Saturday, February 28, 2009

getting creepier, can't stop, creepfest, creepy mccreeps, damn ... it's ... too ... so ... creepy

As the darkness clouded around his imaginary spy camera (you know, one of those ones that you always see advertised on those pr0n sites -- he actually bought one. But when he bought it he found it to be somewhat too ... flimsy ... for his intended uses. So he went online to one of those 'tell me how they make that' sites, and asked how one could turn a common wifi-enabled webcam into a throwable device. "I need to know how much padding it needs to throw it, without breaking" he had said. "And what materials to use." You will notice, as indicated before this lengthy excursion into the parentheses, that all of this is imaginary) he let out a wail.

"How long must one languish," he wailed, dramatically, "in this sorry excuse of a prison one calls 'life'?" Having said this, he shoved his forehead against the wall, cracking a thin line in the skin, which then dripped thick red blood onto the grisly prison cell floor. Dramatically.

"You fucking posh wankers," said the crack ho.

He turned to look at his cellmate in disdain. "What now, whore?"

"You fuckin' whinin' posh wankers," she said in disgust. "Come in here on yer bleedin' little violation of restrainin' order charges." She spat. "Come walk a day in my life, mate, any day."

He turned, the blood swishing through the air. "You? You dare question my pain? A crack whore? A person who opens her legs up to let in the crack? You vie to correspond somehow with *my* incredible grief?"

She stared back dispassionately. "Don't fuckin' advance on me in here, mate. There's cameras all over. They're watchin' us, in the other room." She nodded at each corner of the room.

He cut his murderous desire towards the woman short. "Why do you even have a British accent? You were born in fucking Hoboken," he said, instead.

"I was?" she said, and then she was lost to him, suddenly. "Dude ... I totally was! I was born in ... " Her eyes glazed over, as some distinct, long forgotten memories of Hudson County, New Jersey smeared over her mind like childhood. There were fields of roses, and quaint little villages with quaint little people, and dwarves. They are always pleased to see you, and baking a fresh, warm golden pi --

"Fucking disgusting," he spat, and then he crouched back into his corner, bleeding forehead in his palm. "Now, where was I, where was I?" he mumbled to himself. "Damn train of thought ... can never ... remember where I was going with this ..."

The crack ho broke into a sad song behind him. A low key, sort of rambling song. No particular tune, no particular melody, just a little sad, broken song that one may expect from a crack ho.

"Got lost out on his stealthiness,
my dear kitten I had as a child ...
Where's he now, I sometimes wonder?
Though I know they don't live this long ..."

He groaned. "Shut up, shut up! I remember now! I was trying to be creepy."

"Why were you trying to be a creep, McCreeps?" asked the crack ho, her head rotating two hundred and seventy five degrees, ending up looking at him. "Did you think that, somehow, by being a creep towards her, you might win back her affections?"

He banged his forehead against the wall again, then quickly crumpled his hand against it. "It's an advanced strategy ..."

"There's a restraining order --"

"I know! I know! But there must be a loophole, somewhere ..."

"And it's not just any little restraining order," continued the bedeviled ho, now smiling within the golden flair of her youthful persona. "Not just the ... one little person ... you're supposed to stay away from."


The crack ho started laughing evilly.


"No, my dear. No. It's the whole bloody world! Muaahahaahhaha. You're under a restraining order from the entire smoking, gravitationally rotating, cosmically floating, bally WORLD!"

"No ..."

"You will never again sneak into the shed with your neighbor's sow!"


"You shall never climb atop the Empire State Building and flick a booger upon the masses below!"

"Noo ...."

"You can never trick the stewardesses into letting you in the cockpit (think of all those gnarly joysticks and clever gadgetry) with promises of gross airborne infidelity ..."

"Stop ..."

"And they will never put you in the Space Programme."

"I wanna go to spaaaaaaace ...."

Friday, February 27, 2009

Feeder In the Greed Machine: 2) The Child Inside

Feeder in the Greed Machine is a science-fantasy story with an evil twist on cloning devices. The story comes in four parts, to be released on a weekly basis beginning Saturday, February 21, 2009.

