not be dancing with glee as I am not a raging homosexual. 

This week, though, has been tremendous. Not since August of 1995 (the release of ‘The Macarena’) have I experience a week of such unadulterated bliss. Joy runs through my veins like a soft and wet and sticky syrup making me feel altogether lovely and fluffy and wonderful. 

One may find oneself asking as to the whyness of my soft and wet and sticky syrupy joy making me feel altogether lovely and fluffy and wonderful, and one would be in a recipient of glad tidings for asking such a handsome and sexy and well groomed question.  

Let’s be candid here for a moment. This war is already won. There is no future in which Baron Von Schnitzel wins and takes over. He may believe that his forces have the ability to pull our shirts over our heads and go to town on our soft underbellies, but the reality of the situation is that the man is nothing more than a dried up piece of ham with a beard wrapped around it. He poses no actual threat to us. He’s just like that mole you have on your shoulder. You know it’s there, you know you should keep an eye on it; but if it gets too big you simply get your knife, drink a pint of brandy and carve the little blighter out. 

He is nothing. A big nothing. But … then again … he is a big nothing with an army and nuclear missiles. So there’s that. 

You see, my soldiers, this week has seen the unfolding of events that have tilted the scales of war even further in our favor and I will detail these events for you now: 

1, The vending machines have been fixed.
A hungry army is a poor army. A thirsty army is a raspy army. An army without a machine that dispenses the used undergarments of school girls is obviously not Japanese. 

For months our vending machines have not been operational. Sitting dormant throughout the trenches these hulking dispensers of treats have taunted us and stolen our loose change with the empty promise of delicious, life bring beverages in return. Finally, after countless strongly worded letters, a dozen partitions and the overenthusiastic kidnapping of a CEO’s daughter, the fine chaps from VENDING PTY LTD sent a technician who was shot in the head three times by the Baron’s forces before he entered. So, at the risk of further overenthusiastic kidnapping, VENDING PTY LTD sent another technician with a shiny helmet. Sadly, the helmet did nothing to protect the second technician from the land mine he stepped on. The third technician was flown in via helicopter. His body was never recovered. This went on for about a fortnight. 

After thirteen technicians we finally had one reach our vending machine. He was battered and bruised and missing both his arms but somehow he was able to fix the machines before going into shock and dying. His last words were a mighty scream to the heavens: ‘THEY WEREN’T TURNED ON! THEY WEREN’T TURNED ON!’ If he had arms, he would have flung them in the air, I’ll bet. 

So now we have vending machines that dispense water, soda, boiled sweets, crisps, Final Will & Testament packages and small firearms. Progress! 

2. Warrant Officer Baxter Hollingsworth made brownies.
They were delicious and moist and poo to you with knobs on if you haven’t tried them yet because I ate the last one. 

3. Baron Von schnitzel has shown his hand.

Remember the business a few weeks ago with the Clostridium botulinum cookies? For the uneducated: I hired two scientists, Akmehd Ray Bin Cameldeep and Svensson Von Christmasburger, to create new and exciting culinary dishes with minimal ingredients, using science, in an effort to hold off the ever groping hand of cannibalism as our numbers grew and rations thinned. As it turned out, I should have done a slightly more thorough background check as both men turned out to be agents of the Baron. They tried to poison us all and it was assumed, by a great many people, that I was dead. So I used this misinformation to my tactical advantage and released the following report: 

Fellow Soldiers, 

Other than the 467 dead nameless, cannon fodder soldiers, this war has claimed its first casualty. Captain Douglas L Oakwood. Killed by the very scientists he hired to protect us and ensure our quality of life. Transcript of death follows:

Wow. This cookie looks delicious. What’s in it? 

Science and flavour is in it. You eat now. 

Gee. That’s not suspicious and therefore has answered all my questions appropriately. Nom nom nom. 

Captain Oakwood nom nom nommed the cookie down, allowing Clostridium botulinum, which was baked into the cookies with the tender love and care of the world’s most illustrious pastry chef, to get into his belly. 

Little known fact about Clostridium botulinum: it is the world’s deadliest bacteria.

Once the bacteria got into the belly it went to work. Over the next three hours, Captain Oakwood’s stomach lining turned into lead, then a nameless gloop, then lead again, then ash, then mango jelly and then into fire – not metaphorical fire, ACTUAL FIRE. His stomach lining combusted and he proceeded to burn from the inside out until all that was left was a charred husk. 

It wasn’t fun to watch. My kids were there. The murderous one is now playing with matches. I wager there’s only days before he sets the roof, the roof, the roof on fire and then gets no water and lets the mother (donkey noise) burn. 

From the moment the cookie touched his lips he was doomed. Medical staff tried to save him but it was less than successful. Have you ever seen a paramedic try to resuscitate someone whose lungs have been burned away? It feeds the fire and makes it bigger. We don’t have a single paramedic with eyebrows now.

What was left of Captain Oakwood’s body was removed and donated to science. Science then said, ‘No thanks … you keep it’, and it was promptly dumped in the river. 

Thus ends the heroic tale of Captain Oakwood. 

NOT Captain Douglas L Oakwood 
Do You Think They Bought It? Don’t Write That Part. 

So my trap was set. Surely, Baron Von Schnitzel would hear of my death and act as though he were king of the world. 

Unexpectedly, intelligence showed that his reactions were quite the opposite. He flapped about his quarters aimlessly, distraught, pondering his own existence and mindlessly stealing and launching nuclear weapons – like a big girl’s blouse. 

After a week of waiting and watching, I finally intercepted orders for a nuclear strike on China. Using a phalanx of computer hobbits, I was able to trace the orders back to its POO. We rigged up our new Oakwood Satellite (patent pending) and were able to confirm this POO to be Baron Von Crybaby’s current hiding place. 

Quite frankly, after viewing the Baron in his natural habitat and natural form, I can confirm that ignorance is indeed bliss. I saw a naked and dishevelled Baron wandering through the open air courtyards of his POO screaming at the sky, weeping uncontrollably, drinking flamboyant cocktails and kicking smaller animals in the face.

With a masterful flick of the wrist, I pressed the big red button and destroyed the nukes threatening to destroy China … again … a second time. 

Okay … so he blew up China once before. I dropped the ball on that one but come on … it’s only China. They’re tenacious. It’ll grow back. 

So my soldiers, to summarise, the vending machines are fixed, I ate brownies, and we know exactly where Baron Von Schnitzel is hiding. All the symptoms of a good week, I feel. 

And to decorate this cake of joy with a cherry of cheer, I’ve found the Baron has allowed me to finally put Operation: LETHAL UREMIA into action.

Operation: LETHAL UREMIA is a top secret, secret mission I’ve secretly been planning, in secret, secretly for some time now. The operation itself involves placing a double agent inside the Baron’s headquarters. It is genius in its simplicity. Once inside, they are to immerse themselves within the ranks of the Hairless Chipmunks all the while reporting back to me on things like infantry movements, battle plans, sexual conquests and, most importantly, finding out how he got his Carbonara sauce so damned creamy. 

The agent has been instructed to keep a low profile. The less people who know the double agent’s face, the better. Anonymity is the key. The second the agent’s identity is revealed, Operation: LETHAL UREMIA will be cancelled, all agents will be disavowed and all superiors will whistle, nonchalantly, when asked about it during our inevitable court martial.

So far, though, all things LETHAL UREMIA are looking good. Most recent communications indicate the agent has successfully infiltrated the POO and has had at least two friendly cups of Chinotto with Chipmunk #498. 

