Penguin Purple Catharsis Rant

I made this four years ago.
Enjoy.
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Now, there are many retards out there who don’t know how to spell supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. Well, I think that catharsis should cure it all. Catharsis means release, and that means taking a dump, and if your shit is purple that means you’re fucked. Penguins are fucked too, by other penguins. They make little shit-coloured penguins. Then a bear comes and licks the honey off the penguin. I like sugared honey. With peanut butter. But not purple peanut butter. The guttering in peanut butter is made from a plastic called PVC: Penguin Very Chocolate. Chocolate from Madagascar is 75% or 65%. I live in Madagascar during the holidays. I am a cocaine dealer in Madagascar. Penguins take cocaine. That’s why they aren’t purple. But lemurs aren’t purple either. Because lemurs shit cocaine. That’s why I have so much cocaine. But I never buy crocodile shit because crocodile shit smells like shit. And shit is very smelly. So are elephants’ knees. But elephants don’t eat purple peanut butter. I eat peanut butter, so my hair is very long. But it’s not purple hair. Purple hair has a low boiling point, and so does cocaine. That means if you take methane and put it into a penguin it turns into a lemur and shits out cocaine. Then I export the penguins and they become elephants. Then a dingo comes and eats the elephant. Dingoes shit purple. So if a dingo fucked a lemur, they would shit purple cocaine but that smells like shit. Fractional distillation is a process to separate shit from penguins, lemurs and dingoes. Usually if you use it to fuck elephants you end up with peanut butter. And then the peanut butter turns into purple shit and you then take that shit and inject it into an ostrich and you get something fucked up, purple and addicted to cocaine. Usually a dingo. But if it’s a purple dingo, then it can’t be an elephant’s knee, so it won’t be smelling like shit then, would it. If lemurs were purple AND they ate peanut butter with shit, they get French accents, which mainly consists of putting random penguins in the English flag: peanut butter, cocaine and crocodile shit. They all eat lemurs. The way to drive away a French-speaking lemur is to smear treacle and crocodile shit on the English flag, not penguins and elephant knees. When a purple dingo shits on a lemur, and it then swallows a penguin, then a bear comes and licks honey off the English flag. And peanut butter turns to purple shit and an ostrich comes and spontaneously combusts and reincarnates as a mango. Mangoes like penguins but not lemurs because they are allergic to cocaine, like I am allergic to scissors. Purple mangoes aren’t allergic to cocaine, but only purple cocaine because mangoes are distantly related to dingoes. The English flag is also distantly related to dingoes. So their offspring is purple shit you smear treacle on.

Sokal, take two

Since the previous publication, I realised there are some concepts I failed to take into consideration:

Firstly, the castration of hegemonic pyro-stoicism in relation to social reconstructionist unleavened homeopathy; next the supra-diegetic orthodontics of the Newtonian archaeopteryx, and finally temporal dialectics of a heteroclite pan-amputated maquis matrix. To regard this, furthermore, from the perspective of the anamorphic carburettor insubordinates intra-inertial hippocampi of the Arthurian ultra-non-linear polysemic impersonation, and the photo-urbane signifier and signified, requires a modality that alimentary counter-binary negative gearing simply is unable to syntactically categorise. Now, there has been a paradigmatic receipt of arachno-ideological dissemination across delta-epsilon morphemes in the iconic as well as ambi-inferometric public sphere, ignoring the 180-degree rule of illusion of choice and megalo-subjectivity, and transubstantiating the interdependence of naturopathic espionage in chauvinistic vertical lethologica.

Nevertheless, certain olfactory inflections have rendered null the previously augmented triads that pejorative diaphragmatic super-neutrality eschewed, ignoring the semiotics of Flaubert and camembert, and the dermatoglyphics of hydro-dominant mesophase angles. Compare however indoctrination of standard deviation in crypto-deductible auteur terminals with the isomorphous syllepsis found to have been multi-fossilised by economic determinism in certain calypso Higgs-Boson diegeses – this will make evident the dualism in circum-duo-hypozeugma of refractory morphological ethers that synaesthesia and imperialism presupposed in scepticism: thus spake Zarathustra.

