Tuesday, 21 April 2009

[Turtlewind] Turtles go to a BETTER place. Than you


After the rapturous reception received by my warning against the dissembling nature of McDonalds, my scorpion buddies and I decided to reward you foolish lay people with another glimpse into the fascinating world of the International Turtle of Mystery. I was drawn to this heading because it involves laughing at death, which I like to do most weekday evenings, hiding at retirement homes until the hearses arrive when I leap out giggling at the funny boxes.

In any case, the opportunity to make fun of death and misery in a socially acceptable fashion was more than I could resist. So, come the day when the Turtle must soon hang up his scorpion whip, what will my eulogy be?


TURTLEWIND

My friends, we are gathered to celebrate the life of the noble yet mysterious Mr Turtlewind, who died in such a characteristically mysterious way last Tuesday afternoon.

While there will be much speculation on exactly how Mr Turtlewind managed to entice three nuns into pistol-whipping his oiled, naked body, there is little doubt it is the way he would have wished to die.

Well, that's not quite true, as the activity of the FOURTH nun at the time of death suggests that he might have been even happier to die just a few moments later.

But we are not here to discuss what might have been. Rather we are here to celebrate the past of this heroic figure.

Born Nathaniel Terrapinbreeze, this fine man was reputed by some to be the illegitimate child of the Earl of Rochester. The details of his early life remain suitably mysterious, but we do know that at the age of five he was trapped in a landslide for a week, following torrential rain in his native Dagenham. This terrifying ordeal was to have a very positive effect on Turtlewind, as it introduced him to his favourite food, the quintessential snack, Tarte a la Boue. Mud pies remained his staple meal for the rest of his life, although this happy culinary relationship was soured following a suicide attempt in the early 21st century.

Having proudly shared his recipe for happiness with the members of a charming online community, Turtlewind was driven to try and hang himself after several members jeered at him, claiming that 'mud pies aren't a real recipe.'

But we digress. Turtlewind had many fine friends throughout his life, some of whom were not entirely imaginary. Our thoughts today are with absent friends such as Barry the Scorpion (unavoidably busy with charity work in Leicester), Harold Pinter and David Beckham. Although Beckham and Turtlewind never spoke again after our hero buggered Posh live on Parkinson, the bald, half-dead former footballer is understood to be 'saddened' by the news of his death.

Fast food chain McDonalds also send their condolences. Their love and support for Turtlewind was an endless comfort for a lonely old man over the last ten years. This respect, of course, was due to Turtlewind stepping in at the last minute to save the company he had sworn to destroy. He was worried that the Giant Wasps he had trained to eat all the McFlurries could turn on him, and so blasted them back into space. In return, McDonalds pushed the frontiers of science to imprison and donate a friendly ghost (that of Fidel Castro) to Mr Turtlewind. Castro is particularly welcome at this memorial service. Or at least he has been since we cudgelled the priest into a coma with Mr Turtlewind's HUGE WANG (preserved according to his worryingly clear wishes).

But what did Turtlewind actually do? Obviously, his primary work was in scorpion whispering and rehabilitation. Scorpions Against Barbiturates are still reeling from the loss, and the remote Amazonian village which worshipped Turtlewind as a deity have planned mass suicide for next Thursday afternoon. Incidentally, Turtlewind's will makes it quite clear that all beneficiaries must undertake the arduous trip to the village in order to hide in the bushes and giggle at all the coffins.

Because that's the Turtlewind that we'll all remember. Behind the angry child who heard voices; behind the randomly cruel young man that sacrificed goats to Les Dawson; behind even the suave scorpion tamer who spent his weekends spitting on hobos and catching butterflies in his teeth - behind all these things, it'll be the laughter we remember. Shrill, girly laughter with a worryingly intense timbre, admittedly, but laughter nonetheless. Remember his guffaws when the White House was blown away in a cyclone to reveal George Bush masturbating? His childlike tittering when Malta spontaneously combusted? His endearing little giggle every time a small child tripped over the savage scorpion hounds he kept tethered in his front garden? So many happy memories.

The mysterious Mr Turtlewind was many things to many men. And even some women, before the drugs wore off. Torturer, chef, raconteur, vigilante, God, moth farmer, lover, scamp and friend. He has touched us all and the world can never be the same again.

I am amazed that a man with so many different personalities can fit into one small coffin, particularly after we filled it with his coathanger collection as he requested. And now, let us take a few moments to laugh at his desiccated corpse.

It's what he would have wanted.

Your friend,
The Mysterious Mr Turtlewind

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