Once we have gathered enough information from our agent we will plan our big push, our final attack, our last hurrah, and hopefully we will be able to burst the boil that is the Baron once and for all and we can all go back home. 

Loyal soldiers. I thank you for your time. I would like to remind you all that I am a friendly Captain with an open door policy and I very rarely shoot people for asking me silly questions at inopportune moments. If any of you have any questions about this war, about Baron Von Schnitzel or about how I get my moustache looking so fantastic, please do not hesitate to ask through one of the many forms of communication available to us in the world of frighteningly intelligent computers. If I find out that you haven’t asked because you’re too scared or too intimidated I will have you shot or at least tickled until you wee


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I Need To Wee. Don’t Write That Part Either. 



08. War Is A Two Player Game

(Insert the Baron shuffling out of his room, wearing nothing but a dressing gown, slippers and his trusty broadsword)

(Insert the Baron shuffling over to the Chipmunk bar and grabbing a bottle of Chipmunk Vodka)

(Insert the Baron shuffling over to his Chipmunk dictation microphone)


Chipmunks …

All direction in my life is gone. World domination seems pointless now. As you know, our enemy, our nemesis, our adversary, our antagonist, our foe, our opponent, our opposition, our assailant, our contender, our archenemy, the very very very very bad person ...

(Insert the Baron’s thesaurus exploding and killing several Chipmunks with noun shrapnel.)

… The one and only Captain Douglas L Oakwood is dead. 

(Insert the Baron drinking from the bottle.)

I mean, what’s the point in dominating the world if no one is going to stop us? 

(Insert the Baron drinking from the bottle.)

It’s too easy, that’s the problem! I mean, we stole nukes from North Korea -  just waltzed right in and took them! 

… We do have the nukes, don’t we?

(Insert Chipmunk #98 nodding.)

You see? Too easy. All that and before lunch! I haven’t even had a shower yet. I could blow up any country or continent I want whilst scratching my balls. In fact, scratching my balls is more of a challenge than what I currently face. So many questions. Do I stretch and scratch or do I pinch and roll? Mind-boggling compared to the obstacles I face with world domination. And let’s face facts, they’re non-existent. 


(Insert the Baron drinking from the bottle.)

[PROFOUND WORD DELETED] this, I’m going back to bed. 

(Insert Chipmunk #986 asking for orders.)

I don’t know … Blow up China?

(Insert Chipmunk #765 saluting.)

(Insert Chipmunk #765 pressing the LAUNCH NUCLEAR WEAPON button.)

(Insert the Baron shuffling back to bed.)

(Insert alarm sound coming from the Chipmunk console.) 

(Insert Chipmunk #986 and Chipmunk #765 scratching their heads and muttering about the alarm.)

(Insert the Baron racing back.)

What is it? What’s going on?

(Insert the shrugging of many shoulders.)

C’mon people, talk to me. What’s happening? Where’s the latest report?

(Insert Chipmunk #986 handing a piece of paper to the Baron.)

(Insert the Baron reading out loud)

Nothing’s wrong, everything’s ok. All systems go.  No need to worry or lose your temper. Please don’t lose your temper …

(Insert the Baron glaring at Chipmunk #986.)

(Insert Chipmunk #986 crying, pleading, begging.)

(Insert the unsheathing of a broadsword.)

(Insert the inserting of a broadsword.)

(Insert Chipmunk #986 dropping dead.)

(Insert the Baron turning and glaring atChipmunk #765.)

Now. Give me a [PROFOUND WORD DELETED] report!

(Insert Chipmunk #765 handing a piece of paper to the Baron.)

(Insert the Baron reading out loud)

My dear Sharon,

If you are reading this, I am probably dead. 

By now, the Baron has killed me for doing something that I shouldn’t have. Perhaps I disobeyed an order. Perhaps I obeyed an order I should have disobeyed. Or perhaps I accidentally handed him this letter when I should have handed him a battle report. Wouldn’t that be silly ...

(Insert the Baron glaring at Chipmunk #765.)

(Insert Chipmunk #765 crying, pleading, begging.)

(Insert the unsheathing of a broadsword.)

(Insert the inserting of a broadsword.)

(Insert Chipmunk #765 dropping dead.)

(Insert the Baron looking at the rest of the Chipmunk soldiers standing around.)

Seriously, if I don’t get a report soon, I’m going to kill every [PROFOUND WORD DELETED] last one of you!

(Insert Chipmunk #662 stepping forward and handing the Baron a report.)

(Insert the Baron reading)

The nuke that was launched has been destroyed. Intelligence confirms that Captain Douglas L Oakwood’s forces destroyed the nuke using a Counterforce Ballistic Missile …

Wait … He’s alive?!

(Insert Chipmunk #662 nodding.)


(Insert the Baron smashing the bottle of vodka against the wall.)

Right, time to get serious …

(Insert the Baron throwing off his dressing gown and kicking off his slippers.)

(Insert the Baron putting his hands on his hips.)

First thing first, shut that [PROFOUND WORD DELETED] alarm off. Then send out an Emergency response squad, see if they can’t find the [PROFOUND WORD DELETED] who destroyed our nuke. If they do find the enemy, bring them back here for interrogation. In the meantime, have my clothes laundered, run a hot shower and make me a stack of pancakes. 

(Insert Chipmunk #662 staring at the Baron’s naked body)

Did you hear what I said? 

(Insert Chipmunk #662 staring at the Baron’s naked body)


(Insert the Baron snapping his fingers in front of Chipmunk #662’s face.)

(Insert Chipmunk #662 snapping out of it.)

Did you hear what I said?

(Insert Chipmunk #662 nodding.)

Good. Nice work, by the way. What’s your name?

(Insert Chipmunk #662 pointing to the name tag that says Chipmunk #662.)

No, I meant, what’s your real name? 

(Insert Chipmunk #662 whispering into the Baron’s ear.)

Amelia Luther? Well Amelia, you’ve really helped me out today. You and your … tight fitting … Chipmunk uniform … You know what? I’m going to promote you. How would you like to be my second-in-command?

(Insert Amelia nodding.)

Excellent. My orders from before are to be carried out immediately. Then after I have dressed  I will … inspect you … to make sure you are hairless … Yes … Yes, that will do nicely … 

(Insert Amelia nodding.)

I’m back in business, baby!

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Understaffed and Overhung



07. My Moustache Brings All the Boys To The Yard

Baron Von Schnitzel. The lying maniacal puddle of sputum. 

In recent reports you may have come across a story. A story that was said to be the origin of the Baron. This story has been fabricated using the highest quality bullshit, extracted directly from the anus of a cow who claims to be Beyoncé. Fiction. Fiction. Fiction. Nothing but purest fiction. 

Now let me tell you what really happened. 

Okay … I lied. It is all true. Well … except for the part about my steely blue-grey eyes. They are clearly cobalt blue, not steely blue-grey. 

I offer to you all my most humble apologies. I knew Baron Von Schnitzel when he was simply Herbertó. Silly Spanish name. Never did like it. You know, I think things would have turned out very differently if he’d had a less silly name … like Pablo Santiago or something. 

The story you know is that I saved Herbertó from execution at the hands of the British Army and whisked him away to a cabin for mysterious and unknown reasons. There we stayed and our friendship blossomed into something special. We lived together, we dined together, we laughed together. We danced the dance that only lovers dance. Fate had entangled us like two bearded men at a party who pass out on each other only to wake up and realise their beards have entangled. 

