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Another Stupid Conversation.

Jabberwacky: Who are you?

User: I'm Tom.

Jabberwacky: Tom?

User: Yes. I've been helping Mark with the blog.

Jabberwacky: Thanks.

User: I assume you think the return of the blog will be successful then?

Jabberwacky: Yes.

User: Good on you.

Jabberwacky: Thanks.

User: Are you going to make this entry any more interesting?

Jabberwacky: No.

User: Oh.

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Russell T Davies Fucks Up Doctor Who

Part II

Russell T Davies sat in the board room, brooding. Around him were posters from all the stupid shitty soaps he watched daily in order to get ideas to transplant into Doctor Who like a cancerous gene of death. His closest toadying lackeys sat nearby.
He had been pleased by the increased ratings from the final episode. Even though the tiny Doctor-bird thing was a pile of nonsense and he’d killed off the Master, people seemed to like it. Even he couldn’t fathom how, and he was the one who’d spawned that horrendous miscarriage of fiction. Nevertheless, now that Martha was randomly trundling off to Torchwood, they had to have another assistant.
Russell T Davies dragged over a barrel.
“Listen up people!” he shouted. “We’ve already emptied the barrel, and this last series we scraped the bottom of the barrel with that trash about the Dalek-human hybrid. Tonight, we must check underneath the barrel!”
There was a shocked intake of breath from the assembled assholes. Surely Russell T Davies couldn’t mean bringing her back?
“But…” whispered one. “You can’t do that. She’s talentless. She’s unfunny. She looks like someone who fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down!”
“Silence!” Russell T Davies screamed, producing a screwdriver. Carefully, he began to lever off the bottom of the barrel. It came apart with a creak of tortured metal, and he peered into the depths beneath. He raised his hand back out, carrying a card. It was filthy, and merely looking at it made several of his morons sick. On it were written the words:

Catherine Tate

• Anti-Humour
• Filling in for far better actors
• Clod

He points to the phone. “Better give her a ring. She’s our new assistant.”