"Merry Christmas!"

Merry Christmas to everyone. Here’s a special Christmas e-card just for you all. You could do all sorts with it such as printing it out and putting it with your other cards. It wouldn’t be an “e-card” then it’d just be a “card”. Unless you shrunk it down and actually printed it on an ecstasy tablet, it’d probably be an “e-card” again then. Anyway, whatever you decide to do with it I hope you like it and come to look upon it as the gift that keeps on giving.

As you can see, it’s a nativity scene. I couldn’t fit anymore shepherds or Mary and Joseph on but I don’t suppose that matters. If it makes you feel better pretend that Mary has gone to the shops and Joseph is outside building a spice rack. Only one shepherd came because there was an outbreak of fierce wolves and the other shepherds were preventing their sheep from getting eaten.

The main people are there anyway, Jesus and Santa. I imagine Santa gave better gifts than the three kings, I always thought their gifts were a bit rubbish. The gold would be OK when Jesus grew up but if he could turn water into wine he could probably turn cheese into gold anyway. Santa would have definitely given scalextric and jelly babies.

Merry Christmas everyone and Happy New Year! There shall be more in the new year and all you anonymous viewers and commenters, why not officially follow INJC? You can also like it on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/Im-Not-Jeremy-Crawford/144035969021126 and follow it on Twitter @ImNotJCrawford Cheers!

"Cheese Dreams" or "Talking Horses, Hippo Thieves and Gary Lineker Zombies"

People always say about cheese making you dream. I always thought this was a myth, similar to other cheese based myths such as the moon being made of cheese or that cheese is actually made from the bodies of tiny fish that live in milk. However, this isn’t the case, cheese dreams are definitely real. Cheese clearly contains a small psychedelic bug that is absorbed into the blood stream creating crazy dreams. The good thing about cheese dreams is that in the dream I often know that it’s a dream so if something bad is happening I can wake myself up. For example, should I find myself being bummed by a horse I can say to myself in the dream “This horse bumming is definitely a very bad thing, however, this is a dream and to avoid further horse based humiliation I should wake up” I will then wake up relieved that I haven’t actually been violated by a horse. However, I do normally allow the bad things to continue for a while because in the world of dreams bad things can very often turn good. For example the horse may actually be a psychic talking horse and in a moment of horsey passion he leans over and whispers the winning lottery numbers in your ear. That of course raises the question “would you allow yourself to be bummed by a psychic talking horse in exchange for the winning lottery numbers?” Obviously there are a number of factors to consider such as whether it’s a rollover or not and of course the make and model of horse. A shire horse would certainly be a very different experience to that of a Shetland pony. If I won the lottery I’d wear a top hat a lot, have a beer waiter and have carpets made from the softest substance known to man, bumble bee fur.

I enjoy having cheese before bed as the dreams are always pretty interesting. This is a selection of three weird cheese dreams.

          

      1) I was woken up (in the dream) by noises downstairs. I figured that it sounded like burglars so picked up a bit of wood that happened to be by the bed and headed downstairs to have a look. As I got down to the middle landing I witnessed two hippos carrying our TV down the stairs. These hippos were partially clothed and were walking on their hind legs and carrying the TV in their “arms”. I waved my wood at them and shouted and they dropped the tellybox which appeared to be rubber and bounced down the stairs. They then ran off, down the stairs, out of the door and down the road (possibly back to a zoo or hippo sanctuary). Obviously the moral of this is that if your house ever gets burgled by hippos all you need to do is wave a bit of wood at them and shout a bit.

           2) In a lot of my cheese dreams I can fly. Well, not really fly like superman but kind of bounce and float. As if I’ve got springy shoes (I like to call them boingy shoes) and then I sort of glide a bit before I have to land and bounce up again. In one particular bouncing dream I was being chased by a dog. Ever since I was little I’ve been scared of dogs. I’ve never liked any dogs apart from maybe my mums next door neighbour’s dog but that was too fat to do anything and just ignored you. It’s dead now, it had an enormous growth on it’s arse that nobody ever found out what it was and it died of that. I think technically it died of a fat arse. Anyway, whenever I dream about dogs they’re always nasty and vicious and chasing me. As this dog was chasing me I bounced in front of a dustbin lorry. I waited and jumped out of the way as the dog jumped at me watching the dog glide effortlessly into the back of the dustbin lorry. It was like I was a matador with a bull but without the bull and cape and with springy shoes, a bin lorry and a dog instead. I then activated the crushers and squashed the dog. As the dog was being squashed lots of doughnuts came out of the top of the lorry. I imagine people probably remembered this day for years to come as the day I defeated the evil dog and it rained doughnuts. I think the government should maybe consider inventing a dustbin lorry that turns rubbish into tasty doughnuts.