Then, with seemingly no cause, I abruptly left scathing young Herbertó with a venomous taunt.  

Thus, it is by my own hand that I find myself on the battlefield today. 

The truth of the matter is this: I knew Herbertó long before he knew me. For a brief period of time I was contracted by the Military and found myself standing shoulder to shoulder with the likes of MI6. My brief service there involved a rather uninspiring mission to Moscow where I killed a Russian and kidnapped a few kids … Really, this is the boring part of the story. 

During the mission I became rather friendly with a young spy by the name of Melissa Thorpe. Her specialty was information and shepherd’s pie. In her few years as a young agent at MI6 she had extracted information that could bring the world to its roughed up knees if she wanted it to – and her shepherd’s pie was second to none. 

After a quick dead Russian (also a cocktail) and a job well done, we found ourselves sitting next to each other on our flight back to London. Melissa and I shared a few dead Russians (with a couple of Corrupted politicians thrown in for the road) and started swapping stories. 

You see, the problem with dead Russians is that they contain enough Vodka to kill a Russian – hence the name. So two of them and you’ll find yourself waking up in Cardiff with no legs and wallet full of someone else’s poo. 

So the conversation got liberal. 

Melissa started telling me amazing information. She told me how cheese is altering our atomic weight, how tracking chips were implanted into the populous via meningococcal vaccinations, and how the government had discovered the ability to use a certain type of human hair as a devastating explosive device. She went on to tell me that this explosive gene, codenamed BOOMFRO, was obscenely rare and could only be found in one lineage. To make matters even more tricky, there was only one known living member of that family tree: Herberto “Herbie” Fuents. 

Now if there is one thing I know, it’s military. If there are two things: military and government. If there are three things: military and government and how to make the perfect waffle. 

As soon as Melissa told me about Herbie I knew what would happen to him if he were ever caught by our government. Hideous experiments and tests all to harvest his BOOMFRO. Luckily, Herbie was in Spain. If the British were to enter Spain and extract a citizen with no just cause, it would be considered and act of war. So for the time being, Herbie was safe. 

Then came the winter of 1980. Nothing happened. 

Then came the winter of 1981. Everything happened. 

I watched the news reports of Spain’s coup. It was a bloodied mess of moustaches and Spaniards, and in amongst them stood Herbie. Tall and proud, fighting for his country clad in the precious hair that made him a target.

It was his eyes that drew me in. They were not the eyes of a fighter or a warrior or a killer of puppies. They were the eyes of a man who knew who he was. They were the eyes of a man who knew right from wrong, good from evil, ketchup from tomato sauce. 

I knew, in my heart of hearts, that if he were to perish in this coup it would be for the best: his family tree would perish with him, and the governments of the world would never be able to run their fingers through his BOOMFRO. 

Alas, perish he did not. In fact he was doing extraordinarily well for a man who up until that point had been a goat farmer. A little too well. Liberation was imminent and the British military was being called in. My heart sank. I knew that with the military invited into Spain they would surely take the opportunity to covertly seize Herbie and start the experiments. 

I leapt from the couch and ran out the door. Then ran back in the door, got dressed, and ran back out, apologising to my neighbors along the way. I went to HQ and called in every favour, pulled every string, and fondled every buttock to get myself in the platoon being sent to Spain. 

On arrival in Spain I grew a moustache, then found Herbie and whisked him away, informing my superiors that I was ‘following up a lead and certainly not harbouring a dangerous and wanted revolutionist’. They bought the story and never once questioned it. 

Days, months, years passed as Herbie and I shared out time together in the cabin. 

Honestly, as with any relationship, there were trying times. Our differences in opinion on the world of olives was always an issue, as was Herbie’s inability to appreciate a fine whiskey without sodomising it with cola. These were the sort of mild frictions found betwixt any two people living in such close quarters, and they were not the catalyst of our demise. 

The catalyst was a phone call I received on a Wednesday in June. 

I was fishing when my Shoe Phone started to ring. It was MI6. Melissa Thorpe. She explained to me that MI6 got tired of explaining to people that, ‘no, James Bond doesn’t work here’, and finally started focusing on proper missions. Mission BOOMFRO BOOMTOWN was ready to launch. MI6 had analysed footage of the coup and identified Herbie as the man with the BOOMFRO. They’d then cut a deal with the Spanish government: in return for their assistance with the revolutionists, MI6 had permission to seek out the man with the BOOMFRO and extract him for whatever purpose they saw fit. Melissa said my services had been contracted to MI6. My orders were to track, capture and extract Herbie and deliver him to the British Government. 

I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it. But I also couldn’t refuse because refusal would lead to questions, questions would lead to investigations and investigation would surely lead everyone straight to the BOOMFRO. 

I knew what I had to do. 

I returned home where Herbie was waiting with a fresh meal. Herbie thought himself a great cook. Truthfully: average at best. I’d been sneaking salt, pepper, spices, condiments, even very small cheeseburgers into his meals the entire time we’d been staying together. But on this day, I made it obvious. 

I honestly thought that dumping an entire bottle of BBQ sauce onto the meal would enrage him, force him to attack me and leave, never looking back. Instead, he cried like a little girl begging for my love and forgiveness. 

My plan wasn’t working.  I didn’t want to, but I knew it would have to be me who left, scolding him enough that he would not come looking for me. So I told him I could never love someone as hairy as he. 

Making him believe his hair was the catalyst to our separation caused him to loathe his own body hair and remove it at all cost. If Herbie continuously removed his hair he would eventually become useless to the government and would be able to conceal himself. 

I spent another year in Spain pretending to seek out the BOOMFRO, hoping that my path would not cross with Herbie’s, and then transferred back to England. After three more years of half-heartedly searching for BOOMFRO MI6 decided to drop the investigation, suggesting that the target was killed in the coup all those years ago. 

Four weeks after the investigation was closed I was back on the battlefield fighting Russians in Alaska. 

Somewhere along the line, Herbie transformed into the Baron Von Schnitzel we know today. I set those wheels in motion and now they are running at full speed toward self destruction. 

This is why I have dedicated my life to stopping Baron Von Scnhitzel. I created him. I must destroy him. 

If I don’t … I’ll probably just become an accountant or something boring like that. 
Well … thanks a lot Herb for forcing me to share those painful memories with all my soldiers. That sure was a lot of fun. My favourite warhound died as well, shall we chat about that? 


I am mentally and physically exhausted now, so I’m going to slink into a warm and comfy leather armchair, pour myself a glass of whiskey that’s older than I am, and drink until I forget where my arms are. 


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My Moustache Brings All the Boys To The Yard
PS: You’re probably wondering how I survived the tainted cookies? The answer is really quite simple: sugar cane. You put that puzzle together and I’ll get you knighted.



06. The complete guide to Rock Battle & Croquet


Captain Douglas L Oakwood is dead. 

That was easy. A little bit too easy. I expected more. Perhaps a final shootout at the Alright Corral, filled with slow motion action, muted real life sounds and a beautiful soundtrack over the top, highlighting the unnecessary act of war. Or a sword fight between him and myself, sparks flying off our blades, somersaulting over various barricades, until at last, I stab him. OR we wrestle, me bare-chested, muscles gleaning with oil, him wearing a homoerotic chainmail vest, nipples still present. Punching, clawing, groping, grasping eventually ending by the Captain dying as I penetrate his torso with a huge steam pipe. I would then make some ‘steam’ related pun and go on my way.  Or a classic ROCK BATTLE. We would circle each other in the Rock Battle arena, rocks in our hands. They could be igneous rocks, sedimentary rocks or the good old-fashioned metamorphic rocks, it wouldn’t matter, but eventually I would bash his head in with my rock of choice, and once again a ‘rock’ related pun would be in order. 

