KEY POINTS:
I began writing this column two weeks ago and, like all good writers, opted to include a beginning, middle and an end. Unfortunately, however, my laptop somehow contracted some kind of cyber monkey virus and the middle section was lost to the desolation of cyberspace.
I don't think
I need to mention how infuriating this was, and it was a situation made worse by the fact that I believe this was probably one of the best middle sections I have ever written.
Naturally, I endeavoured to rectify the problem by downloading some file retrieval software off the internet, an incredibly expensive and time-consuming procedure, especially if your mouse takes a few wrong turns and you find yourself trying to navigate your way out of a porn tube. No amount of virus protection software could protect me from the resulting spam mail and further computer venereal diseases I was subjected to while in this cyber world.
Fortunately, just before my computer melted into a pool of plastic on my Formica breakfast bar, the file opened long enough for me to take a photo of the content on the screen with my cellphone. By rewiring a jug cord I was able to use it to download the file on to my printer.
I then printed out the column but much of it was illegible, especially the aforementioned middle section, as the ink cartridge was incredibly low on ink, then I lost the cellphone at an inner-city night club.
To get the one-page document deciphered I needed to send it to the Forensic Document Retrieval Institute in Paris. Things were looking up as these were the same people who preserved and translated the Dead Sea Scrolls and carbon-dated the Shroud of Turin.
After three days of work, the 12-man team managed to decipher over 80 per cent of the document. Unfortunately, however, when they faxed it back to me, they had translated it into French.
Once again I went online and attempted to download a language translation program but accidentally typed in my credit card number and expiry date over the internet to a company promising to enlarge my penis by up to 40 per cent.
The resulting chaos and spam I received over the next few days was astonishing and the only upside was that four days later the pills arrived and my penis actually did enlarge by at least 30 per cent. It would be fair to say that I would probably have the largest penis out of all the other Herald on Sunday columnists.
The only possible exception might be **** ****** [edited out for legal reasons] who, as we all know, is hung like a pony. I know this for fact because he told me so, and he was standing naked next to a miniature Shetland pony at the time.
I won't bore you with the details, but will say a lot of money was raised for various different charities, and no ponies were harmed or excessively degraded in the process.
On Thursday I once again attempted to translate the one-page French document, but while doing so it was accidentally burned during a grease fat fire. Luckily, before that happened I managed to make a copy in shorthand in my notebook.
I converted the shorthand back into longhand, still in French and contacted a French translator who had a colour advertisement in the back section of the Truth newspaper.
Once I paid her $250 fee, she insisted that I have sex with her at an inner-city apartment.
It turns out that her French was not much better than mine and really reinforces the adage that looks can be deceiving. Just because she wears a French maid's costume in her photo doesn't necessarily mean she is fluent in French.
I was back where I started with a column only boasting a beginning and an end, and any professional writer worth their weight will tell you you can't have a quality piece of writing without a middle.
A column is not worth the paper it is written on and that's saying something in my case as I am the only columnist who actually receives carbon credits, as I manage to recycle the same material week after week.
I decided to fly the French document back to France to have them translate it but unfortunately on the flight a baby vomited all over it and my new pair of chinos.
Once in France, at the Forensic Document Institute, the same guy who cleaned the mildew off the Mona Lisa and painstakingly restored The Last Supper attempted to clean the vomit off the one-page document; my chinos went to a dry cleaners in Ellerslie. After three days, and just a day before deadline, they had restored the document and translated it into English, I gave it a quick once-over and realised it was nowhere near as good as I thought, so I flagged it.