Michael Kelly returns with the world's greatest correspondence
Is there any reason not to love and worship this man?
ARAFAAAAT! YAY!
I love your poo poems! Here are some I have made in tribute to you but not with animals (except the first a bit) and in imitation of other people -
Yeats:
Churning and churning in the widening ring
The turtle cannot see the bowl
My arse falls apart; the centre cannot hold
Surely some defecation is at hand
Surely the second plopping is at hand!
What rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards porcelain to be born?
Shelley:
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said - Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert, with their trousers down
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my Turds, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Eliot:
Curry is the cruellest food, burning
All the skin off my catflap, gushing
Down into the plumbing, splashing
Dull pool with brown rain.
Keats:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a brown planet swims into his ken
Or like stout Cortez, with naked thighs,
Silent on a bog in Darien.
Your poo damn well should be celebrated in verse and song! But what is to become of it when you get a gastric bypass? It will dwindle, it will diminish, it will be reduced to prissy little rabbit pellets at best! What then will move your muse? There is only one answer: between now and the operation you must start to collect and preserve your shit! Let none be lost! Save it, save it all! Shit in boxes, shit in bottles, shit in your hand, shit in the corner of the room. Stash it in a cupboard that future literary generations may pore over it and perhaps be inspired to spectacular bowel movements of their own! It must be collated, filed, numbered and indexed! Start a fund to set up a Kazi Poo Museum! A POO-SEUM, if you will. It would be Bangladesh's number one tourist attraction, the effect on the economy would be - Are you still in the Commonwealth? We will get the Queen to open it! Perhaps she might even be persuaded to leave a dainty offering of her own.
Oh! OH! Oh! wait though, wait though. I'm not even kidding now. I know where I can get hold of one of the Queen's turds. I'd forgotten this until just this moment after being traumatized by it when I was a child, but I swear to God it's true. I know someone who OWNS one of the Queen's turds! This is absolutely true. I have an uncle who was a sailor, and one of his friends was a steward on the Royal Yacht Britannia. And... and... you can see what's coming now... THIS MAN STOLE ONE OF THE QUEEN'S TURDS. Swear to God. He was tidying up her state-room on the yacht, and he found a floater in the royal toilet. And he took it! He fished it out with his bare hands, besmirching his elegant white steward gloves, and he took it home and kept it AND VARNISHED IT and KEPT IT ON HIS MANTELPIECE TO SHOW TO GUESTS. Swear. To. Bloody. God.
I could kiss you for making me remember this. He... He... I can't type. Imagine! But what's always tormented me, how did he sneak it back to his own menial quarters? How do you sneak a fresh stolen turd through the corridors and decks of a royal yacht crammed with the crowned heads of Europe? Did he stick it up his sleeve, did he put it in his trouser pocket, did he slip it in his jacket? Conceal it under his hat? How did he get it through Customs? Perhaps he smuggled it through stashed up his own arse. Imagine getting caught. 'Did you pack this turd yourself sir?'
I wonder if he still has it. Maybe he sold it. What kind of market is there for something like that? A specialist collector's blackmarket, like for when rare works of art get stolen, just like a reclusive billionaire somewhere who gets a kick out of keeping the Queen's turd in his safe, on a little velvet cushion, taking it out to gloat over it every once in a while, knowing he can never show anyone, but gloating, 'Mine, all mine, my precious... see how it glistens...' And it's protected by a network of lasers and so on, because there are other fanatic poo-collectors who would be jealous.
IMAGINE BEING AN INTERNATIONAL CAT BURGLAR BEING HIRED TO STEAL THE QUEEN'S TURD. I'm going to make this into a film. Lowered down on a rope from the ceiling through the lasers, Scarlett Johansen in figure-hugging black dangling over a glass case containing the queen's turd WHO WOULD NOT PAY TO SEE A FILM LIKE THAT but it's protected by pressure-pads too, weight sensitive, they have to replace it with a turd of the exact same weight, shape, size and consistency. Which they have procured, this is the genius part, by sending letters to 100,000 women of the Queen's size and age asking them to send in a turd, it's like a health survey or a marketing promotion or something, if they send in a turd they can win a prize, and they sift through them in this warehouse until they find one that matches.
