"Careful
Jenny, it's a jungle out there," warned Andy.
Now, y'see, you
should be a-laughing at that, with Andy and Jenny, but you're
not. Y'see, y'see, Andy and Jenny are forin folk. They live in
Arrrrfrica, and it really is a jungle out there. Are you laughing
now? You damn well better be. Andy and Jenny aren't laughing
anymore though; Andy says the same thing every day, and it's
becoming a little wearisome. He only persists out of habit - some
say stagnation. They'll split up soon, Jenny'll get killed by the
jungle, or more accurately its contents, and Andy'll kill himself
out of guilt. It's what people in Arrrrfrica do - haven't you seen
films? But let's not be selfish: this isn't about them, it's
about you. Why didn't you laugh at Andy's jungle joke? It's not
as if you've heard it every single fucking day of your mundane
existence like Jenny. No no no, the reason you didn't laugh is
because of the Westernisation of the names of Andy and Jenny.
Fucking Westerners.
'Tis a sad sad
thing, this Westernisation, nay Anglicisation of the whole world,
innit? Achilly, je suis not so freakin sure. Maintaining your own
insular existence as one group pitted against another is umm...
like, wrong or something. But then again, having everyone the
same, being, like, English, American or something is sucky too.
Oh it's all too freakin complicated. If only I cared more, then I
could find an answer, impress it upon you, and then we could all
laugh at Andy's jungle joke.
Anyway,
who said Germany was the centre of the world? Hitler, probably.
Western Europe, Eastern Europe, blah blah blah. So how come bits
of Africa aren't counted as being Western, and all of South
America? How come Australasia is deemed Western? Sounds too
freakin elitist to me. Let's smash the system like Jimmy Hoffa
woulda wanted. Jeez, why can't we all just hang out together in
the UN or summat like that. Wouldn't that be fun? I'd certainly
dig it: all those translators. Translators are experts with their
tongues. Fuckin excellent. Oooh baby, yeah, the UN just gets me
sooooo horny. ...Mind you, so does pornography, so it might be
that I'm constantly horny, and the UN doesn't have any power over
the strength of my erection.
From
wet dreams to dreams. Andy, a real person, a real acquaintance of
mine, a genuine person in my life, unlike all the evil cult
leaders of the West and East (a.o.t me and Atom Egoyan of the
North and South), unlike the naked people, unlike the dead
people. Jenny doesn't exist, of course; she's really a cat. Andy
does. He told me his dream (although he's really a woman), and I
immediately thought of all this. I guess it says as much about
overloading on sugar as his psub-conscious. So here goes, I
guess. As I'm sure you're aware, I don't care if you understand
or not. Pretend to understand in order that you may ingratiate
yourself with me. Gawan, y'know you wanna.
So, there's like
this crazed killer coming after Andy (who is really a woman, but
who really is Arrrrfrican; some of my best friends are forin),
and he (she) somehow manages to take his (the killer, who is
someone she knows, but not someone you know, so we'll step aside
that psub-conscious bit. And anyway, Freud's got a lady's pubes
for an eyebrow) two handguns and a shotgun off him, and shoot
him. Self defence, doncha know. He dies slowly, and with very
little pain. Every time she (Andy, who is really a woman,
remember?) thinks it's safe to put the guns down, wait for the
cops to come, and plead self defence, he (the killer. She(Andy)'s
not sure why he (the killer) is who he is in her (Andy's) dream.
But that's none of your concern, so we'll ignore that once again)
manages to get hold of the guns, and threaten her existence once
more. She (Andy. Why can't you pick up on who's who? Retard) has
to shoot him once more. No blood, and still he doesn't die.
This is all a film,
of course. It's a dream. Dreams are films, and films are dreams.
It helps to view from afar. I have dreamt books before, as, I
suppose, people pre-Baird did from time to time. Before those
devil-pictures, however, most people just dreamt of jiggly
whores. Anyhoo, flashback to the attempted killer planning his
evil deed. He's sitting across from her (Andy), cos they know
each other, and he's playing with a spirograph, but instead of
letting the pen and cogs do their work, he writes nines. Don't
ask me how, it wasn't my dream. Don't ask Andy (who is really a
woman), she suspends disbelief in her dreams, apparently. He
looks up, sees Andy (the woman), and writes a seven instead.
Now here's my
point, and hopefully Andy's too. As meaningless, impossible to
understand, and thus really fucking cool, this plan for
death is, the point is this. What is more freakin Western than a
freakin spirograph? Ok, so it's not much of a point, and it's
muddled, and ill-conceived, but it's a freakin point nonetheless.
Remove the spirograph from existence, and everyone of you reading
this would have giggled slightly. I think. Flawed logic, perhaps,
but I guess that's what makes it all oh so funny.