This is Part 2. Click here for Part 1, Part 3
or Part 4

When Eric Williams was in kindergarten, the teachers used to let the children play a game. Each child had to exchange one of his or her shoes with the opposite shoe of another child. So for example, if I gave you my left shoe, you would give me your right shoe - now you would have two left shoes, and I would have two right ones. This was, of course, a time before hygiene became a very large concern. So at the end of the exchange, the group would be split - half the children with only right shoes and half with only left shoes. The children would then get in the square of the basketball court, and one of the teachers, standing back, would yell "Everyone, find an other side shoe!" There was promise of a bright red balloon to every child who found a complete pair.

After the second time, Eric Williams and Patty Byrne were never allowed to play again, because of what happened. It all started very pleasantly, the children happily running around and searching for an opposite shoe. The first time they had played, the children had discovered and developed methods and tricks to win the game faster, and the teachers noticed how they started using these methods immediately this time. Some would run in a grid-like pattern, studiously searching other feet for a match - when they reached the end of their grid, they would start again, backward. Others used their voices, calling out, like fish sellers in a market, "I got two left, I got two left", or "Need right shoe, here!" "Wight shoe here, thwee o'cwock!" would come another child's response.

Nevertheless, the overall outcome of the game was turning out quite similarly. The teachers noticed in the initial moments, more pairs would resolve their differences and run out of the square to get their balloon. This made sense - after all, it was easier to find a match when the square was full of other children with incomplete pairs. Then, it became a little slower. This was also to be expected, as fewer children had incomplete pairs to exchange with, and everyone without a balloon had to weave around, running to find matches. But something was wrong this time. After a while, the teachers started peering into the group, a little puzzled. The children should have been resolving faster this time, what with the methods and tricks they had learned from the first game, but it was taking much, much longer. There weren't enough balloons in the crowd.

In the square, Eric finally managed to swap one of his right shoes with a left from Billy Dorkin. But after watching Billy run off to get his prize, Eric remained, walking around. He spotted Erica Channing strolling in front of him with two left shoes, turning her head this way and that in search for a right. He ran up to her, and said, "Here, exchange with me."

Erica squinted at Eric's shoes, then looked back at him. "But why you already have a match. You already won - you should run and get your balloon."

"I can find another pair," said Eric distantly, looking around them.

"But I'm a girl," said Erica. "I'm wearing girls' shoes."

"It's okay, I don't mind. I - um - I just want to help you out. I want -I want us to be friends."

"You want to help me?" said Erica, blushing a little.

"Yeah," smiled Eric. "But hurry. Before the teachers see!"

So Erica quickly slipped out of one of her shoes, and took one from Eric. "Thanks!" she said, blushing again, and ran off out of the square to get her balloon.

After quite some time, causing the teachers no small amount of curious anxiety, the exchange finally seemed to have been completed. Then, from the sea of bouncing red balloons in the square, they heard a low wailing, and ... sad sniffs ... of a girl sobbing. When they then peered into the crowd, the teachers found that two of the children had still not completed their pairs.

One was Patty Byrne, who had come last the previous time also. None of the teachers were surprised - Patty was one of the slower children in class. She seemed to be challenged in almost every way - she was a poor reader, and even Mrs. Dickman, their class teacher, knew there was something wrong with her reasoning abilities - she was thoroughly hopeless at even simple sums. She was ambling about the court with two right shoes. But the other child was Eric Williams! He was running around with two left shoes. Occasionally, he would circle Patty in the crowd, causing her to lunge at him, then run off some distance.

"Eric!" yelled Mrs. Dickman, stepping in. By now, tears were streaming down Patty's face as she tried to chase and grab at him. "Eric, you stop now! Stop and exchange your shoes with Patty! The game is over, and both of you can win." But Eric just kept running to-and-fro, seemingly oblivious. He circled crying Patty again, hopping from one foot to the other, then darted off. This time, as she lunged, Patty tripped on her own foot. She fell flat on the basketball court, and remained there.

Mrs. Dickman strode in, and on her way to fallen Patty, scooped the elusive Eric up with a long hand. She dragged him along, up the court towards the quivering girl, all the while saying, "See what you have done. See what you have done."


On the drive home, Eric's mother was also in tears. She seemed very unhappy with him. "Good Lord, what is it that I've done wrong with you? I just don't know!" Eric sat beside her, playing quietly with his Rubik's lunchbox. "Are you listening to me?" she cried, but he didn't say anything, sliding a matching red line horizontally instead. When he did it, he looked up at her, proudly.

"Stop playing with that damn thing and listen to me!" said Mrs. Williams angrily. She snatched the lunchbox from Eric's hand and flung it out of her window.


