been sooo long since the last post. all three fudge babies were burried in a huge landslide. completely trapped, they kept alive by licking the sweat of the nearest brow, or worse, and sucking up a passing line of ants. Mummy fudge finally managed to escape after shouting ’I have the poweeeeer’ very loudly, she crawled like a lumpy snake all the way home to type this post. time to shit and get the kettle on.
the boys at the lab, after some years development, finally fed their new fudge-sherbet to a human test subject; Davey Fumbles. the results were as expected; 10 full seconds of simultaneuos burping, laughing, sneezing, vomiting, coughing, pissing, laughing, shitting, weeping, shivering, hiccuping, coming, twitching, all whilst questioning one’s own faith.
'result!' say the boys.
Sorry for the delay in writing this account, but is has taken me this long to mentally process what occurred over our Christmas, to come to terms with what transpired.
Imagine a 1920’s juke joint on the Mississippi Delta (‘juke’ derived from the Gullah word Joog, meaning rowdy) an excitable bunch of plantation workers cutting loose with moonshine and blues music, forgetting who they are until the morning; then un-imagine it! as it’s a deeply inappropriate analogy - my relatives, although often as pissed, are not the descendants of African slaves, no matter what Great Aunty Skids will have you believe. White, and middle class; well not white white, but more beige-pink, shading to a light brown towards our genital areas. Hair-colour moving across the honky spectrum, then beyond it, as is the case with Uncle Vicious, who has dyed his few remaining hairs red, and holds his middle finger permanently erect in his own special, three year long protest at his wife, Aunty Faithless, leaving him for an older, far more ugly and smelly man – it cramps sometimes and he has to bang it on the table.
So, the scene;
Twenty, many mentally compromised, relatives, crowding around a cramped table, in a small cottage on the bone-chilling North York Moors: squawking, weeping, vacantly masticating, compulsively guffawing, quietly complaining, and all sifting through their food in an attempt to extricate edibles. The open fire in this damp, musty, candle-lit room flickers perilously close to Granny’s tail. Serpentine, cat-like, and pendulous, I try not to look directly at it, but have brought my flute along just in case it needs ‘charming’.
My vegetarian cousin, Herb ‘The Herbivore’ Carnivore is in a heated discussion with my Mum, who wants to know why he isn’t eating his turkey, as a turkey, as everyone knows, is technically a fruit. This soon gets furious, and my mother is called 'a beaked devil's tit' by Herb.
Dad has brought along a small pear tree which he has decorated with a lone partridge rooted by a fierce field of artificial gravity, of my father’s own design. I try not to get too close. My young nephew has already lost his little monocle to it; the chain having snapped before the wee lens flew off to ridgidly stick to the tree’s trunk. There is no budging it.
Upon being asked, if he is a leg, or a breast man, Granddad replies that actually he is a vagina man and would much prefer that part of the turkey. I obligingly fence around in the thing with my blade, but find nothing fitting this description. Granddad, yes, weeps, for what seems a good hour, but he eventually comes round, when he wins at pulling a cracker, with one end in each of his hands. He dips the joke in his Brandy, as if to discern it’s alkalinity, (How do you get a fowl in a bowler hat? - Shit on his dreams), the paper-crown he unties, later adding it as a proud addition to his madman’s tool box as a saw; the toy, a Small Hadron Collider, he buries three miles under the surface of his chestnut and fudge stuffing, and waits for proof of the ‘Higgs Bosom’, patient, arms-folded.
We all, of course, watch the Queens’ speech, which, we all agree, consists entirely of grammatically solid sentences and is pronounced beautifully; no one is able to guess this year’s choice of language however. She bangs on about family values. Oh yes! Come and see my family love! Come and have a peek at two score cognisance hindranced chimera, 9 technical criminals, 5 nervous breakdowns, 3 part-time Jihadists, 2 half-souled mutants, and yes, that terrified partridge, glued to its perch on the pear tree by a pull of gravity equal to that of a black hole ‘roughly the size of a cock-ring’.
Can I go on? Sigmund says yes (my lizard (you can just tell)).
