7 Reasons

Tag: terror

  • 7 Reasons That Anatidaephobia Must be Awful

    7 Reasons That Anatidaephobia Must be Awful

    Anatidaephobia is the fear that wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, a duck is watching you.  While some people might see this debilitating condition as funny, we do not.  We realise that it must be bloody awful, here are seven reasons why.

    a road sign bearing the words "please no ducks"


    1.  It’s Not Taken Seriously.  People are often crass, insensitive and immature.  While they would shy away from mocking the sufferers of other phobias they think nothing of making fun of anatidaephobes, solely for their own puerile entertainment and amusement.  Well at 7 Reasons, we’re bigger and cleverer than that.  We know what not to show an anatidaephobe.

    Not for anatidaephobes
    This is what not to show an anatidaephobe.

    2.  At Home.  Anatidaephobes must find it terribly difficult to cope at home.  After all, they’ll believe that when they’re there a duck is watching them.  And how is anyone supposed to relax with a duck watching them?  And how are they supposed to tell if a duck is watching them or not when they’re suffering from snow-blindness?  Or soft-furnishing-induced vomiting.

    3.  Escape.  So they’ve got a duck staring at them at home.  What to do?  What to do?  Get away from it all, that’s what.  Get away from the daily grind, the endless plates and pitchers, the white stuff all over the place, the searing pain in their eyes, the duck that may or may not be there staring at them and head off on holiday.  To somewhere far, far away from the many, many cups and saucers and the sinister duck.

    a scary duck staring into a plane

    4.  Having A Lovely Time, Wish You Were…Oh…You Are.  Well, apparently to anatidaephobes, flying isn’t a barrel of laughs either.  But a journey in an aircraft is a temporary annoyance – unless it plummets from the sky in a fiery ball and hurtles at several hundred miles an hour into a mountain, in which case it’s a more permanent irritation – and, having escaped the duck at the aeroplane window, the travelling anatidaephobe can finally emerge from the aircraft all set to begin their relaxing holiday in Osaka.

    5.  Look On The Bright Side.  Well okay,  Osaka may not be as relaxing at they’d hoped.  But sufferers of anatidaephobia can console themselves with the thought that the big yellow duck isn’t real, and it’s not like ducks hang around in large gangs.  That would be terrifying.

    Just lots and lots of ducks.
    Yes. This would be terrifying.

    6.  It’s Still Not Being Taken Seriously.  Well it seems we’ve been rumbled.  There does appear to be a series of images in this post that would be terrifying to anyone with a fear of ducks and, if you’re an anatidaephobe that’s made it this far down the page, we apologise for our silliness and can reassure you that there are absolutely no more photos of ducks in this post.  It’s all just text from now on.

           ..---..
         .'  _    `.
     __..'  (o)    :
    `..__          ;
         `.       /
           ;      `..---...___
         .'                   `~-. .-')
        .                         ' _.'
       :                           :
       \                           '
        +                         J
         `._                   _.'
            `~--....___...---~'

    7. Comparison. Okay, that was a cheap shot (which is great as there’s a global recession) and, you might reasonably ask, would we make fun of people who suffer from other debilitating ailments; people that are scared of the dark, for example, or the morbidly obese?  And the answer is no, we probably wouldn’t.  A series of pictures of the dark would be very dull indeed, and a post full of pictures of fat would be totally disgusting and would put everyone off their sandwiches.  The good news, however, is that unlike the fear of the dark – or fat people – anatidaephobia isn’t real.  It was made up by Gary Larson – he of  The Far Side fame – so we can all relax now.  Unless you’ve ever claimed to be an anatidaephobe or have been reading this piece through the gaps between your fingers, in which case you’re a simpering nitwit and we can heartily recommend this fine web page.

  • 7 Reasons That You Shouldn’t Knock on the Front Door When I’m in the Bath

    7 Reasons That You Shouldn’t Knock on the Front Door When I’m in the Bath

    Yesterday, while I was bathing, someone knocked on the front door.  They shouldn’t have.  Here are seven reasons why.

    A black and white picture of a man chopping wood with an axe.  1940s

    1.  Doubt.  I’m lying in the bath.  I’m wet.  I’m not about to get up to answer the door, it’ll be bloody cold standing on the doorstep with only a towel around my waist and five chest hairs to keep me warm, so of course I’m going to lie here.  But what if it’s important?  What if there’s a gas leak and they’ve come to alert me?  What if the house next door is on fire?  What if the police have come to warn me that there’s an axe-murderer on the loose?

    2.  Foreboding.  What if it is the axe-murderer?  I’m alone in the house with my cat.  An axe-murderer wouldn’t be satisfied with hacking the cat to death, that wouldn’t even be murder.  That would be animal cruelty.  That would probably be an assault to the dignity of the axe-murderer:  It would be a demotion from axe-murderer to cruel man (with axe).  He’d be a laughing stock.  He would be shunned by the other axe-murderers.  That would never do.

    3.  Fear.  What if he’s the sort of axe-murderer who doesn’t want to chop me into a barely identifiable pulp of blood, flesh and sinew right away?  What if he’s the kind that’s on the run and wants somewhere to hide for a while; menacing my cat with his axe in the living room while I tell the police at the door that I haven’t seen anyone and that I’m alone in the house?  I don’t want one of those.  It’ll be hours before my wife comes home and I can hide behind her.  Hours.