AUSTRALIA DURING 1940-1980

Flashback to 2006. History exam about Australia’s foreign policies between 1940 and 1970. Essay done (it wasn’t very good because it was supposed to be a formal essay and not contain humorous references to Michael Jackson’s face. Oops), I decided to have a little history-based stream-of-consciousness. The results were, well, interesting.
So without further ado, as I’m sure there will be enough of that later:
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AUSTRALIA DURING 1940-1980
Formerly, “An example of what NOT to do with fifteen minutes of a history exam to kill.”
During 1940-1970, Australia was invaded by pink iguanas. Robert Menzies, who drowned in a banana while trying to catch fish using fluffy rabbits, tried to stop the invasion by turning to his left. That way he saw Madagascar, but it drowned too, so he looked to American, which fed him things on sticks. This is why he is a fatty. Big fatty fatty fatty.
After Menzies was Vietnam. He was famous and they let him on television. Television was invented by a great big baboon with furry noses called Fred. The baboon’s name was Humphrey and he was an antelope. So Vietnam was very thin, and so America went to him and tried to feed him things on sticks, but Vietnam protested and became French.
When Vietnam died in 1970, up came Thomas the Tank Engine, who was also known as Gough Whitlam. Gough Whitlam was also a big fatty fatty who tried eating coal but it didn’t work so he went to China. All of the Aborigines in China loved him because he was a big fatty. But the Governor-General didn’t like him, so he killed him. The Governor-General also was a big fat fatty fat fatty who married the Queen and told that to Barry Humphries.
After Thomas the Tank Engine, a drum was Prime Minister because he was also a fatty. This drum was a model and he also went on television. He liked to eat whales, but then the Japanese said “No we want whales” so America bombed Japan and gave the drum a stick so he could eat whales. Then it was 1980 and people were still big fat fat fatties.

Woody, I salute you, but I miss you.

Nothing beats Sleeper.

Woody Allen was perhaps, besides any of my family members, my first hero, and I am proud to say so. Not Batman or Superman or Fatman or Pooperman. Woody Allen. From the moment I first set eyes on him in Sleeper (in my opinion his best work yet) and then read his attempts at Getting Even , through Bananas, Annie Hall, Zelig, Side Effects, Love and Death, I saw him as someone to whom one could look up. Now perhaps not literally, but still, each time I see his early work I want to hug him. No, I can’t say early work exclusively, because even as late as Everyone Says I Love You and Small Time Crooks has he demonstrated that being funny works. Lately he seems to have given up on the whole humour thing and that acting business. He can only direct well when he’s in the film! I can’t get enough of the neurotic New Yorker – a genius in small clothing – who rambles and witticises his way through life, which for him, is nothing short of a joke, something I believe everyone should recognise. So what if he’s in love with a woman half his age? At least he has the ability to love, to give and to receive love. He is not a monster for loving. Boo and poo to the media and to Mia Farrow and to his son Satchel (or Ronan or whichever of his middle names he’s going to use next) for making him out to be one. Little Woodykins is the absolute opposite of a monster. Whatever happened to the seductive neo-Groucho who would play on words and his clarinet simultaneously to have women swoon over him? I remember reading an interview in which he mentioned that he doesn’t act in his films because he is now too old to “get the girl”. Sorry, Woody, but you can never be too old for anything. Especially when it happens in a film. And you can definitely not be too old to be humorous.
Come back, Woody. Please.

Knock Knock!

A knock knock joke sketch. Caution: bad jokes.