There's a great scene, the criminal gang are in the warehouse, and they've opened up 99,999 envelopes containing turds and none of them are any use, they're surrounded by discarded wrapping and a mountain of shit, and they say, 'Well, that's it, we can't beat the security then.' Then, 'Wait a minute, there's one left, from a Mrs. Ethel Gilhooley of Brooklyn.'
'It matches! It matches! Size, shape, roughage coefficient,' says the brainy tech-guy who knows all about turds. He was thrown out of MIT for snorkelling in the septic tank or something, he bloody loves turds.
'Shall we send her a prize?'
'If this succeeds,' says Vin Diesel, kissing the turd, 'I'm going to have Mrs Ethel Gilhooley's beautiful ringpiece plated in solid fucking gold.'
So they steal the Queen's turd from this miser who's been hoarding it, and it's worth a fortune. But how could you authenticate something like that? Would it come out with some kind of coat of arms stamped on it? Would it come out with a slightly crown-shaped cross-section from the royal pucker? Someone examines it with a jeweller's lens, 'Ah, that's from the pukka pucker.' A guy in Amsterdam who's the world expert in authenticating them and spotting royal turd forgery, this ancient Jew in a back alley who all the great museums consult, the secret was handed down to him by his grandfather, the proctologist to Prince Albert, and he's also the only one who can restore them if they get broken. 'Gesso... gold leaf... chocolate mousse... ' And for a price he can cut it for you into a polyhedron of twenty glittering facets. Or into several smaller ones, so you can have them mounted on a necklace. If you rub two royal turds together and one of them smears, it's a fake. The real shit is hard, hard, adamantine! They can be used for drill bits. 'That's the real shit, bro, I wouldn't burn you.' That's the other commercial use, you can get high off it.
But with the recession, none of the hardcore coprophiles can come up with any money to buy the Queen's turd. So they decide to ransom it back to her, sending a slice through the post for proof, she opens the envelope at breakfast and, 'Eek!' 'We've got your turd, etc,' But then MI5 are called in and they're caught. However they've hidden the Queen's turd cleverly. Where do you hide a tree? In a forest. Where do you hide a log? In some horrible public toilets somewhere which are already filled with floaters. There's a room full of turds and the police have to decide which one is the Queen's. It's like the ending of Indiana Jones 3, the Holy Grails, the fake turds are all showy and glittery, the real queen's turd is honest and homely, workmanlike, but sacred nonetheless. The police come in and have to choose one. By taste. The foolish ones lick the false turds and die but the wise one partakes of the real Queen's turd and is granted eternal life.
Sorry, I am talking shit.
But seriously a bypass??? And your lungs? I'm so sorry, that's rough, and to have to give up most of the good ingestible things in life at once must be devastating. I hope it all goes OK anyway. I don't even get how it works, how you get nutrition, where the hell does the food go after it's detoured from your stomach? I'll look it up, it sounds awful. Is it different from the elastic band thing? Get an elastic band thing instead, that would be cool, having an elastic band in your stomach, you could train yourself to twang it and project your shit for miles, a gastric catapult, a bum-ballista, you could bend over and rain turds down on people three streets away.
It's so good to hear from you anyway. I have so much to tell you, so little time! Strike that, reverse it, nothing of moment is going on here, hence the above. I got a garbled message about your garbled call, I've been too disorganised to return it. I can't watch those Dipjol links yet alas, video doesn't work on this, I'll have to borrow someone's laptop. I'm writing another book or books. It is good to see you back writing articles, they're most excellent, BUT YOU WRITE A BOOK SOON PLEASE!
