Do
you have any idea how many bad poets there are in the world?
Well, do you? Hmm? Well? No? I'll tell you then. Eight. Before
you ask who they are, I'll tell you. All available combinations
of male/female gay/straight pubescent/post-pubescent. And they
are all whiny bitches. "I dream of the sky and look at you,
wondering what might have been....". These eight poets cover
every single poet ever, except Ginsberg, Whitman and Plath. (The
jury is still out on Poet And Critic Tom Paulin). All are
male/female, gay/straight and pubescent/post-pubescent, and most
importantly whiny little bitches, but nonetheless they are still
good. Right, that's the comedy in poetry bit done, and the
unpleasant taste gargled free from my throat. Now what?
Most of the people
you see on television, with the obvious exception of Oprah, don't
exist. (Oprah doesn't exit, but this is entirely different).
Every single one of them is the figment of your drug-addled
imagination. What do you think the CIA have been doing since the
Swiss won the Cold War in 1974, and since they stopped
perpetuating the appearance of a Cold War in 1989? If you
answered creating drugs and polluting the world's water supplies
with it, you'd be right, and you'd also be a security risk, and
probably now dead. I work for the CIA at weekends in our
"No, LBJ And Chums Didn't Tell Us To Kill Kennedy"
Division. It's hard work - hard, but fair - but incredibly
stimulating. It allows me to be as creative as I like; something
I am unable to do in music or writing.
Anyhoo, last
weekend there I was in my office superimposing Oliver Stone's
head on Sharon Stone's body when someone from the Photography
department told me it would be so much easier to do it with
photos. Oliver and Sharon allezed to Calais (© Carry On Don't
Lose Your Head) and I was left with nothing to do for the rest of
the weekend. Because I don't drink the water that you, the purple
(© El Simpsones), do, there was nothing on 'television' for me
to watch. I considered drinking some of the water, but remembered
at the last moment that I wouldn't like to have impotent,
mentally deficient, irradiated children - not until I'm married
at least. My bookshelf in my office has no actual books on it,
just hidden levers to a secret room with chocolate in, so no
reading for me. Just as I was undoing my flies, my anonymous
superior officer (known to all of you who watch television as 3rd
Crash Cart on ER) popped his head round the door. It was quite a
shock, I can tell you (arf arf). I was to go on a secret mission,
undercover, as a duvet salesman (no, not really; that's what we
in the CIA call 'disinformation', or an 'incredibly poor joke').
...undercover somewhere secret, to be revealed same bat-time,
same bat-channel (© The Sopranos). Clear.
Oh yeah, my lady
friend's dog - that is a friend who is a lady, not a lady
who is a friend - recovered. Resurrected. I'm not gonna tell her
though, unless she apologises to the waiter, and helps me kill
the dog again. She has 24 hours. Happy Easter everyone, for
whenever it is. Is that blasphemy? Yet?