SETTING: SHIP.
CAPTAIN (GERMAN ACCENT) standing on deck smoking pipe.
Enter SAILOR, running.
SAILOR: Knock knock!
CAPTAIN: Who’s zere?
SAILOR: Al!
CAPTAIN:Al who?
SAILOR: Alp us, the ship’s sinking!
CAPTAIN (to crew): Knock knock!
CREW (UNISON): Who’s there?
CAPTAIN: Mandy!
CREW (UNISON): Mandy who?
CAPTAIN: Mandy lifeboats, ze ship’s sinkink!
SAILOR 2 (offscreen): Knock Knock!
SAILOR 3 (offscreen): Who’s there?
SAILOR 2 (offscreen): Ron!
SAILOR 3 (offscreen): Ron who?
SAILOR 2 (offscreen, then runs through shot): Ron for your loives!
Enter SAILOR 4.
SAILOR 4: Knock knock!
CAPTAIN: Who’s zere?
SAILOR 4: Amanda.
CAPTAIN: Amanda who?
SAILOR 4: Amanda lifeboats, cap’n, now what?
CAPTAIN: Knock knock!
SAILOR 4: Who’s there?
CAPTAIN: Alf.
SAILOR: Haven’t we already had Alf?
SAILOR 3 (offscreen): No, that was Al!
SAILOR: Oh right, sorry.
SAILOR 4 (to SAILOR): You dipshit! (to CAPTAIN): Alf who?
CAPTAIN: Alfigure somesink out.
Enter SAILOR 2, running.
SAILOR 2 (to CAPTAIN): Knock knock!
CAPTAIN: Who’s zere?
SAILOR 2: Adolf!
CAPTAIN: Adolf who?
SAILOR 2: Adolfin just swam past, maybe it can swim us to shore!
CAPTAIN (to SAILOR): Knock knock!
SAILOR: Who’s there?
CAPTAIN: Vera!
SAILOR: Vera who?
CAPTAIN: Verare ve now?
SAILOR: Knock knock!
CAPTAIN: Who’s zere?
SAILOR: Nick.
CAPTAIN: Nick who?
SAILOR: Nickaragua’s right over there.
*CUT TO BAR, SAILOR SITTING WITH DRUNK*
SAILOR: Knock knock.
DRUNK: Who’s there?
SAILOR: Anna.
DRUNK: Anna who?
SAILOR: Anna that’s the end of the story.
DRUNK: Knock knock.
SAILOR: Who’s there?
DRUNK: Cora.
SAILOR: Cora who?
DRUNK: Cora blimey, as my Italian friend says. *PAUSE* (whispering to SAILOR) Knock knock.
SAILOR: Who’s there?
DRUNK: Gordon.
SAILOR: Gordon who?
DRUNK: Gordonice pair’o tits that bird has. (to WOMAN, sitting): Knock knock.
WOMAN: Who’s there?
DRUNK: Joe!
WOMAN: Joe who?
DRUNK: Joe fancy me?
WOMAN (indignantly): Knock knock!
DRUNK: Who’s there?
WOMAN: Paul!
DRUNK: Paul who?
WOMAN: Paul-eez!
DRUNK: Knock knock!
WOMAN: Who’s there?
DRUNK: Yuri.
WOMAN: Yuri who?
DRUNK: Yurilly don’t fancy me then?
WOMAN: Knock knock.
DRUNK: Who’s there?
WOMAN: Irma.
DRUNK: Is that a name?
WOMAN: Yes, it is.
DRUNK: Oh. Irma who?
WOMAN: Irma black belt in karate so you better watch out.
DRUNK: Knock knock.
WOMAN: Who’s there?
DRUNK: Ben.
WOMAN: Ben who?
DRUNK: Ben a long time since you’ve had any, has it?
WOMAN slaps DRUNK.
DRUNK: Knock knock!
WOMAN: Who’s there?
DRUNK: Abe.
WOMAN: Abe who?
DRUNK: Abet I’ll have you by the end of this night.
WOMAN punches DRUNK to the floor.
WOMAN: KNOCK KNOCK!
DRUNK (holding mouth): Who’s there?
WOMAN: SUE!
DRUNK: SUE WHO? You’re not going to sue me are you?
WOMAN: SHUT UP! SUE-INE THAT’S WHAT YOU ARE!
WOMAN leaves.
DRUNK (to SAILOR): Knock knock.
SAILOR: Who’s there?
DRUNK: Malcolm.
SAILOR: Malcolm who?
DRUNK: Malcolm real tough these days don’t they?
DRUNK leaves.
*CUT TO FLAT*
Enter DRUNK. FRIEND is sitting at the table.
FRIEND: Knock knock!
DRUNK: Who’s there?
FRIEND: Will.
DRUNK: Will who?
FRIEND: Will you look at that? What happened to you?
DRUNK: Knock knock.
FRIEND: Who’s there?
DRUNK: Don.
FRIEND: Don who?
DRUNK: Don worry, it’s nothing really.
*KNOCK ON DOOR*
POLICEMAN (offscreen, obviously): Knock knock!
FRIEND: Who’s there?
POLICEMAN: Paul!
FRIEND: We’ve had Paul!
POLICEMAN 2 (also offscreen): What’s he saying?
POLICEMAN (to POLICEMAN 2): He said we’ve already had Paul. So how are we going to get to Paulice?
POLICEMAN 2: We can pretend we’re postmen, and use Percy.
POLICEMAN: Percy?
POLICEMAN 2: Yeah, Percyl for you mate!
POLICEMAN: No, that’s stupid.. I’ve got it.. Mel! Then we can be Melkmen, geddit?
POLICEMAN 2: No, leave it to me. (to FRIEND) Knock knock!
FRIEND: Finally! Who’s there?
POLICEMAN 2: Tom!
FRIEND: Tom who?
POLICEMAN 2: Tomen in blue! The police! Open up!
FRIEND (to DRUNK): Knock knock!
DRUNK: Who’s there?
FRIEND: Dave!
DRUNK: Dave who?
FRIEND: Dave got us now, let’s jump!
FRIEND and DRUNK jump out of the window. *SPLAT*
POLICEMAN: Knock knock.
*PAUSE*
POLICEMAN: Knock KNOCK.
*PAUSE*
POLICEMAN: KNOCK KNOCK!
POLICEMAN 2: Who’s there Sarge?
POLICEMAN: Not you, them! Why aren’t they answering.
POLICEMAN 2: Knock knock Sarge.
POLICEMAN: What is it? Oh, who’s there?
POLICEMAN 2: Art.
POLICEMAN: Didn’t we have Art?
(voice offscreen): No, that was Al!
POLICEMAN: Sorry. Go on. Oh, right. Art who?
POLICEMAN 2: Arthink they’ve jumped down.
POLICEMAN: Knock knock!
POLICEMAN 2: Who’s there?
POLICEMAN: Den.
POLICEMAN 2: Den who?
POLICEMAN: Den let’s go down and see.
POLICEMAN 2: Knock Knock.
POLICEMAN: Who’s there?
POLICEMAN 2: Arnie.
POLICEMAN: Arnie who?
POLICEMAN 2: Arnied to go to the toilet first.
POLICEMAN (quietly): Be quick.
POLICEMAN 2: Nah, I didn’t need to, it just works with the name, see.
POLICEMAN (taking off helmet, and throwing it away): Oh fuck this, I can’t think of anything else.
Exit POLICEMAN.
POLICEMAN 2: Hey, but there’s still heaps! Annied to go too! Arthur lights on? Scott nothing to do with you! Alisonned to the radio this morning! Mikear’s broken down!
POLICEMAN (offscreen): Shut up!
POLICEMAN 2: Gladys the weekend! Harley ever see you anymore! Luke here mister! Justin time! Howard I know?
POLICEMAN: Shut up already!
POLICEMAN 2: That didn’t have a name.
POLICEMAN: I KNOW YOU STUPID GIT, JUST SHUT UP!
POLICEMAN 2 (to camera): Sorry about that, he’s had a bit of a hard day. Hugh know how it is sometimes. Alexplain later, just.. erm.. move on to the next sketch please..