 

         3) In a lot of cheese dreams I kill things. This particular one I came home from work one day to hear a lot of noise coming from the loft. I went up to investigate, once more carrying a bit of wood (I seem to have a recurring theme of finding security and protection in a bit of wood) and it turned out to be bats. These weren’t just ordinary bats though, they were bats that looked like popular ex Spurs and England striker Gary Lineker. It was like some kind of mythological creature with the body of a bat and the head of Gary Lineker. The bats weren’t violent or anything, they were just very, very noisy. I was aware that bats are a protected species but wasn’t quite sure where the law stood on Gary Lineker bats so I wasn’t sure if I should kill them or not. I decided that Gary Lineker bats were probably more rare than normal bats so they would probably be protected. As I was trying to figure out what to do (I was considering trying to lure them out with Walkers crisps) the bats started to change into zombies, not just any zombies but Gary Lineker zombies. Clearly zombies aren’t a protected species and should be killed due to their nasty nature. Unfortunately my trusty wood seemed to have vanished and the only things nearby were pencils. I picked up the pencils and went on a zombie stabbing rampage. Whenever I dream about zombies I always stab them in the eyes. Obviously the moral of this is that if you ever find your loft full of Gary Lineker bats, fuck the Bat Conservation Trust and kill them before they turn into zombies.

"The 'How The Body Works' Book" or "How Robots Taught Me All About Sex"

When I was young my mum bought me this book called “How The Body Works”. It told you about all sorts of biology stuff and tried to make it all understandable to kids by using pictures. It had things such as nasty green looking germs, germs that were clearly incredibly evil, possibly even more so than The Thundercats arch nemesis Mumm-Ra. I think the germs affected me a little, not to the point of being totally OCD but to the point where I don’t like to take my socks off without washing my hands after, in case the dirty sock germs attack. The sock germs are definitely bad, but not as bad as the animal germs, I hate touching animals. It also had a friendly kidney named Kris and blood cells that were little people with pointy hats in boats. Looking back, the white blood cells actually looked like Ku Klux Klan members which is a bit weird and probably not that realistic. 

However, tucked away towards the rear of the book was the bit about reproduction which I think was my mums real motive for buying me the book. At Junior school we did sex education which pretty much consisted of watching some videos and sniggering at the willies and boobies, however we did get the general idea. Obviously though, the main thing that sex education at school lacked was robots. Robots clearly make for good sex education and on this basis the “How Your Body Works” book was the greatest educational tool in the world. It had four whole pages which basically had step by step diagrams of robots shagging. The boy robot had a weird, springy, coiled willy and the lady robot had an appropriately sized receptacle to house the robotic penis. 
The two robots were not named, which I think is a bit impersonal, in fact the book didn’t even say how the robots met, it just got straight down to the shagging. I didn’t really like this that much so I decided that the robots were definitely called Gary and Sue. Gary and Sue met at robot school, he liked her metallic sheen and pert bolts and she liked his rugged square shoulders and extreme strength. They had a long courtship where they did robot things together such as drilling and cricket. Once they realised that they loved each other they eventually decided to do the deed. This is where the book came in. 
They were pictured standing next to each other, Gary with his springy appendage dangling like an unwanted slinky, Sue gazing at him lovingly. They got closer and in the next picture their metallic lips locked in a loving embrace. At this point Gary became visibly excited, his spring stretching and become distinctly unslinky like. In the next picture Gary’s spring had managed to somehow become interlocked with Sue and a large heart appeared from both their antennae signalling their love. The culmination of this embrace was tiny robot tadpoles gushing from Gary’s spring like a pressure hose going off. These tadpoles disappeared inside Sue and turned into a tiny robot in her little square tummy. The little robot was probably called Steve and had Gary’s eyes and Sue’s rivets. 
I’m pretty sure they had a long romance and were very much in love. The only other alternative is that Gary was a plumber coming round to repair Sue’s boiler and they just ended up at it in the kitchen next to the washing machine. I think this would be a bit weird though as it would be like they were doing it with a distant relative watching. That, people, is how I learnt all about sex from robots. 

 

As you can see the book was very good when it came to robot sex, but the rest was a bit ropey and failed to explain two things.

