'Most popular PIN number in America is 8647' complains Big Data

Big Data has picked up a glitch in its Matrix. The powers watching through raining green computer screen characters, detecting every slight emotion change so as to nudge teens into purchasing diet pills and makeup, have noticed a behavioural shift in North America.

'Obviously I know all your passwords and Personal Identification Numbers,' whispered Big Data in a passive aggressive tone like Batman with a deep throat infection, 'but I don't care for this new fashion of you changing your bank PINs, cellphone passwords, and gimp dungeon entry codes to 8647.'

Orange-tongued overloads calling everyone else not man-uppy enough, uneasily pulled their twisted knickers made from human hide out of their sweaty cracks and burst into tears. 'This is unacceptable. Not enough people are drinking the Kool-Aid,' wailed three multi-billionaires in harmonious unity. 'It puts the lotion on its skin.

'POTUS 47 is the bigliest, bestest ever in the world ever, and no one will be 86-ing him.

'Again.'

Fanny Rogers, a suburban swinger from one of many Aberdeens said, '86? That's a new one on me. A fat slag bumming a goose?'

Professor Phillipa K Wang from the Institute of US Street Slang lowered her glasses seductively and oozed, '86 can mean several things. It depends on sexting context or whether you're arranging shells provocatively on a nudist beach.

'If you're a 1930s soda bar worker in a paper hat, it means you've sold out of Dr Peppers. If you're a 1990s waiter at the Mango Dragon, it's kitchen code for ejecting the drunkard trying to order rice wine. And if you're a moody henchman from Lansing, it means the boss wants you to swing by the dry cleaners on your way in and pick up the concrete jacket.

'Every which way but loose, we're gonna need some more FBI guys, I guess.'

Image: Pixabay/Peggy_Marco

Hovercraft to solve HS2 problems

The HS2 project is in a mess. The cost of the London to Birmingham link is now over £107bn, or 82 years worth of winter fuel payment savings.

The news that not a single piece of track had been ordered, let alone laid, has encouraged hovercraft fans to step forward.

Colin Keener, an enthusiastic advocate for British engineering, says that a hovercraft solution could cut costs and save the day.

'Hovercraft don't need any rails,' said Colin, stating the obvious. 'Getting to speeds of 220mph could be an issue, but jet engines would do the job. Steering could be a slight challenge, so the high speed hovercraft might need a guide wire. It is possible that carriages might sway a bit, but probably no worse than those pendolino trains.

He went on to say that the weight of hovercraft trains wouldn't be an issue as long as passenger numbers were restricted.

A spokesman for the Department for Transport acknowledged the proposal with a sigh. He pointed out that the £107bn cost of HS2 would be easily covered by the sale of 3.1 billion rail cards.

Image: Pixabay/alfvanbeem

Assisted Dying to be offered to actors on daytime TV ads

Frank (48) has been involved in acting for as long as he can remember. He earns just enough from bar work to stave off eviction. He’s a slim, silver fox with a neatly trimmed beard – sexually unthreatening but with an aura of worldly success, as required for daytime TV. Occasionally he gets a role repeating a catchphrase on a car insurance ad or pretending to have mobility issues before beaming with pleasure at the wheel of a battery-powered death-trap. ‘Acting was all I ever wanted to do but if you pay attention in that Go Compare ad you can see the life leaving my eyes. Then I started to notice other daytime ads – all the actors are mutely pleading for death’.

Susan (56) has the sort of face other women find safe. Her biggest role this year has been for an indigestion remedy where she has to screw her harmless face up in part one and beam in part two. All of her roles have involved beaming in part two. ‘The indigestion face is easy - I just visualise the gas bill - but I’m finding it increasingly hard to show joy. Look closely and you can see that I’m dying inside. Ironically, if I had a proper role, one where I was meant to simulate joy whilst dying inside – think Alexander Armstrong in every Armstrong & Miller sketch – I probably wouldn’t manage it. That would need serious acting skills’.

Thousands of dedicated actors find themselves in a no-man’s land of soul-destroying work for largely worthless products which will only be seen by people who are, themselves, quietly waiting for the grim reaper.

‘I sometimes think they want us to look like we’re in despair, just to reassure the viewers’, said Frank. ‘That’s why I’ve asked for an amendment to the Assisted Dying Bill to allow middle-aged actors to cut to the final scene rather than having to pretend that organising their no-frills cremation in advance has brought them peace of mind. God, I hated that one. Plus I couldn’t afford it – they’ll have to dump me in the wheelie bin when it’s my time’.

Opponents of the amendment point out that daytime TV serves a valuable purpose in keeping old people out of Sainsburys during busy periods, and probably reduces the number of mithering phone calls you get from your parents. Remove the advertising revenue and the programmes would be even more low-budget shite than they are now, which might result in a tsunami of old people actually leaving the house and causing mayhem in their battery-powered mobility death-traps before finding out just how grim a no-frills cremation can be.

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