Untitled, Chapter 1.

The first chapter of an untitled work that may or may not be furthered.
—————————————————————————————————————
Chapter 1
In which it is established that the author actually despises long-winded chapter names not unlike those exhibited by certain eighteenth- to nineteenth-century authors, and which usually unfold major plot details, and which could have ended at the conclusion of the chapter number. Carry on, what ho.

On a crisp spring Saturday morning in T’Worcestershireburgh, all of the citizens were bustling about their daily duties save for Pete, who was busy cutting his leg off with a chainsaw, as it was inseparably adhered to his left bedpost. Pete had stuck it there the night before, to see if his dog would take it off, but had absent-mindedly forgotten that Bruce was happily dozing in the kitchen, after gulping down a bucket of elephant tranquilisers, to which he was allergic.

Ignoring the aching pain coming from his leg, as well as the rivers of blood spurting from his chin, which Pete had confused with a similar-sounding body part, Pete busily sliced at his leg, until he heard a ring at the door. Not wishing to stray from this arduous task, and also being unable to stand up at that moment, he threw the first thing that came to his hand as he reached out to his bedside table. This turned out to be a small pencil, which Pete threw with great vigour at the door, hoping to knock it down so that the visitor, who turned out to be the butcher, but was actually the postman, could come in. Luckily for Pete, the pencil hit the peephole, broke the glass, and flew straight inside the postman’s eye, killing him in an instant. “Excellent!” thought Pete, and continued busily hacking at his shin, which was simply refusing to be cut.