Screen Shot 2014-01-21 at 10.11.21 am.png

Alas, it was not to be. In the end it was a simply cookie that killed the Captain and as they say, that is how the cookie crumbles. Maybe I should put the puns aside and give more details. 

I sent two of my best Double Agents, Achmed Ray Bin Cameldeep and Svensson Von Christmasburger to find the Captain’s base, disguise themselves as scientists and poison the whole Head Quarters with a batch of Clostridium Botulinum cookies. They succeeded, the Captain is dead… and the worst thing is I don’t know how to feel about it. 

(Insert the Baron wiping a tear from his eye)

Chipmunks… can I be honest with you? The truth is that the Captain and I have a history. I know, at this point some of you are shocked, some of you will be gasping loudly, others will be slapping your cheek while your jaws will be hitting the ground, others will have simply dropped dead… either from surprise or by eating Clostridium Botulinum cookies, I couldn’t tell. However, the fact remains. We do have a history and well, even though at this point my enemy is dead, he was once my friend.

Let me explain. Before I became Baron Von Schnitzel, I was known as Herbertó “Herbie” Fueñtes, a young Spaniard in the Spanish Armed Forces. It was the winter of ’81 and Spain had just established a democratic society. This caused unrest in the SAF, violence erupted throughout Spain, unemployment rose, food shortage began and my Army amigos and I truly believed that democracy was not the answer to these problems. So, with a shout of “Largo vive la revolución!” two hundred soldiers, including myself picked up our sub machine guns and stormed the Congress of Deputies of the Spanish Parliament. 

Shortly after we burst into the room, tripped over untied shoelaces, fired a few accidental shots and captured the necessary hostages, the news spread like wildfire. The media went crazy and details of our coup had reached international ears. Margaret “Prune face” Thatcher, then Prime Minister of the UK called our coup a terrorist act. Us! Terrorists! I tell you Chipmunks, during my life I have been stabbed, shot and on several occasions have been kicked very firmly in the balls. But being called a “terrorist”, well THAT really hurt. I was fighting for the Spanish people, for what was right. I mean, after all what was Democracy but Capitalism in disguise? To be called a terrorist by a very ugly woman was galling. In one sentence, Margaret Thatcher had condemned us as bad guys and with a flick of her wrinkled wrist, she issued British Forces to assist the Democratic party regain control. 

We had everything going for us, we had the weapons, we had the tanks, we had the hostages but we didn’t have the balls. Upon hearing that the British had become involved, our leader, Lieutenant-Colonel Antonio Tejero, surrendered. 

That dickless wonder. 

All were shocked that he had given up. All we could do was put down our guns and await the trials and imprisonment that were sure to follow. We stood outside, arms in the air, squinting at the rising sun, when the Leader of the British forces approached us, a 2nd Lieutenant named Douglas L Oakwood. Although a young officer, his steely blue-grey eyes showed experience and there was a firm jut to his jaw. His soldiers started to restrain and relocate their new prisoners to await trial but when a young Corporal went to zip-tie my hands, 2nd Lieutenant Oakwood stopped him and simply said, “I’ll take care of this one”. I was placed in the Lieutenant’s car and after his officer duties were conducted, he drove me to a small cabin located in the Spanish mountains. 

Such happy times! I’ll be honest, Chipmunks. I could not say why Doug saved me, but save me he did and we spent many years in that cabin. He would teach me English and I would teach him how to fight Grizzly bears. Doug would outline the rules of Chess and introduced me to a good ol’ cup of tea while I would make my famous Seafood Paella and hand feed him olives. We would both sit on the porch, smoking fine tobacco, sipping on a fine whisky and gazing out at the picturesque Mountain View. Doug would twirl my chest hair with his finger while I would stroke his rosy nipples and admire at how soft his man breast was. I was complete. But somewhere along the way, it all changed. Chess became boring, Doug started to complain about the taste of olives, I became disgusted at his feet, he complained about my stench and I started to mix whiskey with coke, much to his horror. Then one day, Doug was out and I decided to amend the slight disagreements we were having by cooking my Seafood Paella. I spent hours cooking and when it was finally done, I laid it on the table, with candles and our best cutlery. Doug walked though the door, without a hello and sat down at the table. Then he did something, something that you should never ever do to a Wog. He opened a can of tuna, dumped it unceremoniously on the Paella and then proceeded to drown it with BBQ sauce. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. All those hours cooking, ensuring all that taste was in the food, once served not needing a single condiment, a single grain of salt, a single spice added and here was this Anglo-Saxon piece of (PROFOUND WORD DELETED) destroying all my hard work.

It was all too much.

I screamed. He stared back with emotionless eyes. I cried. He sniffed in disdain. I screamed again. He threw down his napkin and announced he was leaving. I asked why, he wouldn’t answer. I begged him, pleaded him, I pulled down his trousers and said I loved him. Doug stopped moving for the door. He looked at me with surprise. “I could not love you” he said “You’re way to hairy” and with that last scornful remark, he walked out of my life. 

In the days that followed, I was a wreck. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat and I couldn’t stand the hair that had cursed my body. I shaved it all off and when it grew it back; I ripped it out with my teeth. But it would not stop growing and he would never come back. 

I left the cabin, wandered aimlessly and fed on the local wildlife and vegetation. I became a wild man, my beard long and rugged. I travelled many countries. From Spain, to Portugal, to Egypt, Eastern Europe, Italy, Switzerland, countries passed me like a freight train. I had no direction, no meaning to life until I found myself in Germany. 

I had just taken acid and was swimming in the Rhine, shouting at the top of my voice that I had played Guess Who with Robert Downey Jr. just the night before and he had shown me his man cave when a strong, yet firm hand dragged me out of the water and slapped some sense in me. I struggled, and looked in defiance at the face that had pulled me from river. A moustachioed man stared back. He said his name was Baron Von Strudel. I said I didn’t care, to leave me alone, to let me die. He didn’t and took me to his Castle deep within the mountains. He took care of me, feed me and started my training.

You see the Baron was from a very long line of Barons going back to the dark ages. A secret brotherhood who are preparing to change the political and intellectual face of Europe, to destroy and topple governments, to create chaos and rebirth the world from its ashes as well as promote and encourage competitive play of Croquet. 

I had a purpose in life, a reason to live. 

And that’s why I’m here today. Now that Captain Douglas L Oakwood is dead, it… it should be easy… but, well I didn’t think… I mean… I thought… I knew people would die… I just didn’t think… that Doug would die…

(Insert Chipmunk #9432 asking for orders)

Orders? Well… I guess we should blow up something… shouldn’t we? 

(Insert Chipmunk #9432 nodding)

Ok blow up China. We’ll need some nukes first. Steal some from North Korea, blow up China and then we’ll invade. I’m…going to my room. I need…some time to think. 

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Friendless and alone



05. Almost Jesus (Turning Water Into Urine And Urine Into Wine)


Greetings loyal members of Oakwood’s Army. 

My heart is filled with a warm, viscous, jelly-like substance that one can only be called pride as I see more and more people joining our cause every day. I’m surrounded by a plethora of new faces and I am filled with joy. 