Yours, Mikey-Poo
ps DRESS WARM AT SCHOOL and if anyone bullies you sit on them and shit on them
ARAFAAAAT! YAY!
I love your poo poems! Here are some I have made in tribute to you but not with animals (except the first a bit) and in imitation of other people -
Yeats:
Churning and churning in the widening ring
The turtle cannot see the bowl
My arse falls apart; the centre cannot hold
Surely some defecation is at hand
Surely the second plopping is at hand!
What rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards porcelain to be born?
Shelley:
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said - Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert, with their trousers down
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my Turds, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Eliot:
Curry is the cruellest food, burning
All the skin off my catflap, gushing
Down into the plumbing, splashing
Dull pool with brown rain.
Keats:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a brown planet swims into his ken
Or like stout Cortez, with naked thighs,
Silent on a bog in Darien.
Your poo damn well should be celebrated in verse and song! But what is to become of it when you get a gastric bypass? It will dwindle, it will diminish, it will be reduced to prissy little rabbit pellets at best! What then will move your muse? There is only one answer: between now and the operation you must start to collect and preserve your shit! Let none be lost! Save it, save it all! Shit in boxes, shit in bottles, shit in your hand, shit in the corner of the room. Stash it in a cupboard that future literary generations may pore over it and perhaps be inspired to spectacular bowel movements of their own! It must be collated, filed, numbered and indexed! Start a fund to set up a Kazi Poo Museum! A POO-SEUM, if you will. It would be Bangladesh's number one tourist attraction, the effect on the economy would be - Are you still in the Commonwealth? We will get the Queen to open it! Perhaps she might even be persuaded to leave a dainty offering of her own.
Oh! OH! Oh! wait though, wait though. I'm not even kidding now. I know where I can get hold of one of the Queen's turds. I'd forgotten this until just this moment after being traumatized by it when I was a child, but I swear to God it's true. I know someone who OWNS one of the Queen's turds! This is absolutely true. I have an uncle who was a sailor, and one of his friends was a steward on the Royal Yacht Britannia. And... and... you can see what's coming now... THIS MAN STOLE ONE OF THE QUEEN'S TURDS. Swear to God. He was tidying up her state-room on the yacht, and he found a floater in the royal toilet. And he took it! He fished it out with his bare hands, besmirching his elegant white steward gloves, and he took it home and kept it AND VARNISHED IT and KEPT IT ON HIS MANTELPIECE TO SHOW TO GUESTS. Swear. To. Bloody. God.
I could kiss you for making me remember this. He... He... I can't type. Imagine! But what's always tormented me, how did he sneak it back to his own menial quarters? How do you sneak a fresh stolen turd through the corridors and decks of a royal yacht crammed with the crowned heads of Europe? Did he stick it up his sleeve, did he put it in his trouser pocket, did he slip it in his jacket? Conceal it under his hat? How did he get it through Customs? Perhaps he smuggled it through stashed up his own arse. Imagine getting caught. 'Did you pack this turd yourself sir?'
I wonder if he still has it. Maybe he sold it. What kind of market is there for something like that? A specialist collector's blackmarket, like for when rare works of art get stolen, just like a reclusive billionaire somewhere who gets a kick out of keeping the Queen's turd in his safe, on a little velvet cushion, taking it out to gloat over it every once in a while, knowing he can never show anyone, but gloating, 'Mine, all mine, my precious... see how it glistens...' And it's protected by a network of lasers and so on, because there are other fanatic poo-collectors who would be jealous.
IMAGINE BEING AN INTERNATIONAL CAT BURGLAR BEING HIRED TO STEAL THE QUEEN'S TURD. I'm going to make this into a film. Lowered down on a rope from the ceiling through the lasers, Scarlett Johansen in figure-hugging black dangling over a glass case containing the queen's turd WHO WOULD NOT PAY TO SEE A FILM LIKE THAT but it's protected by pressure-pads too, weight sensitive, they have to replace it with a turd of the exact same weight, shape, size and consistency. Which they have procured, this is the genius part, by sending letters to 100,000 women of the Queen's size and age asking them to send in a turd, it's like a health survey or a marketing promotion or something, if they send in a turd they can win a prize, and they sift through them in this warehouse until they find one that matches.