Okay, deep breath; the horror, the horror! Half way through the meal/Pagan-Christian ritual ingestion of solids and intoxicating liquids, the gloriously deranged Great great (the second ‘great here is a superlative) Uncle Great ‘the great’ Gate-Grate III, the famous local (very local, pop-to-the-shops local) explorer of international renown, goes missing. At a grand old age of 345678 weeks and one year, we are reet worried for his well-being. He is last seen shuffling towards the door, muttering something about, ‘darkness crowding in’. I am instantly dispatched into the heart of Africa via the Congo river, in a seemingly hopeless attempt to find him, and if necessary, assassinate him ‘neutralise the threat’ they say, ’ wipe out the stain’, they say, 'snuff the old bugger'. Reports hint at the forming of a strange tribal and cannibalistic autocracy, with my uncle at its head. ‘yep, sounds just like my uncle’ think I.
Sometime later I find him, after losing most of my 15 boat crew, one of which was a promising, but not too promising, young actor called Lawrence Fishburn, killed by an arrow he fails to decipher into lots of little glowing green 0’s and 1’s, and consequently, niftily limbo under its trajectory. I sneak into the village like a bearded ninja in Wellingtons three sizes too big, and find him atop his pyramidal temple. He’s naked and covered in bloody hand prints and crusted-on party-popper streamers.
'Mum wants to know if you want a bit of cake'
a long pause. The horror, the horror…
' fruit cake?'
'no, I think it's ginger'
South Korea have reacted angrily to North Korea’s rehearsals of a particularly lavish stage production of My Fair Lady just miles from the border, 25 miles south of Pyongyang, in a vast underground facility, with Kim Jong Il himself playing the main principal, Eliza Doolittle; strong (perhaps under considerable duress) support comes from Ken Watanabe as the phoneticist Professor Henry Higgins. China are yet to respond to allegations that much of the central leadership in Beijing have received tickets to the opening night. The South has hastily responded to this deliberate and flagrant provocation by drawing up plans, and redirecting massive state funds for an hugely opulent production of Cats, with Lee Myung-bak, the South’s president, understood to be filling the role of Mr. Mistoffelees.
deeply saddened to hear the news this morning that the promising young Italian contralto, Labia Minora, has died.
12 Dumps of Christmas No. 3: Daddy & Cousin F go for a festive ramble.
12 Dumps of Christmas No. 2: Yet another Christ-time related message from one of our own. Take it away Mummy Fudge…
This last week or so has undoubtedly been one of the worst of my life thanks to this hateful machine. All my contacts from my phone were somehow deleted, for example. My freezer door had suspiciously been left open all day while I was at work, and I’m sure I was supposed to get some post yesterday but didn’t. Hardly a coincidence. However, as suspected, the catastrophe box is now buggered. My own personal haven of crisis comes to a boring standstill. I knew something was wrong when it stopped excreting that milky substance. It shuddered and coughed and finally let out one last pipette of the vile goo at around 3am last night. Warranty says to “summon” the engineer. All I have are some old twigs and a step-by-step pentagram assembly pamphlet. Oh, wait… there’s an email address, too. CF
This last week or so has undoubtedly been one of the worst of my life thanks to this hateful machine. All my contacts from my phone were somehow deleted, for example. My freezer door had suspiciously been left open all day while I was at work, and I’m sure I was supposed to get some post yesterday but didn’t. Hardly a coincidence.
However, as suspected, the catastrophe box is now buggered. My own personal haven of crisis comes to a boring standstill.
I knew something was wrong when it stopped excreting that milky substance. It shuddered and coughed and finally let out one last pipette of the vile goo at around 3am last night.
Warranty says to “summon” the engineer. All I have are some old twigs and a step-by-step pentagram assembly pamphlet.
Oh, wait… there’s an email address, too.
Many Christmases and a Jolly Hollyday to all my little Nativi-babies out there in Tinseltown!
I’m down here right now at the Dolphin Foundation, teaching my revolutionary multi-faith worship/kickboxing to subadvantaged urchins (these kiddies really break my heart out), but in a short burst of restitude between brunchtime meditation and Erotic Workout I have taken precious moments to tumble this badboy straight out of my soul and onto the information superairwaves.
Feast your ears on an audio yule log that’ll go down easy for you and your grandma this magical seasontide.
Love, Peace & Karate,