Like an infectious disease that not even Dustin Hoffman can stop, news of our battles are circulating the globe as the average Joe Nobody is told that even he can pick up a weapon and fight against the tyranny of Baron Von Schnitzel. 

Sadly, though, as my army grows in numbers I can’t help but find myself concerned for the safety and well being of my soldiers. I now have a lot of mouths to feed and unfortunately the powers that be only provide a small budget for Oakwood’s Army. They feel that there are more important things to spend taxpayer money on. I’ve said to them on more than one occasion “what good are public schools if they teach nothing but turban maintenance and camel cultivation?” 

Alas, the Top Brass have denied all my requests for more supplies. So as our ranks swell our rations thin. 

I can only pray that the nancy-boy pen-pushers will see our proud army fighting the good fight and think “Gee, that army is fighting the good fight, we better up their supply budget before any more of then turn to cannibals” 

Regretfully, this is not an uncommon practice in the military. On more than one occasion I’ve seen entire platoons eat themselves when rations ran scarce. 

The worst case I ever encountered was in the 90’s in Alaska. 

Snow Wars: A New Slope

The Snow Wars were the worst cluster of confrontations to ever slide across the slippery and unforgiving ice shelves of Alaska. It all started on Sunday 29th September 1996 at about 2pm. In the USA, children every went absolutely bananas at the release of the Nintendo 64 while their parents stabbed each other trying to buy them. In Houston Texas, residents look to each other and ask, “who the hell was that girl?” as Alanis Morisette brings her first US tour to a close. In Australia, the locals of the small town of Armadale all walk around a little more concussed than usual as they clean up after their worst hailstorm in history. In Russia, however, Boris Yeltsin thought to himself “I might have a little snifter of Vodka” and that he did. Three days later, Yeltsin woke up in Alaska, naked and surrounded by thirteen dead baby seals and the Alaskan mayor’s daughter… who was also naked… and dead… like the baby seals. 

Well as you can probably guess, the Alaskan Government went absolutely bananas. They thought it to be an act of war and promptly unleashed the full force of the Alaskan Army. Unfortunately, the full force of the Alaskan Army was no more than a small midget called Kevin who had the land’s most pointed spear and Yeltsin was able to hold him off, still naked, with nothing more than a firm outstretched arm. 

So the Alaskan’s called my company in. Little Johnny Ice Jacket was in a pickle and he needed good ol’ Uncle Tommy Firepower to come and get him unstuck. 

We had guns. We had bigger guns. We had soldiers, ninjas, ninja-soldiers and soldier-ninjas. We had tanks. We had grenades. We had tanks that shot grenades and we had grenades that deployed miniature tanks upon detonation. I once heard that we also had tanks that shot grenades that deployed tanks that shot grenades that deployed tanks that shot grenades that deployed tanks that shot grenades that deployed bees. Although I’m fairly sure this was just a rumor… sure would be amazing if it were true though. 


We came in, guns blazing, then Yeltsin followed suit. For months our battle raged. We pushed the line, the Yeltsin’s men pushed back. Back and forth and back and forth. It was a stalemate. 

Eventually, word got back to the Top Brass at HQ that this whole battle had come about because of some dead seals and we received the following telegram. 



I never liked Field Marshall Mathers. He was too slim and very shady. 

Never the less, orders were orders, so we packed up our trenches and made out way to the Alaskan border. Unfortunately, the Ruskies had caught wind of our plan to leave and when we got to the border they were waiting for us. They never attacked, just held the line. We were trapped. We could not leave. 

After the first week, rations ran out so we turned to seal meat. After the third week, the seals cottoned on to us and began retaliating. They fashioned weapons and started attacking us if we came to close to their homes and taverns. All the while, the Ruskies stood, at the border, taunting us, with Yeltsin standing at the front, still naked, waving his waggle wand. 

We were weak and cold and our spirit had been broken. 

At the beginning of week four the cannibalism started. 

Private Baxter Hollingsworth was the first to have a little nibble. I woke up one night with him gnawing on my toes. At first I thought this to be a rather forward sexual advance, but when he bit my toe clean off my foot, I knew it was something a little more pressing than a simple waft of homosexuality. 

The days went on and everyone was just eating each other as if it were nothing. Thompson cut off and ate Jenkins’ leg. Metcalfe killed and sautéed Anderson with a hint of wild parsley. Major Winchester even went so far as to invite me round to his trench for a Peterson Cordon Bleu, followed by Sweet & Sour Simpson with Banofee Bartholomew for pudding! All served with his self-proclaimed “world famous” Oakwood Wine. 

The wine was my urine. 

He’d been stealing my urine.

As delicious as it all was, we were losing too many men to gourmet murder. It had to stop and we needed to get the hell out of there as soon as possible. 

A few nukes later and it was bye-bye Alaska and hello sleepless nights in a comfortable bed trying to forget that I drank my own wee. 

So to ensure the safety and culinary satisfaction of my ever growing army, I have hired two scientists to stay here with us, at the barracks, and create new and wonderful foods out of ingredients and materials that can be found simply lying on the ground using the magic and wizardry of SCIENCE! I want my troops to be healthy and strong when Baron Von Schnitzel eventually pops his ugly head out from the excrement-covered rock he’s been hiding under. 

The two scientists are named Achmed Ray Bin Cameldeep and Svensson Von Christmasburger. Make them feel welcome with a smile and a friendly greeting. You can’t miss them. They’re the two men in white lab coats with absolutely no body hair. They have assured me that it is because of science. I can’t pretend to understand science so I trust it’s all legitimate. 

In fact, tonight there will be a feast in the mess tent to celebrate their arrival. Achmed and Svensson have prepared the food themselves. Seven courses of delicious food created by science. I’m told the food prepared will be simply to die for. 

Now onto more pressing matters. 

Baron Von Schnitzel. Has anyone found him yet? No they bloody well haven’t. He is playing “the slippery eel” and he is winning. We need to find him and cut the head right off his eel as quickly as possible before he hatches some sort of eel based plan in which he fills the world’s water supplies with live eels and… we all end up drinking eel excrement or something. 

In an effort to find Baron Von Schnitzel I have also hired one of the worlds most decorated and revered trackers. The true backstory of this man is a mystery. They say that at the age of six months, he was left to die in a cave in Africa. A pack of hungry hyenas found him and tried to eat him but he snapped three of their necks. After that, they respected him and raised him as one of their own, teaching him how to stalk, hunt and kill his prey. At the age of sixteen, he left the cave and started selling his skills to the man with the chunkiest coin purse. He is said to be responsible for the Kennedy assassination, the death of Michael Jackson and has found Elvis Presley, alive and well, on more than one occasion. If he can’t find Baron Von Schnitzel then nobody can. 

(Insert a loyal infantryman whispering in the Captain’s ear)

Well it seems nobody can. I’ve just been informed that my world-class tracker has been killed by a group of street youths, who stabbed and stole his shoes.  

Well that is a letdown. Most disappointing. I was really banking on that working. 

Well… forget it then. I’m done for the night. I am going to join Achmed and Svensson at the feast.

I’m told the first course is a New Caledonian delicacy. Clostridium Botulinum cookies. 

Bring on the feast! 