"Yes! That's what you get when you don't listen. Why were you bullying that poor Patty Byrne?"

"I wasn't bullying her," said Eric.

"You were teasing her, Eric. You know that you shouldn't. Patty is not like you or the rest of the children. She is - special. She's just a little slow."

"She's not slow, she's just a retard," said Eric, staring into the
air conditioner vent.

His mother covered her mouth. "Where did you learn that word? In any case, she is not - retarded. She is just a little slower. You have to care and -"

"She thinks two plus two is twenty-two! She's stupid."

"Eric Williams!"

"Anyway, I didn't do it to bully her. Why would I care about her at all?"

"Oh?" said Mrs. Williams. "Why did you do it then, young man?"

"I was just trying to make the game longer," said Eric.

She stopped for a second. Then, she asked, "Longer? What do you mean?"

Eric looked up at his mother. "Well, in P.E. we can play games and run around. But when it stops, we all have to go in to Mrs. Dickman's writing class." He turned back and stared into the air-conditioner vent again. "I hate her writing class. She always keeps telling us to write A's and B's and C's over and over again. I know how to write my A's and B's and C's - why do we have to write each one 50 times, over and over again? So I was trying to make the game longer, so that we could all spend more time in P.E. and less time in Mrs. Dickman's class." He paused and breathed deeply. "And that stupid crybaby retard fell on her face and ruined everything."

"Eric! Don't say that word. Heavens me. Well, young man, you will never play that game again."

Eric shrugged. "Well, I wouldn't let Patty fall again," he said putting his hands in his trouser pockets.

"Uh-huh. Learned your lesson have you?" said Mrs. Williams doubtfully.

"Yes," he nodded. "Next time, I would give Patty a matching pair first thing so she wins and gets out of the game, and doesn't end up ruining everything for me."

Mrs Williams shook her head and drove on, tears in her eyes.

Saturday, February 21, 2009

Feeder in the Greed Machine: 1) The Sleep

Feeder in the Greed Machine is a science-fantasy story with an evil twist on cloning devices. The story comes in four parts, to be released on a weekly basis beginning Saturday, February 21, 2009.

This is Part 1. Click here for Part 2, Part 3 or Part 4

1) The Sleep

"Just relax, honey - it's gonna sting a little, but you'll be asleep in no time." Nurse Hutchinson pulled the soak away and drove her needle into Williams' arm. He closed his eyes slowly and a coolness spread out from his elbow to his wrist.

Judge Horace leaned in to whisper at the prosecutor, Mr. Cheeves. They were all waiting for Williams to succumb. "You know, I still don't understand exactly what it is that he did," he grumbled. "All that finicky mumbo-jumbo about bit-sanctity and quantum nonsense."

"He's a psychopath, your Honor," said Cheeves shortly, "he needs to be put to sleep."

"Psychopath?" the Judge said, raising his eyebrows. "But, uh, I don't - I don't recall anything about any murders or violence -"

"Well, no, he hasn't committed any violence, no. But he is a psychopath - they all say so. All the people who know him. Friends, neighbours. Colleagues, even. He doesn't care about anyone's feelings. He is a numb, emotionally unreachable man. No morals of his own, and he shrugs off the morality of others with absolutely no consideration for their interests or points of view. That is why he built the machine," he said, nodding to a small black box with rounded edges, no larger than a small child's fist. "And that of course is his actual crime, that is why we must put him under."

The Judge peered at the black box, set lonely on the evidence desk. "Yes ... the quantum mumbo jumbo. But - what, erm, what does it actually do?"

"It is a cloning device," said Cheeves, anger in his voice. "He went and made a cloning device!"

"Clone ..." said the Judge, breathing in sharply, his fingers twitching a moment. "You mean - you mean as in we could, say, clone a sheep?"

"As I said, he is an immoral psychopath."

"Does it really work?" asked the Judge. He turned to William's counsel, Mr. Tweed, who had been standing silently with them until now. "Can you clone, say, a sheep with that thing?"

"Mmm. It has not been tested on living subjects yet," said Tweed. "But it can clone complex things, we know that. We tried it with microprocessors, for example. In fact, the machine itself is built from microprocessors that it cloned on its own," he said proudly. "It almost literally fabricated itself, piece by piece."

The nurse interrupted them. "He's going under, gentlemen," she said. They all walked up to the bed where Williams lay. The judge shook his head.

