Gaze upon my Photoshop powers, ye mortals, and despair!!Tarrantula has been scuttling around my dreams for some time.
In front of a live studio audience, he offers me cheques of increasing value in exchange for my firstborn child.
"I dunno, Chris. £500 doesn't seem like much for my son and heir to my empire..."
"Do you want to phone a friend?"
"No, I don't think so. There's no-one on my list who'd be able to answer this one..."
"A thousand?"
"Nah. I've come a long way, had a lovely day, but I think I'll keep my son, thanks very much."
"Is that your final answer..?"
As shiny, viscous liquid rolls down Tarrantula's fangs, collecting in swelling beads at the tips I'm not sure if it's poison or saliva...
I don't really dream about Tarrantula. But I do enjoy a bad pun.
I have hopes that Chris Tarrantula will live on in CD covers and, maybe, the dreams of others.
Who knows? Perhaps if we all believe in him hard enough, he'll be summoned into existence like the thingy is Stephen King's It. I'd be more inclined to watch Who Wants To Be A Millionaire were it hosted by Tarrantula. It'd spice up proceedings considerably, I suspect...