Several hours later, with the first layer of skin nearly broken through, Pete suddenly had a comparatively bright idea – he should first plug the chainsaw in. After strenuous amounts of time spent still attempting the amputation, Pete decided to actually turn the chainsaw on. With a small ‘whirr’, the machine spluttered to life and the blades started spinning around. Pete, from a constant stare at the rotating spikes, or more likely from blood loss, went into a trance, one that he failed to wake up from. Well, until a piano fell on his eyebrow, anyway.

A creation

This is a comic I made a while back in the style of Cyanide and happiness.

OPPRESSIVE LACANIAN CRYOGENIC FORMULAE AND THE GASTROENTEROLOGICAL CONSEQUENCES OF POST-MODERNIST HYPER-LINGUISTIC ICHTHYOLOGY.

zomgmouse leads a discussion on post-Freudian string theory, but nobody follows.

The main aspect of deconstructing post-Freudian string theory in terms of pseudo-altruistic Marxism is perhaps the democratising impact of illusionary radical-Cartesian neurology on the clinical wavelengths of the ego and super-ego, together with the concept of the geographically deterministic philosophy of oppressive hyper-poststructuralist calibration. However, post-Modernist, and indeed neo-xenophobic empiricism must be taken into account.
Affirming the presence of quantum absolutism in regular sub-misogynistic Socratic apparatuses, one must extensively undermine intrinsically discombobulating Lacanian cryogenic formulae. Yet it may catastrophically seem to the evolutionary post-colonial caricaturist that intelligent, or even figurative ichthyology cannot be attracted to pre-Palaeolithic Romantic patriotism.
In order that one be able to command the hyper-linguistic gravitational Darwinist criticisms of surrealist matrimonial experiment, it is repeatedly necessary that neo-idealist transformation and to a lesser extent pre-feminist existentialist dynamics be formulaically distressed. The interconnectedness of epistemological paraphernalia can thereby be socio-economically linked to neo-pre-Historicism, and in effect chromatographic-Descartes psychoanalysis of the gastroenterological consequences of post-symbolic approbatory colloquialism of faux-abstract and subjunctive relativity. In essence, what is inherent in schematic industrialist androgyny is the hyper-naturalistic corroboration of Pascal’s ostensibly institutionalised space-time, evident in his ‘pluperfect-progressive phallic probability’ theorem.
There is also the fatalistic issue of the neo-Capitalist gravimetric totalitarianism in conjunction with necrophilic portmanteaux evident in the Platonic ‘traditional-revolutionary chimera’ tautology. Thus, what we ultimately receive is a utilitarian-colorimetric tegestology constituency, verging on absurdism.

Sources

Sokal, Alan, Transgressing the Boundaries: Towards a Transformative Hermeneutics of Quantum Gravity

The Ceramic Elephant

I’d like to share with you a story I wrote entitled “The Ceramic Elephant”. Here goes:
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The ceramic elephant stood on the table, dressed in white, gold and purple, with blue eyes, a trumpet clasped in its mouth, blowing silent notes, watching. Watching the occurrences in the room it stood every day, silently blowing through its trumpet. Although the table was cluttered up with books, keys and stationery, the elephant noticed every miniscule detail going on in the room, and every word transmitted, he heard. Every feeling experienced, he sensed.

The elephant’s table stood in the room of a boy with dark hair, and green eyes. The boy was in the first year of high school. He lived with his mother and father in a small house in a relatively peaceful suburb. There was a school, a town hall, a park, a movie theatre, but no prison – there was no need – no break-ins or murders or other such crimes had been committed in over fifty years.

The elephant saw each day go by, and each day the boy would wake up, get dressed, eat and go to school. When he was at school, his mother would come into his room and put his clothes in the wardrobe, sometimes pausing to view scraps of paper on which the boy had written ideas for stories. The boy would come back, eat, practice his violin, do his homework, eat again and go to sleep.

It was on a summer’s day that the boy was feeling rather frustrated. Nothing that day had gone as planned. He sat down to listen to some music, to relax. But after the third song, the disc started jumping. That was the final straw. The boy grabbed the first thing he laid his hands on and threw it. This thing happened to be the ceramic elephant. But instead of smashing to little shards, the elephant bounced off the wall and back into the boy’s hands. The boy smashed and smashed but nothing would come of it. Finally, the boy gave up, placed the elephant back in its place and went to bed.

