Freudotopia
27-11-2004, 08:03
Transcript From A Weekly Televised Shower Rant From Sultan Percival J Marigold-Crankshaw
It has come to my attention recently, by way of the noble carrier pidgeon (or African swallow if one would so prefer, for as we are all aware, the African swallow is by far the finest of the aviary creatures as created by the God Baal in the endless sea of lace undergarmets and burning, searing, scorching flames, but I digress…) that some would see my recent appointment to the position of sultan to be rather distasteful, due to certain quirks in my personality.
To start things off, let me just say that I am highly offended by the use of the word ‘quirk’ in these statements. The word ‘quirk,’ as one can clearly see, is but one letter away from being the word ‘quark.’ To say that last word brings a bad taste to my mouth, as we all know here in this great land, that there is no such thing as the ‘quark.’ This concept is simply a crap-load of intellectual babble concocted by a group of undersexed fossils sitting about all day making ‘theorems’ and ‘tables.’ Oh, the fossils and their ‘tables.’ How I despise the ‘table.’ Once it was simply a place to put my half-empty bottle of strong drink, but now it’s full of ‘numbers’ and ‘figures.’ The ‘table’ has caused me so much pain that now I can’t even bring myself to put a ‘tablespoon’ of anything into my cooking. Instead I use a cubic meter.
Yes, the cubic meter. What a noble measurement this is. So perfectly square and sizeable. So beautiful in its dimensions. I recall once while trekking through the desert I stumbled upon an old negro wearing no more than a single turf shoe and a necklace of broken glass shards. I then promptly berated him for getting in my way, and continued on my way until I came to an oasis filled with ivory figurines. It then became apparent to me that the LSD patch was still firmly secured to my left buttock.
But again I digress. It has also come to my attention that some among the populace would see me as a fool buried under a pile of hopeless bureaucracy. Now I must sincerely say that this is nothing but heresay and rumor. As it is illegal to be metaphorical in this fine soothsayer’s union, I can only assume that the populace is blind and cannot see that I am clearly not buried under anything. Therefore, you have nothing to fear, as I am completely physically capable of tending to my duties as Sultan, namely pushing the big red button first thing every morning that starts the blender in which I mix gin.
Now that this has been cleared up, I would like to take this time to announce that by next Wednesday, every citizen must be registered for hip replacement surgery.
The Sultan then goes on to speak for several hours about a particular ordeal he faced in North Africa involving a bottle of Tunisian Sleeping Serum and a genuinely irate former tennis guru. Mr. Marigold-Crankshaw punctuated this speech with heavy drug use and exited to the wild applause of the exclusive audience of corporate bastards.
It has come to my attention recently, by way of the noble carrier pidgeon (or African swallow if one would so prefer, for as we are all aware, the African swallow is by far the finest of the aviary creatures as created by the God Baal in the endless sea of lace undergarmets and burning, searing, scorching flames, but I digress…) that some would see my recent appointment to the position of sultan to be rather distasteful, due to certain quirks in my personality.
To start things off, let me just say that I am highly offended by the use of the word ‘quirk’ in these statements. The word ‘quirk,’ as one can clearly see, is but one letter away from being the word ‘quark.’ To say that last word brings a bad taste to my mouth, as we all know here in this great land, that there is no such thing as the ‘quark.’ This concept is simply a crap-load of intellectual babble concocted by a group of undersexed fossils sitting about all day making ‘theorems’ and ‘tables.’ Oh, the fossils and their ‘tables.’ How I despise the ‘table.’ Once it was simply a place to put my half-empty bottle of strong drink, but now it’s full of ‘numbers’ and ‘figures.’ The ‘table’ has caused me so much pain that now I can’t even bring myself to put a ‘tablespoon’ of anything into my cooking. Instead I use a cubic meter.
Yes, the cubic meter. What a noble measurement this is. So perfectly square and sizeable. So beautiful in its dimensions. I recall once while trekking through the desert I stumbled upon an old negro wearing no more than a single turf shoe and a necklace of broken glass shards. I then promptly berated him for getting in my way, and continued on my way until I came to an oasis filled with ivory figurines. It then became apparent to me that the LSD patch was still firmly secured to my left buttock.
But again I digress. It has also come to my attention that some among the populace would see me as a fool buried under a pile of hopeless bureaucracy. Now I must sincerely say that this is nothing but heresay and rumor. As it is illegal to be metaphorical in this fine soothsayer’s union, I can only assume that the populace is blind and cannot see that I am clearly not buried under anything. Therefore, you have nothing to fear, as I am completely physically capable of tending to my duties as Sultan, namely pushing the big red button first thing every morning that starts the blender in which I mix gin.
Now that this has been cleared up, I would like to take this time to announce that by next Wednesday, every citizen must be registered for hip replacement surgery.
The Sultan then goes on to speak for several hours about a particular ordeal he faced in North Africa involving a bottle of Tunisian Sleeping Serum and a genuinely irate former tennis guru. Mr. Marigold-Crankshaw punctuated this speech with heavy drug use and exited to the wild applause of the exclusive audience of corporate bastards.