tommybudgers and blaxonbobbles!
"the cereal of choice is the cereal that's moist!" that was the most bourgiougraphn witticism of any woman on this island earth, and could have been spoketh by a proliteriat debutante like Gwen Plado of the 1930's, or like Rosalyn Saxwuzzuls of the ice force upholding the Swedish policies regarding the Arctic snow gators. But low and behold this quote was uttered on this day 12,983 morrows ago by my mother and my mother alone, a french prostitute with a jagged tooth that was oftentimes optioned off by my father for logging! i was ne'er more emotionally invested in my mother than Captain Habershaber was to his second naval vessel, the S.S. Mosherutaki -- which is not very emotionally invested at all! but she died yestermorrow, the whore, and i felt the need to dedicate this diminuitive section of my retrospective memoirs to her. here's to you oh female whose birth canal I paddled through like Howard Howitz emerging from the river Roshantobuwi when the other members of his safari had thought him DEAD!
early this morrow i awoke to the mail carrier standing at my gate. i sent my driver wilhelm to greet this most tallest of mail carriers, who had a communique sent my way by television personality Johnny Caruthers, the host of a delectible program sequenced someplace inbetwixt 10 and 12 in the pm. i myself have ne'er once seen the program, for i have never believed in the television, and have always accused it of housing witches and other members of the occult! some gents have called me absolutely mad for not placing my faith in the "demon box" as i lovingly refer to it as, but they will ne'er again deem me mad when the forces of evil are exiting their picture tubes and eating their families!
anywho, this commique from Johnny Caruthers was inviting me to be a guest on the program, deemed the "evening hour with johnny caruthers". how might i be able to turn my left thumb to such an offer? i shant, and hence I agreed most enthusiastically to appearing on this night's episode of the program. i would appear between the first guest, milo spotnix(a most dim-witted man who wrote a dispicable book concerning the final days of Admiral Robert H. Biscuits) and a flute player by the name of jones. i looked forward to my appearance immensely! when i was a young chap growing up in london, the picture tube had yet to be invented, although there was a most-enchanting wooden crate on bloxborough hill that housed a crazy old hermit named mittens.
as wilhelm drove me to the television studio where "evening hour" is cinemagraphed, i recalled those early days of watching mittens trying desperately to escape from the wooden crate that a band of surly pirates had imprisoned him in years earlier. it had been my equivilent to the picture-tube, and since it had been invented i have always wanted my image to be transmitted across the earth to picture-tubes in every flat belonging to every man alive. perhaps i could entertain the masses almost as much as mittens had entertained my schoolyard chums and i, although the denizens viewing me on "evening hour" would not be apt to prod me with fire-pokers, as was the case with my chums and i when we very much wanted to get mittens riled up.
upon arriving at the studio, i shanked wilhelm and left his body bleeding on the side of the lane. i entered the television studio with the kind of awe and boyhood glee not felt since i first read the tale of jonathan vlasterband and his team of forest thugs who rode dinosaurs!
i was greeted at the entrance by a young lad with a listening device fastened to his ear, and a clipboard fitted snugly under his arm. he smiled at me with the most fake of smiles, and asked me to go to makeup. i informed this fellow that since my skin pigment is defined as "snow white" i would need the strongest makeup available. unfortunately, the makeup man had no paste dark enough to make me appear even remotely human-like. you see dear readers, years and many morrows of sitting in my chambers reading memoirs and shanking wilhelms has left me ghost-like and frail. sometimes i wonder if i actually died years ago, and no one ever mentioned it to me...such thoughts plague me in the three minutes it takes me to drift to slumberland each turn of dusk.