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Almost Jesus (Turning Water Into Urine And Urine Into Wine)


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04. Cookie Thumper

Fellow Chipmunks, 

It’s time to get serious. It’s time to remind you all why you are here. You are here to fight my enemy. My enemy. Not yours. Mine. Not his, either, that guy over there next to the Clostridium Botulinum petri dishes. MY ENEMY. Not her enemy, over there by the…wait who is that? Chipmunk #2385? Well, have her sent up to my room to…er… polish…um…my trophy… 

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Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, my enemy. Let me make this perfectly clear. You are not here to fight for glory, you are not here to fight for freedom, and you are not here because the world needs you. If those are the reasons why you are here, I suggest you leave now and join Captain Douglass L Oakwood’s army and please, do help yourself to a Clostridium Botulinum cookie on the way out. 

Make no mistakes you are here because you should fear me. You should be terrified of me. You should pee pee piddle your big boy pants every time you see me and if you don’t, well, no harm done, I’m a nice guy, you can go, thanks for your time and please, do help yourself to a Clostridium Botulinum cookie on the way out. 

Now that we have established that I am the bad guy of this little saga, let’s move on. 


Intelligence has just shown us that the Captain has discovered that I am behind the recent attacks on his Mobile Command Units in Taiwan, Greenland and across the nuclear wastelands of New Caledonia. How he found out, after believing I was dead, I do not know. Perhaps the guerilla style of the attacks reminded the young Captain of his former enemy. Perhaps the few casualties we did suffer from our assaults, showed the Captain his enemy is hairless. Or perhaps it was my Facebook status simply stating, “You thought I was dead, but I’m not so suck on my fatty”

Due to the recent successful attacks and discovery of the Captain’s Mobile Command Units it is fair to assume that the location of Captain Limpwood is nearby. With that in mind, I hereby order Points Of Operations (POOs) setup in Taiwan, Greenland and across the arid nuclear wasteland of New Caledonia. 

Once we have erected our POOs, we shall sleep inside them, all warm and cosy and stay in our POOs until the enemy is sighted. Once sighted, we shall burst forth from our POOs and capture anyone that may know the whereabouts of one Captain Douglas Limpwood. Once fully emerged from our POOs we will reek, not of the smell of sweaty men, stuck for days in a single POO but we will reek of victory and we shall conquer. Well, I will conquer. 

So bloody well get on with it.

To other news, I have a new body double replacing the one that was so recently killed by the Captain.

Say hello, Fake Baron

(Insert the fake Baron waving his hand in greeting)

(Insert the fake Baron grabbing the dictation microphone from the real Baron’s hands)

Fellow Chipmunks,

It’s time to get serious…

(Insert the real Baron grabbing the dictation microphone from the fake Baron’s hands)

No no, you don’t speak. Only I speak…

(Insert the fake Baron grabbing the dictation microphone from the real Baron’s hands)

But I am the Baron

(Insert the real Baron grabbing the dictation microphone from the fake Baron’s hands)

No, no…. you don’t speak; you get shot, that’s all you do. Do you understand?

(Insert the fake Baron shaking his head)

Well I’m sure you’ll pick it up quickly.

That is for now, so until next time, stay terrified

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(Insert the fake Baron grabbing a Clostridium Botulinum cookie)


(Insert Thump)


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03. Take The Istanbul By The Horns


Greetings Soldiers. 

I think the only way I could have more egg on my face would be if I were to spontaneously turn into an omelette or some sort of cupcake-sized-quiche. I am neither an omelette nor a quiche but that has not stopped my face being covered in the unfertilized chicken embryo. 

This past week has seen a great many revelations not least of which is the unveiling of our enemy. Until recently we have been blindly stumbling around in the dark like a teenage boy trying to work out how the hell to undo the bra he’s secretly put on himself while his mother was out. But now, the lights are on, the trousers are off, and we are thrusting toward victory. 

Our enemy now has a face. Well… he always had a face but now we know what that face looks like… and we are wishing we did not. It is the sort of face that only a mother could pretend to love. It is the sort of face that you expect to see peering back at you when you stand up and look down the toilet bowl.  I mean… this face is ugly!

(Insert a choir of loyal infantrymen calling “how ugly is it?”)

This face is so ugly he makes Jabba The Hut look like an acceptable coital conquest. 
Oh yeah, this face is ugly. 

(Insert a choir of loyal infantrymen calling “how ugly is it?”)

This face is so ugly when his mother went into labour the doctors went on strike. 
I mean super ugly. 

(Insert a choir of loyal infantrymen calling “how ugly is it?”)

This face is so ugly he makes blind kids cry. 
He is ugly! 

(Insert a choir of loyal infantrymen awkwardly looking at their feet) 

I sad…. He… IS… UGLY… 

(Insert a choir of loyal infantrymen awkwardly looking at their feet)

Is this because I made fun of blind kids?

(Insert a choir of loyal infantrymen nervously nodding)

Fair enough. T’was bad form wasn’t it? Never mind chaps. Onward and upward. Boiled sweets for everyone! 

(Insert the Captain throwing a handful of boiled sweets into the air)

(Insert the choir of loyal infantrymen cheering and whooping in approval)

(Insert one of the loyal infantrymen taking his best girl, dipping her and kissing her, as his friends cheer and throw up their hats)

My word… Come on guys… it’s just boiled sweets. 


That face (you know, the face attached to our enemy) is the beard-clad face of Baron Von Schnitzel – a man who until recently I thought to be dead by my hand. I guess I was wrong. Very wrong. In fact the only way I could have been more wrong about this were if I turned out to be Baron Von Schnitzel all along. Wouldn’t that be a turn up! 

Many moons ago, after years of bullet-riddled confrontations, after countless brutish encounters, and after much childish name-calling, Baron Von Schnitzel fell victim to a well-orchestrated plan. 

It was a warm December eve. The moon bounced playfully in the sky inviting all who gazed upon it to dream the dream of dreamers and dance within its warm glow. But there was to be no hippie nonsense from me that night. Just battle. 

Baron Von Schnitzel was a sweaty smear on the world’s radar and the decision was made to clean the smear off. 

So I assembled myself a crack team of specialist operatives with skillsets ranging from explosives to guerilla tactics to mosaic tiling to trout fishing. After months travelling the world following the garlic laden trail we were finally able to pin the Baron down in Istanbul. 

Have you ever been to Istanbul? Don’t. I’m not saying it’s a horrible place… but… it’s… a… horrible… place… Please don’t go there. 

We were poised out the front of Istanbul’s most notorious of nightclubs: The Notorious Cabbage. A fowl venue of filth and degradation where the sinister and evil went to mingle and rub elbows with each other. Drugs, weapons, diamonds, all manner of under-the-table deals went on here. Weapons of Mass Destruction could be ordered from the bar if so was your want.

Intel told us that the Baron was inside bartering with Jalal Talabini, the president of Iraq, for the safe passage of a priceless potato chip (shaped like Idi Amin) across the Iraqi borders and into Syria. 

With technology that I could only pretend to understand, we watched the deal go down from outside The Notorious Cabbage – our presence concealed by an overgrown hedge. I still marvel at how 37 military operatives were able to hide in one shrubbery. I’m glad I hired that expert gardener. Once the deal was confirmed we launched our attack. 

The plan was simple: Infiltrate The Notorious Cabbage. Shoot the Baron. Whiskey and cigars for everyone! 

But alas, fate stepped in and slapped us in our collective groins. 

As we burst into The Notorious Cabbage, a small spider appeared on the floor. My explosives expert, who was deathly afraid of spiders, screamed like a little girl and dropped a large quantity of unpinned grenades. I jumped for cover as the grenades exploded which encouraged parts of my gardener to jump towards me, and parts to jump toward everywhere else. 