"Induced into a coma. Quite a punishment, my boy. You say he chose this?"

Cheeves nodded. "Lunatic. Well, anyway, best for all of us, I think. We want to keep him around. So we can revive him, you know. I mean, in the future, in case we have any questions of a - technical nature."

"Brilliant mind," nodded the Judge. "But, as you say, truly a psychopath."

Williams looked back at them - he was smiling calmly. His eyelids fell heavier, heavier, his eyes glazing over, and he drooled slightly. When it was finally over, the three men left him lying on the bed. But Judge Horace stopped at the evidence desk, looking down at the small black box. "Here, Cheeves," he said.

"Your Honor?" said Prosecutor Cheeves, returning attentively to the Judge.

Horace hesitated a little, rubbing his fingers together. "Let us - um - well, why don't we take this device to my chambers. I am quite ... curious ... about it."

Cheeves looked thoughtfully at the cloning machine. "Well - I suppose I don't see much harm," he said slowly. "I mean, if it is just us." He looked back at William's counsel attorney. "You like to join us, Tweed? We're going to take a little look at the black box."

Mr. Tweed smiled back at them from the door. "Oh, no, no. I'll have to sit this one out. Meeting the wife for dinner. But you gents go ahead, go ahead." He smiled at them once more, then left through the door.

Friday, February 20, 2009

Fuck, I am Sic.

noodle soup with chicken

standard diner fare
in a plastic container
run from here to there.

got the loads of afrin,
can you die from nasal overload?
blowing up your nostrils
with the pump action gear.

my nose is in the ice, i swear
like a japanese girl in a well
who probably won't come out
unless you press the 'Play' button.

what is scarier than a flu?

Monkey News: Introspective

More monkey news. (c. 2007). For all Monkey News, see the 'monkey news' tag on the left, or click here.
Alright mates,

Carl Dilkington here with some short Monkey News this week. Due to summer and
deadlines all around, seems like the newswire is runnin' a bit thin. But I got
this little nugget to keep the Monkey Pains at bay. Looks like a coupla pages
off an old shipmate's diary - looks pretty old, like, from 1970 or something. Or
1870. My mate at the dating lab's busy dating some bird, so I couldn't check it.
Anyways, this might be the last monkey news for some time, unless some obscure
demand, like a bird does me. Feeling left out, kinda. Anyways, Monkey News:

Sept. 12th (at sea)

They've started letting me around the ship now. Oh, I know it must be bizzare
for them to have a stranger as myself aboard - a stranger from another land -
someone picked up, one may venture, in travels far away. A curiosity. That is
what I am to them. Oh, I notice - do not think that I don't. I notice when they
observe my skin, different from theirs, my darkness. The First Mate, especially,
has been most unkind. It seems he is the sort of man who enjoys the humour of
segragation in the most unkind fashion. He has taunted me with words, by false
offerings of food always pulled away at the last moment, and once, when no one
was looking, by inflicting my person with a jab to the head from his broom. The
Captain has told them to leave me be and to get about their work - and they
obey, mostly - but I can feel their muscles wriggling inside them whenever I
amble by. It must be strange to see a man such as myself, roaming free. I cannot
say I enjoy being isolated so psychologically, but I am happy they've released
me from my chains, at least.

Sept. 13th

I've been assigned to paint the decks. It was an accident, really. That fool,
the First Mate, had left a can of shellac drying in the sun. As everyone else was
occupied, and I, sunk in a deep depressive boredom (no doubt from the confines
of this horrendous ship, and being so far away from friend and family), picked
the brush up and started doodling on the mast. It was only when I was putting
some finishing strokes upon my surrealist depiction of Time and Rivers, that I
noticed the ruckus I had gathered. Of course, I have always craved attention,
and unsatisfied by the hoots and catcalls my piece of art apparently garnered
amongst these paleolithics, I started drawing some trashy cartoons on the floor.
I did one, of a character bearing striking resemblance to the First Mate, arched
baroquely over a sheep, a mangled look of joy upon the face. This brought
tremendous laughter from the crowd (and venemous stares from the First Mate).
Next, I sketched a picture of the Captain, standing proud at the helm of his
great ship. His legs heroically apart, one hand on his hip, the other set
determinedly upon the ship's steer. This brought tides of commendation from the
crew, proud as they were of their ship and Captain, braving the dangerous seas.
It brought, however, even greater tides of laughter, when I completed my cartoon
by placing the now famous First Mate directly at the Captain's posterior, his
large mouth open and tongue hanging out erect in licking splendour.

