Since the dawn of time philosophers have been pondering the meaning of life.
Other philosophers chose to sleep in until about 10:40, gently greet the
horribly bright day with some genital fumbling, toast and a back strain,
before gradually moving on to pondering something a lot less demanding. One
such philosopher is Norm Deplurme, a man who insists upon wearing a thin
veil constantly so that he breathes little of the outside world, in order
that his ruminations remain pure and unsullied by others. Just last week I
broke into his home, looking for videotapes of him having sex with Pamela
Anderson, but instead I found something far rarer: a copy of his New York
Times #1 best selling book 'Why Those Two Detectives In The Tintin Books
Look Alike But Have Marginally Different Surnames'. Always one for snappy
titles, always one for finding videotapes hidden in hollowed out books, I
took the book and vamoosed, leaving a cloud of dust in my wake from where I
tripped over the vacuum cleaner, broke it in half and my ankle in thirds.
As I came around from the anaesthetic (compound fracture, dontchaknow. Very
nasty: lots of blood, infection, maggots, a green mist) I was greeted by the
smiling faces of all my loved ones and the fist of Norm Deplurme. Being just
a pissy little philosopher he punched like a girl who couldn't punch hard,
so I raised myself up a little and headbutted him in the nose, shattering it
into a gooey mush - self defence; open and shut case. It's a shame really:
I'd have liked to have him sign his copy of his book in case I ever wanted
to sell it.
In the moments when the pain from my ankle and the splinters of bone in my
forehead haven't been too overbearing, I've set about reading his book. It's
the biggest load of hooey I've read since Tuesday; you may object to
breaking into someone's house, stealing from them and later smashing their
nose open, but if you've read his book you'll know he deserved all that and
more. ...So I got someone to shoot his dog. Twice. With a gun. I think they
might have pissed on his grandmother while she slept too. Or they pissed on
the dog and shot the grandmother, I forget. Either way, there was piss and
bullets flying around like the inside of the 1977 Republican Convention on
its fourth day.
This book is nothing more than a single libellous accusation padded out with
cheap illustrations of a cross-sectional nature, and lurid descriptions of
unholy alliances between two atheists. Hergé, being both Belgian and dead,
is offered no opportunity to deny the claims about his characters made in
this book. The most offensive suggestions are made in the form of
conjecture, as on page 85 when Deplurme says "It's possible that Thomson and
Thompson are coprophagic twins, one of whom chose to change his name on a
whim one day, but I suspect this isn't the truth," or again on page 86 when
he says "Thomson and Thompson, in another time and place, might have
succumbed to the lure of becoming serial killers who killed their victims by
inserting candles into their noses and lighting them, eventually causing
their victims' lungs to fill with molten wax, and one of them might well
have changed his name on a whim one day, but the truth is far less
interesting." The first half of the book concerns itself with drenching the
reader with these ridiculous, and only just legally defensible, lies.
Halfway through the book we're treated to a couple of paragraphs about the
explanation that the - ptooey - author chose to plump for, then the
remainder of the book is set aside for recounting further accusations that
were rejected for reasons of not wanting to start a full blown nuclear war
with Belgium.
So that you needn't waste your time and money on reading this vile
concoction of paper, ink, and a little hook to attach it to your belt - it's
not a facet of human nature that I'm proud of, but I do know how much you
love your salacity - I shall tell you Deplurme's explanation as to why
Thompson and Thomson appear to be identical twins, but have different
surnames. Following a painful divorce (glass under the fingernails) Mrs.
Thompson left her husband, and reclaimed her maiden name, Thomson. Their two
twin boys were inseparable, but Mr. Thompson and Ms. Thomson shared a never
say die attitude (it's what first attracted them to each other) and opted to
separate the two of them. The twins grew up as Thompson and Thomson, later
meeting up by chance in the bowels of a strip club in Marrakech. After
washing their hands, they hugged and did the only natural thing: formed a
detective agency. Deplurme offers no sources for this ridiculous story,
either from the Tintin books, nor from the countless biographies of Hergé.
Of all the suggestions within his shambles of a book, it is both the least
scandalous and the least suable, and I think that speaks for itself. If you
want to shoot and piss on his grandmother and/or his dog, contact me and
I'll pass on Deplurme's address for you - it's what Hergé would do if he was
alive; it's the least we can do to preserve his memory.