    4.  Terror.  What if he needs to hide out for a couple of days?  What in the hell would we feed him?  We’ve had snow here for two weeks and the shops haven’t had much in; all we would have to offer him are vast quantities of limoncello and Twiglets.  And I doubt that axe-murderers even like Twiglets.  After all, I bloody love Twiglets and I’m the total opposite of an axe-murderer; I’m a no-axed-not-murderer, or as we’re more commonly known, a victim.   So, the axe-murderer will have lots to drink, but nothing to eat.  So he’ll be drunk, and he’ll be cross.  He’ll be a drunken, angry, axe-murderer which, I rather suspect, is the worst sort.

    5.  Twiglets.  What if he does like Twiglets?  Because these aren’t just any Twiglets.  Oh no.  These are the Christmas Twiglets.  The Twiglets that I’m not allowed to touch.  The Twiglets that no one is allowed to touch, or even gaze directly at for a prolonged period.  Not until Christmas Twiglet season begins at 9pm on the 24th of December.  I’ve made that mistake before and there were consequences.  And now I know better than to breach the sanctity of the Christmas Twiglets.  In fact, I seem to remember that, following the incident that has come to be known as Christmas-Twiglet-gate, my wife told me that if I ever ate the Christmas Twiglets again (outside of the clearly defined time-frame) that she would kill me.  So that’s it.  It’s Hobson’s bloody choice.  If the axe-murderer likes Twiglets I can either tell him he can’t have any and he’ll kill me with an axe, or I can let him have them and my wife will kill me without an axe (with a handbag probably, or her soup).  Basically, I’m fucked.

    6.  Reflection.  When was the last time I saw an axe-murderer?  I haven’t seen any for ages.  I don’t think I’ve seen one since The Shining.  There used to be loads of them.  Absolutely bloody loads, but their numbers seem to have declined.  They seem to have had some sort of heyday in the late 1940s when they were menacing Fred MacMurray and Ida Lupino in a remote California farmhouse most weekends, and then their numbers appear to have dwindled away to nothing.  So, in all probability, it wasn’t an axe-murderer that knocked on my door about sixty minutes ago.

    7.  Resolution.  My fingers are wrinkly, I’m cold, and my left knee has literally turned blue.  I have other things to do.  I’m supposed to be writing tomorrow’s 7 Reasons piece.  I’m not even supposed to be thinking about the Christmas Twiglets.  I’m not allowed to do that until the 22nd.  You’ve just stolen an hour of my life and caused me think dangerous thoughts and turned my knee a funny colour (somewhere between cobalt and Prussian blue).  Damn you, whoever you are/were.  Next time, I’m coming down in my towel.  To my death, probably.

  • Russian Roulette Sunday: Halloween Special

    Russian Roulette Sunday: Halloween Special

    Hi, Marc here.  Happy Halloween.  Jon and I thought long and hard about what to bring you on el Día de los Muertos and, having considered it for some time we began working on a project early last week.  Then things went a bit awry, and we ended up postponing it until next year.  So it was left to me to write the Halloween special alone.  And, looking into the dark recesses of my soul for inspiration, I came up with a horror-filled tale of woe and dread.  Do not read on if you are of a nervous disposition.  Or if you are a lover of poetry.

    a scary picture of a spooky house

    1

    ‘Twas a crisp, moonlit night, and all was still,

    yet into the house came a terrible chill,

    the creak of a door, an inrush of air,

    the muffled report of a foot on the stair.

    2

    The woman awoke, and sat with a start,

    with trembling hands, and a racing heart,

    was it her husband, returned from the bar?

    Was it a spectre, or a burglar?

    3

    A rustling sound rose up from the kitchen,

    and this resolved her to spring into action,

    Shrilly, she called, in a faltering voice,

    “Who is that down there, that’s causing the noise?”

    4

    No answer was given, to her nervous query,

    she listened and listened, the silence was eerie,

    and so it was, with a palpable dread,

    she resolved to get up and stepped out of the bed.

    5

    She crossed the room swiftly, donning her gown,

    tiptoed through the door and prepared to go down,

    to discover who-knew-what was down there.

    She stifled a whimper and went down the stairs.

    6

    Breathlessly she crept, along the hallway,

    and when she arrived at the kitchen doorway,

    she flung open the door, and switched on the light,

    and then she received the most terrible fright.

    7

    She recoiled in horror, and let out a shriek,

    she fell to the floor unable to speak,

    she covered her eyes and continued to scream,

    ‘twas quite the most horrible thing that she’d seen.

    8

    So what was this horror, this terror, this sight?

    That haunted the kitchen in the dead of night?

    The most hideous thing she ever will see,

    ‘twas the bone-chilling mask of Jonathan Lee.

    A scary Jonathan Lee mask hanging from a pan rack

    Have a great Halloween!  Oh, and if you haven’t read it yet, this comes highly recommended:  7 Reasons we Should Trick-or-Treat Ourselves out of the Deficit