a fifty first story...'sinsuses'

Jimmy was ill. He hated being ill. Especially when it seemed every other human being on planet earth was having such a great time!

(They weren't of course)

Anyway, Jimmy's head hurt, his whole body had been racked with pain, his bones ached to the marrow, he had even had heart palpitations, although all but his headache had passed. Now he was ready to go out and party again, except his Fucking Sinuses wouldn't clear!

(And breathing with his mouth open didn't work, and made him look like a retard)

Worse still, instead of being able to party with his friends, dance the night way etcetera, Jimmy was stuck indoors with a nine hour long film trilogy. The film trilogy was written originally as a series of painstakingly researched novels, a whole life time's work on the author's part, about fictional wizards, halflings (also fictional), golems and monsters (again both fictional), with an item of prized jewellery as the centrepiece; before being hastily adapted for the silver screen for a large sum of money ($430 million).

The film trilogy in question was produced on a small island in between the Pacific Ocean and the Tasman Sea, a small island famous for it's scenery..

(the small island famous for it's scenery was so far away from anywhere else the human race had largely not found the time to travel there and ruin it beyond recognition, although the British in their inimitable way had a jolly good try! Indeed, as a quick aside there exist no more than thirteen countries in the world the British haven't tried to ravage)

~

..About fifteen minutes into watching the film trilogy Jimmy began to get restless. How did I ever think this was any good?! he wondered. Where in Brian of Nazareth's name were my critical faculties?

(Jimmy had seen the trilogy before and thought, along with the rest of his friends and an army of film critics, that it was brilliant. Then again, Jimmy wasn't obliged (with a portion of the $430 million) to write nice things about the trilogy in the national press – the army of film critics, however, had been).

So after a quarter of an hour Jimmy deposited the cat on his lap onto the floor and stood up. 'Ouch', he said aloud, clutching his forehead, 'Fucking Sinuses'. He was annoyed the film trilogy about fictional wizards, halflings, golems, monsters and jewellery items, had not alleviated his agony.

(Also the company of his friends, however fictional some of them even were, was more entertaining).

At the kitchen sink Jimmy poured himself a glass of water, opened a packet of paracetamol and popped (if that is the verb one should use with regard to administering legal pharmaceuticals) two capsules. Half an hour later he 'popped' another couple. Paracetamol didn't seem to work as fast as methylamphetamine, or pipeweed!

While his mind wandered, he stood at the kitchen window (the place where the men and women who populate the literary world contemplate the drama of existence), before returning to his arm chair to find the aforementioned debunked feline in his place.

'Whaa?', exclaimed Jimmy.

The debunked feline looked up at him and started to purr loudly and in an evidently self-satisfied manner.

I know I'm missing out whined Jimmy to himself, I know, I know, I know. 'You know do you?', the debunked feline appeared to retort, smiling like the proverbial Cheshire.

Jimmy squeezed the bridge of his nose, pulled out a moist handkerchief.

'Fucking Sinsuses'.

Bilbo Baggins' eleventy first birthday bash was already in full swing.