It was at this point the Captain happened to cross the deck. Parting his way
through the gathered crew, he walked directly up to me. "What's this then,
what's this?" he asked.

I was a little nervous, suddenly realizing my place, and where I was. I was not
at home - I was not amongst friend or family, who may tolerate my outrageousness
in lieu of my sheer artistic genius. I was in a foreign ship, amongst foreign
people, and, decidedly, a prisoner.

The Captain reached me and looked down. Peering over at the First Mate, I
noticed he had a very happy smile now, contrast to the pure anger and vileness
I had been receiving from him. He was gleeful. I looked up at the Captain, and
for some reason (I don't know why - perhaps to add insult to injury, as is my
way), offered him the brush, tentatively.

He burst out laughing. He held his belly and laughed out loud. He slapped me on
the back and kept laughing. I peered over at the First Mate. He was furious!

"Right then. What idiot left this shellac lyin' around in the sun?" asked the
Captain. All hands pointed at the First Mate. The Captain gave him a disgusted
look. Then he turned to me, putting a hand on my shoulder, and said "Right then,
chap. We may not be alike, we may not be the same, but you're a good man with a
brush. I want ya to paint our decks." Then he turned to the First Mate and said,
"And you. You come into my cabin for a little talk."

Sept. 16th

I don't think the First Mate is very happy with me. But I'm thriving on it. It
is not easy to live on this ship with these white people, heading into a world I
know nothing of. The crew have warmed to me, and now speak to me here and again.
This afternoon, one of them showed me to the lower deck at lunch, where they
have their meal. We all ate together. I was given my own seat, which was very
courteous of them, and my own plate, filled with every sweatmeat and savoury any
other ship man was having.

Despite this newfound camaraderie, I still ache for home and familiarity. I
suppose it is as they say, "An ounce of blood is worth more than a pound of
friendship". However, I seem to gain an enormous relief and satisfaction from
this pain by causing the First Mate some utter grief! It seems that regardless
of my intent, regardless of my ambivalence, even, everything I do causes him
grief. This morning I fixed a broken rung on a ladder. The First Mate, who was
at the top at the time, apparently, came down, expecting the broken rung, and
his foot was confused by the now fixed appendage. He had scrambled at about 12
feet above deck, and then fallen on his posterior. This brought a belly full of
laughs from the crew, but not from the First Mate.

At lunch, yesterday, the First Mate told a joke. I could tell he had thought
about it for a long time. He had prepared the joke, and had waited until just
the right moment to mention it. And then - he told the joke. It was purile. It
was extremely unfunny, and even in this company of paleolithics, not a prick of
a giggle was to be heard. Therefore, feeling somewhat sorry for the First Mate,
and hoping to make amends for the shellac humiliation prior, I started
laughing my ass off. I just laughed. I banged upon the table and laughed loud.
Slowly, the crew started laughing too. I laughed louder. I jumped onto the
table, ran up to the First Mate, hugging him tightly, and laughed. The room was
in uproar by now. Everyone was laughing. I glanced up at the First Mate, and the
look - that look - I will always remember. I looked around, and slowly, it came
upon me the horrific (yet hilarious) fact that all were not laughing with the
First Mate - they were laughing AT the First Mate.

Sept. 17th

I feel I may have gone too far. At dawn, I heard the rustle of chains I had
become so familiar with on the outbound portion of my journey and jumped up,
awake. It was the First Mate. He was sadly gathering the chains about himself.
When he noticed I was awake, he turned looked at me. I looked back, hoping he
would not afflict me with the chains again.

"What you lookin' at?" asked the First Mate.

I stared back intently. I knew what he was saying, but I didn't know what to
say, or how to say it.

"You think you're so clever? You think you're better than us?" jeered the First

I wanted to say that I was a god damned genius. I wanted to explain to him that
my mind, alone, would bed more women that his entire ancestry. I wanted to
describe to him the trains of consciousness so beautiful in nature and science
that seemingly eluded his undeveloped brain.

"You're not all that. Fancy this. Fancy it comin' to this," weeped the First
Mate. He was tying the chains around the mast. "You think you had me, didn't ya,
eh? You think you've sussed me n' that." He was now tying the other end of the
chain to his neck.