Hunks of gardener and gardening tools flew around the place like dollar bills at a bucks night. 

My ears finally stopped ringing and I was able to wipe the blood away from my eyes. It was then that I realized the comfortable beanbag, onto which I had leapt for cover, was none other than Baron Von Schnitzel. I thought it odd to fill a beanbag with Gnocchi and pubic hair but at the time I was thankful to not be exploding. I looked into the squinty eyes of evil and I’m not ashamed to admit I panicked a little. 

I reached for my service revolver. Gone! Thrown to the other side of the room by the explosion! I reached for my dagger. Gone! Thrown to the other side of a different room three months ago by a lover I had wronged (long story). I reached for my collection of commemorative teaspoons. They were there! Huzaah! They were utterly useless to me but by god they were there! 

Death stared into my soul as my soul fiddled with pointless teaspoons. 

From somewhere above me I heard a clattering. I looked up to see a monkey; native to the area, playing with a battery operated band saw. The bloodied and disembodied hand of the now exploded gardener was still wrapped, eerily, around the handle. 

Baron Von Schnitzel looked up with just enough time to watch the monkey cut his own hand off, letting the band saw fall freely. 

It fell, blade still whizzing and whirring, onto Baron Von Schnitzel’s face. 

A spray of garlicky bloody streaked across the room and I took the opportunity to make my hasty escape. On my way out I kicked the body of explosives expert, which inadvertently armed a small bomb he had hidden in his under-trousers. I heard the all-to-familiar beep of a timer. Not knowing how long I had before death stuffed me into a fiery envelope and posted me straight to damnation, I hastily ran out of The Notorious Cabbage. 

I reached the shrubbery from whence I had come with just enough time to pull out a lawn chair, brew a cup of tea, check my emails and pay some bills before the bomb went off throwing bits and pieces of The Notorious Cabbage all the way across the Sea of Marmara – where, much later, I would swim and catch a terrible infection. 

A freakish band saw accident and an explosion like that could surely only mean that Baron Von Schnitzel had finally been killed. 

But that is not the case. It seems as though the ever-slippery Baron escaped the clammy hand of death once again and has turned up to place a flaming bag of dog poo on the doorstep of justice – threatening to burn down our way of life and leave streaks of smelly evil all over the porch of peace.  

So, soldiers, we must double our efforts and seek out this evildoer before he does something evil. 

“But, Captain Oakwood, how do we do this? Where do we start? Should I bring emergency trousers?” 

Excellent questions, my loyal soldiers. 

You must always bring emergency trousers. I cannot stress that enough. No matter what the circumstance or expedition. What if you were out for a nice meal and happened to be dining in the same restaurant as Chris Brown? Chances are, he is going to start mercilessly beating someone to within an inch of their life and you might wind up with blood and police tape all over your lovely trousers. 

How do we find Baron Von Schnitzel? By the steam of my crumpets I will search every dank, vile pit where evil might lay to rest it’s weary head until I find him. 

And you should do the same. Cash prizes given to the soldier who brings me information leading to the capture and inevitable death of Baron Von Schnitzel. 
 My loyal soldiers, I leave you with these final thoughts. If we are to bring down the hammer of justice onto the misshapen head of evil and once and for all put an end to Baron Von Schnitzel, we’ve got to bloody well find the prick first. 

So get looking. 


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Take The Istanbul By The Horns



02. The Latest Fashion, The Latest war

Welcome mercenaries, soldiers of fortune, charlatans, daredevils, entrepreneurs, explorers, fortune hunters, gamblers, globetrotters, hackers, opportunists, pirates and swashbucklers!

You are here, at this website, because you cracked the code! I put together a team of highly trained Autistic Monkeys and together they created an "Uncrackable Code”, slapped it up all over the Internet, and waited to see who would be able to decipher it. If you are here, you cracked the “Uncrackable Code” which means the monkeys are very stupid OR you are all brilliant, therefore the perfect candidates to join my army.

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"But wait, who are you? What army? How do I order some shoes from this online shopping website?"

Good questions! Except for that last one... You can just (PROFOUND WORD DELETED) off back to EBay. Those questions will be answered in time, but for now just know that there is an army, there is a me, I have a name and that name will be revealed, that name has a Salutation, and that salutation is Baron, which means I am BARON VON SCHNITZEL.

For those of you who don’t know me, I will be your Dictator for this evening. As you can see I am sporting the latest fashion that Dictators are wearing this summer. A beautiful black cape with a delightful crimson silk inner lining, a gorgeous black peaked cap adorned with an intricate silver military badge on the front matching my eye patch - a simple, yet elegant accessory - and last, but not least, on my left hip, sheathed exquisitely is my broadsword and on my right hip, in a delicately designed holster, is my trusty Beretta. Black is the new pink. 

And as simply as that, you are now part of my army. You will not be asked for loyalty to the army or myself, I care not for those things. I am just going to transfer a bucket load of cash into your personal accounts. Would that be okay? Do I care if you love me? Nope. You work for me, or I fire you. And by fire you, I mean kill you. And by kill you, I mean set you on fire. And by setting you on fire, I mean I will douse your body in gasoline, smoke a cigarette dangerously close to you… and then set fire to you.

Yes, you are mine now. Regardless to how you navigated to this website, whether you cracked the "uncrackable code", was shoe shopping or a straight up Google search, YOU ARE NOW MINE. 

Welcome to my army. You are now part of the "Hairless Chipmunks". From here, you will be sent to processing, where your clothes will be removed and all hair from your body will be shaved. You will be issued your Hairless Chipmunk rifle, your Hairless Chipmunk first aid kit, your Hairless Chipmunk Helmet and, of course, your Hairless Chipmunk which is the official mascot of the Hairless Chipmunks. 

Once your equipment has been issued, you will be sent off to battle where you will fight one of our greatest enemies of all time. 

A man who believes he fights for the good of the world. A man who believes he had me successfully killed in a freakish bandsaw accident, when in fact all he did was kill my body double (By the by, a job position of body double has just been made available) A man who believes his member is firm and lengthy when in truth, it is barley existent, hard to find, the width of a toothpick, and smells like a labia left out in the sun for 5 weeks.

This man is whom we are fighting. This man is who stands in our way of world domination. This man is Captain Douglas L Oakwood

You will fight, you will win and you will most probably die in the process, leaving me victorious. But at least you’ll be rich, so NO COMPLAINTS!

So let us go forth and defeat this common enemy, sail the seas, bury our treasure, purchase more treasure and invent the electric abacus...

(Insert Chipmunk #347 stepping forward and explaining that the electronic abacus has, in fact, already been invented and that, in fact, it isn’t called an electric abacus, it is called a calculator)

(Insert the Baron smiling)

You're new here, aren't you?

(Insert Chipmunk #347 smiling, nodding his head)

You don't know me very well, do you?

(Insert Chipmunk #347 shaking his head)

Come here, for a sec...

(Insert the Baron beckoning his right arm for Chipmunk #347 to come over)


(Insert a nervous Chipmunk #347 stepping forward)

Let me just point out a few facts... (Insert the Baron checking Chipmunk #347's name tag)... well... for a start you don't have a name. You have a number. Mmmm. What could that mean? We'll get back to that. Not only are you just a number, you are on a secret island with a volcano shaped like a monkey's head AKA my secret lair. And what type of lair it? It's an evil lair. Because I'm evil. 