Numero One: Why didn't it make it clear that there wasn't something in the human body called the "Handstring". I witnessed Liverpool and England international footballer John Barnes having injury problems and firmly believed that he was having "Handstring" problems. John Barnes often used to wear gloves whilst playing football so I assumed these were to help with his “Handstring” injury. Obviously there’s no such thing as “Handstrings” and John Barnes did in fact have problematic hamstrings. I definitely feel the book should have had a section explaining this.

Numero Two:  Something that actually baffles me to this day. Why do I seemingly defy the laws of age? As I approach the age of 31 I still appear a lot younger and appear immune to weight gain. Checkout ladies in Tesco in particular seem to think that I'm underage and when I show them my ID they recoil in shock. I sometimes wonder if I'm making up for those kids who have a weird, mad genetic disease which ages them rapidly and they look like they're 60 when they're 8 and have little shrivelled up heads. The book definitely failed to explain this. The robot sex probably still makes up for this though.

"Early Memories Part Three" or "The Highly Offensive Pooey Kid Outfit"

Now this is a very early memory, it's a memory from when I went to nursery school, so I must've been about 3, which is a pretty early memory, and a shit one to be fair (quite literally). I'd have liked my first memory to have been something nice like riding upon the back of a tiger or dancing round a lamp-post with Mr Strong from the Mr Men, he was always my favourite due to him being red. I liked red. However, I do remember playing Manic Miner on my ZX Spectrum and actually jumping whenever I pressed the jump key or “space bar” as it became known in later years. I firmly believed that it would help the little pixelated bastard jump that little bit higher. That memory was very early but it’s a bit hard to write a story based around a misguided reflex action.

Anyway, I digress, in nursery the day always ended with story time where we were forced to sit on the floor and listen to the nursery nurse spin some magical tale. One particular afternoon halfway through story time, I got a bit bored with “The Big Man, The Magic Stick and The Donkey” and just decided to have a massive poo in my pants. This wasn’t diarrhoea or a stomach bug, it was a good old fashioned huge turd. I think it may have been provoked by the story being about donkeys, which are actually quite boring. I didn’t even really like seaside donkeys, they’re just too bloody slow, it’d definitely be better to ride a tiger at Blackpool, a tiger would be quick. I really wasn't too bothered about pooing myself, it was just something to do to take my mind off donkeys (even the Magic Stick or the Big Man wasn’t enough to make up for the donkeys) and with story time being toward the end of the day, I could have probably lasted until home time. Unfortunately during story time it was the number one golden rule that we had to sit cross legged. If you’ve ever tried to sit cross legged with a pant full of poo you’ll know that it isn’t an easy thing to do, there’s lots of compression and squidging and general mess making. 

 

So, my smelly deposit was discovered and I was escorted to get changed via the toilet. My pants and trousers were removed, placed into a carrier bag and at this point, the worst thing ever was bestowed upon me. Not happy with dragging me out of story time in front of everyone, these sadistic bastards had to punish me further and gave me brown corduroy trousers to wear. They also, for some inexplicable reason, changed my jumper and gave me something that could only ever be worn by a golfer with extremely poor dress sense. I don’t understand the change of jumper, I can’t really see many scenarios where the poo would actually defy gravity and go up my jumper, unless of course I was pooing small alien poo worms that attempted to home in and burrow into my brain. At the time, probably due to the fact that I was but a nipper, I don't think I made the connection between the shit brown trousers I’d been given and the actual shit brown trousers in the carrier bag I had to take home. Looking back, I can’t help but think that the nursery staff had devised this whole “pooey kid” outfit as a symbolic gesture purely made to embarrass the unfortunate child. Kind of like when they used to hang people in medieval times and then put the body up in a gibbet as a warning. Or when Hitler made Jewish people wear yellow stars, or if a mad bad alien dictator landed and made French people wear stripey jumpers, berets and onions. This outfit was created by the nursery head so that as soon as a child emerged from the toilet wearing it, from a single glance anyone would know that said child had shat themselves and should be publicly ridiculed.

 

The main thing I do remember, the one abiding memory, is walking home wearing the brown corduroy trousers and thinking "I hate these trousers". Looking back, at the very young age I was, I actually recognised how terrible the trousers were. This wasn’t shame from pooing myself, all good men poo themselves at some point, this was genuine dislike for the horrific trousers. 

 

I believe this tale actually proves something though, this tale proves that style and taste are something that you’re born with. It also probably proves that it is possible to write a story about a misguided reflex action as pooing myself during story time could probably be classed as that. It also proves that donkeys are fucking boring.