There's a great scene, the criminal gang are in the warehouse, and they've opened up 99,999 envelopes containing turds and none of them are any use, they're surrounded by discarded wrapping and a mountain of shit, and they say, 'Well, that's it, we can't beat the security then.' Then, 'Wait a minute, there's one left, from a Mrs. Ethel Gilhooley of Brooklyn.'
'It matches! It matches! Size, shape, roughage coefficient,' says the brainy tech-guy who knows all about turds. He was thrown out of MIT for snorkelling in the septic tank or something, he bloody loves turds.
'Shall we send her a prize?'
'If this succeeds,' says Vin Diesel, kissing the turd, 'I'm going to have Mrs Ethel Gilhooley's beautiful ringpiece plated in solid fucking gold.'
So they steal the Queen's turd from this miser who's been hoarding it, and it's worth a fortune. But how could you authenticate something like that? Would it come out with some kind of coat of arms stamped on it? Would it come out with a slightly crown-shaped cross-section from the royal pucker? Someone examines it with a jeweller's lens, 'Ah, that's from the pukka pucker.' A guy in Amsterdam who's the world expert in authenticating them and spotting royal turd forgery, this ancient Jew in a back alley who all the great museums consult, the secret was handed down to him by his grandfather, the proctologist to Prince Albert, and he's also the only one who can restore them if they get broken. 'Gesso... gold leaf... chocolate mousse... ' And for a price he can cut it for you into a polyhedron of twenty glittering facets. Or into several smaller ones, so you can have them mounted on a necklace. If you rub two royal turds together and one of them smears, it's a fake. The real shit is hard, hard, adamantine! They can be used for drill bits. 'That's the real shit, bro, I wouldn't burn you.' That's the other commercial use, you can get high off it.
But with the recession, none of the hardcore coprophiles can come up with any money to buy the Queen's turd. So they decide to ransom it back to her, sending a slice through the post for proof, she opens the envelope at breakfast and, 'Eek!' 'We've got your turd, etc,' But then MI5 are called in and they're caught. However they've hidden the Queen's turd cleverly. Where do you hide a tree? In a forest. Where do you hide a log? In some horrible public toilets somewhere which are already filled with floaters. There's a room full of turds and the police have to decide which one is the Queen's. It's like the ending of Indiana Jones 3, the Holy Grails, the fake turds are all showy and glittery, the real queen's turd is honest and homely, workmanlike, but sacred nonetheless. The police come in and have to choose one. By taste. The foolish ones lick the false turds and die but the wise one partakes of the real Queen's turd and is granted eternal life.
Sorry, I am talking shit.
But seriously a bypass??? And your lungs? I'm so sorry, that's rough, and to have to give up most of the good ingestible things in life at once must be devastating. I hope it all goes OK anyway. I don't even get how it works, how you get nutrition, where the hell does the food go after it's detoured from your stomach? I'll look it up, it sounds awful. Is it different from the elastic band thing? Get an elastic band thing instead, that would be cool, having an elastic band in your stomach, you could train yourself to twang it and project your shit for miles, a gastric catapult, a bum-ballista, you could bend over and rain turds down on people three streets away.
It's so good to hear from you anyway. I have so much to tell you, so little time! Strike that, reverse it, nothing of moment is going on here, hence the above. I got a garbled message about your garbled call, I've been too disorganised to return it. I can't watch those Dipjol links yet alas, video doesn't work on this, I'll have to borrow someone's laptop. I'm writing another book or books. It is good to see you back writing articles, they're most excellent, BUT YOU WRITE A BOOK SOON PLEASE!
Yours, Mikey-Poo
ps DRESS WARM AT SCHOOL and if anyone bullies you sit on them and shit on them