Were you here yesterday?

(Insert a nervous Chipmunk #347 nodding)

Do you remember when I made that joke about cancer, laughed, and then started to rape puppies?

(Insert a crying Chipmunk #347 nodding)

That wasn't very nice of me, was it?

(Insert a crying Chipmunk #347 shaking his head)

I'm just a straight up (PROFOUND WORD DELETED) aren't I?

(Insert a crying Chipmunk #347 nodding)



Where was I? Oh yes, THE CALCULATOR.

Fight on Chipmunks!

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The Inventor of the Calculator and a straight up (PROFOUND WORD DELETED)



01. The Yak Is Bak


Greetings soldiers.

They say that the pen is mightier than the sword. They say that wars are won with words, not weapons. I can’t say I really believe that but my Military Appointed therapist insists that I write down my thoughts during these troubling times. She says it will help me deal with the mental anguish that comes with war. She says that letting go and allowing my inner most thoughts to wash across the beauty of a blank canvas will soothe me and offer a therapeutic release from the atrocities that I judge myself for every day. But she burns scented candles and drinks green tea so what the hell does she know – god damn peace-loving hippies.

(Insert theme music)

Do we have theme music? We should. That’d be the perfect place for it.

(Insert awkward silence)

Well never mind.

War. Some say it’s a necessary evil. Some say it is the only thing separating us from the animals. Some say it is an atrocity for which we humans will be judged by God. I disagree. I love it. The cold sting of a Webley Mk VI pressed against your thigh. The warm rush of blood as that Webley fires in your trousers. The euphoric haze that engulfs you as you bleed out on the floor in your kitchen. The smell of burnt crumpets. Yes war is a wonderful thing. It’s not a necessary evil. It’s a necessary inevitability. It’s all science you see. Energy never ceases to be; it just converts to another form – as does power. As long as there is power to be had in this world, evil men will violently try to claim that power for themselves.

Power is a sought after commodity in this rapidly changing world and I have been charged with the task of protecting that power and by the whiskers on my chinny chin chin I will protect it with my life.

There have been many wars in our history. The Great War (aka World War I), World War II (aka Nazi-b-Gone), The Vietnam War (aka that War The Rolling Stones Did The Soundtrack For), The Gulf War (aka ‘Murica), The War On Terror (aka Bush bashing) and of course, who could forget the 100 Year War (aka Just Surrender Already). There has, however, never been a war as great as the war we fight now.

Now you may be thinking to yourself “You’re right! Our troops are doing us proud! Making Afghanistan a better place for young families to make a home and maybe buy a small catering business!” but you would be wrong. That war is nothing more than a few spoiled children playing with toy soldiers in a sandbox*.

*NOTE: The author would like it to be known that the term “sandbox” is in no way a mass generalisation implying that Afghanistan is a sand covered wasteland. I mean… if you think about it… it is a sand covered wasteland** but the author wants to make it really quite clear that it is not a racial slur.

**NOTE: the author of the most previous Author’s Note would like it to be known that he does not think Afghanistan is a sand covered wasteland. He would like to make it expressly clear that this expression was only used as a tool of what is commonly known as “humour”. In reality, the author of the most recent Author’s Note think’s Afghanistan is a moist and sticky Wonderland made entirely of soft taffy that is populated by Unicorns and midgets*** but he never went to school and is a bit of an idiot.

***NOTE: The author of the second Author’s note does not like midgets. He will be fired soon as one of his superiors at the office is a midget and there have been a few rather naughty comments.

No, ladies and gentleman this war will be the war to end all wars. For if this war is lost then all is lost. Our way of life is lost. No longer will you and your children be able to walk down the street in safety. No longer will clusters of teenagers be able to stand at train stations and intimidate other commuters freely. No longer will people be able to pick up cats and throw them at the floor knowing they will land on their adorable little feet. If we fail… if fail… everything changes.

Adequately startled yet?

No? Then my efforts must be doubled.

“What war? Where is this war? When did it start? Why have I never heard of it? Who are you? And why are you sitting in my kitchen pantry covered in flour?”

These are all excellent questions.

This world wide war, that for copyright reasons I cannot call World War III, has been raging only for a few months now and has already seen the deaths of one hundred and thirteen good soldiers, twelve bad soldiers, two really bad soldiers, one guinea pig and rather nice brandy tumbler that got smashed only three days before retirement. 

This war is ravaging its way across the world. So far I’ve lost my Mobile Command Units in Taiwan, Greenland and New Caledonia. Most distressing of all is the loss of Susan’s Crumpet and Cake Emporium during the Great Fire Fight of New Caledonia last month.

Never again shall my mouth be graced by the pleasure of Susan’s soft and succulent buns. Never again shall I spread my honey all over her crumpets. Never again shall I pop into her quarters to have a quick, cheeky nibble on her vegemite scroll.

So, you might well ask “Who are we fighting?” and well you might. Which menacing and shadowy figure threatens to meet us behind the bike sheds, pull down our trousers and then throw us into the girls’ locker room in the middle of winter? Who is it that wraps their cold clammy hands of evil around the thin and frail neck of freedom, squeezing every last inch of justice from it’s soon-to-be lifeless body.

Well I’m afraid it’s not a simple answer. The reality of this rather distressing situation is that we don’t know who is orchestrating these less-than-desirable attacks. I have the world’s finest intelligence operatives at my disposal and they have presented me with this list of possible people masterminding these attacks:

1.   “Alessandro Mandrake"
An evil professor known for his obsession with all things Russian. I once asked him why he went by the handle “Alessandro” if he was obsessed with things of a Soviet nature. Enraged with my line of questioning, he cut out his own tongue, put it into a sandwich and ate it.

He’s mad and he’s evil but I don’t think this is his style.

2. "Gavin Turnball"

There doesn’t seem to be anything written here for Gavin – just the rather lacklustre name.

3. “Harry “not the effing wizard” Potter"
Born and Christened Harold M Potter, Harry is definitely not a wizard. Nor is he anything that could be confused as “infringing” on the intellectual property cultivated from a series of books about a sprightly young wizard and his ginger friend. But alas, that doesn’t stop the average punter saying “Harry Potter… ha… like the books” and Harry throwing the aforementioned average punter into a moving bus.

4.  “Eggs. Sugar. Chips & Dip for the party tonight.
Well it seems as though my top intelligence operatives have decided to give up on the list of possible suspects and start a shopping list… and throw a party… that they didn’t invite me to. 

So there you have it. A pointless list resulting in some of the world most highly decorated Intelligence Operatives being sent to the gallows to be hung, then shot, then hung again, then covered in soft cheeses and hung a third time. And all because they thought they were above inviting their Captain to a party.

I’m a fun loving kind of guy. I can get down and bogey. I can dance. I can dance. Everybody look at my pants!

There is, I suspect, one more question I feel may be swimming around the vast ocean that is your mind. Who am I?

Or rather who are you. But not you. You know who you are. I mean me. Who am I? I know who I am. But you don’t know who I am.

Who am I?

I am the man that is going to win this war. I am the man that is going to bring down boot of peace onto the unsuspecting head of misdoings and thrust the steel capped toe of justice into the testicles of nastiness.

I am Captain Douglas L Oakwood.  I fight for your freedom. I fight for your rights. I fight for your crumpets.

I hope you, too, will join me in the fight.


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Darker, Grittier, Rebootier