Jabba et al
A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I shared a flat with Jabbe the Hutt. You may have seen him portrayed in a film, and that was pretty realistic, I can tell you. If you haven't seen the film, he was was a 200kg invertebrate blob of mucus with goggling eyes and a fetish for carbonised smugglers.

The language barrier was the first problem. I couldn't understand a word he said, though I kind of knew when he was laughing. It was usually when he was eating my pets. Christ, he was a fat bastard. Every night he was on the lager, stuffing pork scratchings down his neck and watching X-Files or ER while dribbling all over himself.

Naturally, it was a waste of time bringing girls home. They'd take one look at the drooling phlegm-heap in the corner and leave. And if he had a girl delivered, I had to sit there watching ER while some girls slipped and slid all over his jiggling folds as he laughed away to himself. The fat cnut.

Anyway, one day the landlord came round and said the council had been asking questions about extra-terrestrial immigrant workers. It turned out Jabba had been claiming disability benefit under the name Brian Cockcheese and he'd been found out. A team came round from the Organic Hygiene Squad and they poured a big bucket of salt on him.

You should have seen him melt away. In no time, he was just a liqueous green stain on my sofa. I had it industrially cleaned and eveything was back to normal within a few weeks.

Until one of his old friends turned up claiming that Jabba had invited him over. Short-arsed little bastard with patchy facial hair, he was. He spoke English, but his grammar left a lot to be desired: "Not good is this ER," he'd say. And then he'd make the remote just levitate towards him and change the channel to Gardener's World or something. I've written a letter to the Immigration Service about him.
(frankspencer, Sun 8 Apr 2007, 10:12, Reply)