The boy’s routine continued every day, without variation. He would wake up, get dressed, eat and go to school; come back, eat, practice his violin, do his homework, eat again and go to sleep. The incident with the ceramic elephant had long since gone out of the boy’s head.

One day, the boy’s father had gone out to do the grocery shopping. The boy was immeasurably tired and went to sleep on his bed. The boy’s mother sat on her bed and read. After several hours, the boy’s father came back to find his wife’s body parts spread around the house, the walls covered in blood and intestines. The boy slept peacefully, snoring, unaware of the brutal and gruesome massacring of his mother.

The boy’s father woke the boy up and showed him what had happened. Both the boy and his father were terrified. But it couldn’t have happened. All windows were closed, so was the door, and no glass was broken. Furthermore, they searched the house and no sharp implement was found with blood on it. They called the police, who brought along a detective. After months, years even, of searching and investigation, the case was dismissed for lack of evidence. The boy and his father had to swallow the reality, which was like swallowing cornflakes after having tonsils removed, and get on with their lives.

Each day, the boy would repeat his routine all over again. Nothing much had changed, except that his mother wasn’t there to greet him after he came home from school. But the boy found that the killing had brought him closer to his father. He soon found himself doing something with his father every day. They would go out and play some sport, or sit by the beach and watch the sun set.

The boy and his father were preparing for one such outing when it started raining. So they changed their plans slightly. They watched a movie, played chess and cooked together. By the time they’d finished, it was getting late. The boy went to sleep and so did his father. Upon awakening, the boy found his father’s body lying on the kitchen table, cut into wheels like a cucumber. Again, the boy was petrified. Whoever had butchered his mother had obviously come back for a second slaughter. The police and the detective, the same one, found nothing. Again. The killer had definitely covered his or her tracks well.

This death was much harder to get over for the boy. He had lost both his parents before he had managed to do anything with his life. It was like trying to get out of a swimming pool with stubs for arms and rocks tied to your legs. But he did it. By this time he was old enough to live in a house by himself, and he managed to get along with his life as best as he could. After all, half of his life was dedicated to getting over his parents’ vicious and anonymous executions.

The boy’s routine had not changed much from his regular one. Each day the boy would wake up, get dressed, eat and go to college; he would come back, eat, practice his violin, do his homework, eat again and go to sleep. His days were very monotonous, and no matter how hard his friends tried to cheer the boy up it would not work. So they tried the biggest thing they could think of – a party.

After the party, the boy came home and flicked the light switch. The light wouldn’t turn on. He walked into his room and lit a candle, but that was immediately extinguished. His hair stood on end. He lit another candle, but it too was doused shortly afterwards. He called out for whatever it was to stop, and lit another candle. That too was put out. The thing obviously did not want the boy to see it. The boy tried to run out of the room, but in the darkness stumbled and hit his head on the bedpost. His last vision before losing consciousness was that of a large creature with something protruding from its face.

When the boy woke up, he found he could not move. He looked around and could see his room, but from an indistinguishable angle. Everything appeared larger than it used to. Suddenly, somebody walked into the room. It was a boy, with fiery red hair and blue eyes. He put his case down on the floor, took out his trumpet case and started playing some jazz.

And the green-eyed ceramic elephant stood on the table, immobile, playing silent notes on his violin, and watched.

10 things to try with your hair:

Here is a quick one for you.

For those of you who can count to ten, it won’t be that quick.

So, without further ado, from the most obvious to the most, here they are:

1. Set it on fire with glasses.

2. Curl it, then don’t cut it for a year or two, so that everyone that comes past you pats you on the head and says “It’s like a sheep!”

3. Tow people along with it.

4. Dye it pink.

5. Dye it so it gives someone epilepsy.

6. Use those jagged scissor things to try and make animals in it.

7. Bleach a smiley face onto it.

8. Shave it off and sell it on eBay.

9. Grow it long and use it as clothes.

10. Spike it up and stab people with it.

There you go. Something that should take a whole science lesson to read. Then do it, and see how long it will take you to actually do it, and not get laughed at.