Book 1, Ancient Oeuf.
The History of Oeuf tells the story of the rise of civilisation on the small world of Oeuf, from its humble origins to its technological zenith. On Earth this process took over ten-thousand years, but on Oeuf they must manage it in just ten. The story is told through the lives of Oeuf's demented monarchs, priests, artists, revolutionaries and scientists. The book contains many interesting parallels with Human history, culture and thought. In addition it is stuffed to the gunwales with lots and lots of particularly silly jokes.
On a tiny moon, twirling round a tiny planet, long before our Earth was formed, a small and hairy creature raised itself up onto its hind legs and stood erect. It held a round, yellow object aloft. In the sky a round, yellow sun radiated light.
"O Great Fiery Solanum Tuberosum," the creature cried, "O Spud of Life! O Potato of Eternal Light, what comes forth from the dark mud of night, me does perform the ancient rites of snackrifice!" Then, with great reverence, the creature tried to stuff the round, yellow potato it was holding into its mouth.
This creature was a troggle: ludicrously hairy, about three feet tall and as dumb as a post. Like us, troggles (genus trogus-non-compus-mentis) walk upright and have opposable thumbs. They don't have any fingers, but they have six opposable thumbs. Like kangaroos, troggles have a pouch for carrying their new-born. In practice, however, troggle parents are far too lazy to carry anything as heavy or inedible as a troggle child. Instead, they prefer to use their pouch as a sort of handbag, stuffing it to the brim with potato effigies, totem turnips,crude flower-clubs!, humorously shaped vegetables and all the useless junk newly sapient creatures tend to think important.
The creature's name was Mystix the Mystagogue, and he was the holy-man of the Twittian tribe (the first and most ancient of the four troggle tribes which inhabited this little world). His job was to intone their remarkably unfunny knock-knock myths 1 and perform the very latest ancient rituals. As was customary, he was covered in old cabbage leaves and had a carrot protruding from each nostril. In front of him the troggles of the Twittian tribe waited expectantly, while behind him towered Mount Squeegey. Periodically, the Great Fiery Potato would rise from behind the mountain, marking,as Mystix insisted it did, the summer solipsism.
"Me! Me! Me! Me! Me!" he chanted, as a handful of troggles blew down hollow stalks, making a strange, otherworldly noise. It sounded like a quire of heavenly angels being scraped across a blackboard; but it was powerful music to these troggles, who started dancing wild, disjointed dances. In the centre of this mass of dancing hair-balls, Mystix the Mystagogue started to twirl. To the chaotic beat of wild music he waved a geranium as he twirled and twirled and twirled. Then he fell over. He got up, sat down and stood up. Everyone stopped dancing, and a strange hush descended over the mass of chattering troggles.
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