after that horrid author milo spotnix was done, it was my round to be interviewed by the fantabulous johnny caruthers! as i was walking out onto the main stage, i could hear the audience clapping wildly for me. for a brief and fleeting moment i felt as though i were reginald sikes, the accomplished bass player for the obscure jazz band "the poppycockeries", about to begin my final symphony. just as i was stepping onto the stage, i passed spotnix, and upon seeing his dispicable face i was so strucken with anger and furiosity, that i pulled out a cardoor handle and shanked him in the face! the audience, a witness to the murder, immediately thereafter halted their applause. as the bobbies approached, i began to feel as if killing that bastard spotnix was not the best way to begin my interview. luckily my imaginary companion hughbert flew in at the last moment, and got me out of that blasted television studio. thank you again, my trusted friend!
early this morrow i awoke to the mail carrier standing at my gate. i sent my driver wilhelm to greet this most tallest of mail carriers, who had a communique sent my way by television personality Johnny Caruthers, the host of a delectible program sequenced someplace inbetwixt 10 and 12 in the pm. i myself have ne'er once seen the program, for i have never believed in the television, and have always accused it of housing witches and other members of the occult! some gents have called me absolutely mad for not placing my faith in the "demon box" as i lovingly refer to it as, but they will ne'er again deem me mad when the forces of evil are exiting their picture tubes and eating their families!
anywho, this commique from Johnny Caruthers was inviting me to be a guest on the program, deemed the "evening hour with johnny caruthers". how might i be able to turn my left thumb to such an offer? i shant, and hence I agreed most enthusiastically to appearing on this night's episode of the program. i would appear between the first guest, milo spotnix(a most dim-witted man who wrote a dispicable book concerning the final days of Admiral Robert H. Biscuits) and a flute player by the name of jones. i looked forward to my appearance immensely! when i was a young chap growing up in london, the picture tube had yet to be invented, although there was a most-enchanting wooden crate on bloxborough hill that housed a crazy old hermit named mittens.
as wilhelm drove me to the television studio where "evening hour" is cinemagraphed, i recalled those early days of watching mittens trying desperately to escape from the wooden crate that a band of surly pirates had imprisoned him in years earlier. it had been my equivilent to the picture-tube, and since it had been invented i have always wanted my image to be transmitted across the earth to picture-tubes in every flat belonging to every man alive. perhaps i could entertain the masses almost as much as mittens had entertained my schoolyard chums and i, although the denizens viewing me on "evening hour" would not be apt to prod me with fire-pokers, as was the case with my chums and i when we very much wanted to get mittens riled up.
upon arriving at the studio, i shanked wilhelm and left his body bleeding on the side of the lane. i entered the television studio with the kind of awe and boyhood glee not felt since i first read the tale of jonathan vlasterband and his team of forest thugs who rode dinosaurs!
i was greeted at the entrance by a young lad with a listening device fastened to his ear, and a clipboard fitted snugly under his arm. he smiled at me with the most fake of smiles, and asked me to go to makeup. i informed this fellow that since my skin pigment is defined as "snow white" i would need the strongest makeup available. unfortunately, the makeup man had no paste dark enough to make me appear even remotely human-like. you see dear readers, years and many morrows of sitting in my chambers reading memoirs and shanking wilhelms has left me ghost-like and frail. sometimes i wonder if i actually died years ago, and no one ever mentioned it to me...such thoughts plague me in the three minutes it takes me to drift to slumberland each turn of dusk.
after that horrid author milo spotnix was done, it was my round to be interviewed by the fantabulous johnny caruthers! as i was walking out onto the main stage, i could hear the audience clapping wildly for me. for a brief and fleeting moment i felt as though i were reginald sikes, the accomplished bass player for the obscure jazz band "the poppycockeries", about to begin my final symphony. just as i was stepping onto the stage, i passed spotnix, and upon seeing his dispicable face i was so strucken with anger and furiosity, that i pulled out a cardoor handle and shanked him in the face! the audience, a witness to the murder, immediately thereafter halted their applause. as the bobbies approached, i began to feel as if killing that bastard spotnix was not the best way to begin my interview. luckily my imaginary companion hughbert flew in at the last moment, and got me out of that blasted television studio. thank you again, my trusted friend!