I wanted to explain to him the beauty of continuity and depth. I wished we could
both make up and instead, together, roam the vistas of perplexity and wonder,
despite his unevolved mind. Let us cross even the boundaries of idiocy and enter
a truly native realm, where the speak of the stupid may be translated to the
brilliant, and vice-versa.

But I couldn't. There were no words for it. I stood there, mute.

"Well, bollocks to ya, tosser!" screamed the First Mate. "You're just a fucking

And with that, he jumped off the ship.

Alright then. Well that was a bit of nasty, weren't it. Till next week, mates, if I get a shag!

Carl Dilkington,
Dartford, Kent

And the Lord Witnessed Such Blasphemy as Gushed in Torrents From My Unhinged Jaw, And the Lord Was Satiated!

Before eyes could open,

ears take wave
nose taste or tongue smell,
there was the Serpent
sliding around the mound
of simply feeling Flesh.

A sculpting Snake
whose sexy slithering in clay
popped open a ripe apple
from thin air. It's tang
bedeviled the skin, teasing
from its squirming folds,
a Nose.

Then the Snake uncoiled,
warping into space in zig-zags,
but the Flesh followed with its
Nose first, that serpentine pungency.
Only in a distant galaxy, in millennia,
did the flesh come to sense warping
sensations -- sound forms -- and grow Ears.

Fear from the ears inflicted the flesh.
This smell, this sound -- all over!
It had followed with its Nose, yet now
the Serpent seemed to be everywhere.
There was a hiss, then a sharp fume
that compelled the Nose to it. The Flesh
stumbled on perhaps, a tail, into the poison
where it burned and grew a Tongue.

Taste of a creature spanning all space,
over all time ... but why? Organs wanted
to know -- they questioned endlessly as children,
yearning from the Serpent. Bothering it while
lapping at its pores for sustenance, for completion
until, one day, after vagaries of time unthinkable

the Serpent's head descended and struck the Flesh with its fangs,
sinking deep into it, two gouges frothing, bubbling,
wherein, at last, grew from the Flesh, Eyes.


(Over Ur Azz) a B-side remix
Newtonian apples crunchily springin',
whole damn winter just got a little more bounce.
Walking in some midnight with purple sunglasses,
there's too many a girl shining too much of an ounce

of flesh!

Vapid as a can of empty CFCs,
no more special gels for special parts of me.
Not even souls dessicated from their pulps
can help me pick my own ass up.

Yet mea culpa, pups!

Thought it's a 'flash'? Or rash, or picking up burnt ash from stashed smoked cash?
Or touching your ass in some random way in the mind games we both shared?
Dare a 'd', dare there, dare.

Rhymin' is just somethin' I do when my brain stops higher functioning.
Sorry about the simplistic verse, for more complexity, add reverb.

la la la ;)

Thursday, February 19, 2009

True As Icaras

(A Poem about videogame Wipeout, or Not)

Having not yet acknowledged sol
Icarus leaps nightly into the boiling planet.
Aerodynamics flake feathers off soon,
thus precision of landing point is paramount.

"I cannot fly my craft any more" wails wile e. coyote.
"Cannot swing this, this ... roadrunner endpoint of life."
Animal is referring to bending turns, sans cruise control.
You know, because most people use the cruise control.

I think I tried to make a joke, forgot the marker.
Accuracy ... seeping off, like hydraulics.
Even the deaf can feel it, even the blind can taste ...
Icarus crashing deeply into the boiling earth of sol.

Under the concrete, there are a few green plants, and roots.
But how could Icarus affine to them, with only tales of pilot days?
"I was flying high, you know ... and you ... are stuck in the ground ..."

Boiling undergound, till Icaras can break out and fly again.

Calmer Poem About Green Tea and Merit

of purchasing from starbucks, in frappe form. i guess :)
I am a sufferer from stroke.
I suffer from many strokes everyday.
Can you imagine? All these lamos
boo-hooing about a single stroke
in their lives,

here I am enduring one every goddamned second.

My face ... my face
doesn't even register on the
scale of being facelike.
It is kind of like Ernest Borgnine,
but with less sexiness.

Slowly I am learning about green tea,
about drinking it slowly to warm my innards.
Attaining inner peace, despite strokes,
or heart attacks. Or lungs that just give up.
So tactile and tangible.

What if, due to my wishes, I become placed in some eternal loop?

Saturday, February 14, 2009

hydraulic hiccups

Bushman breast slammed like breakfast in the face

of a bleeding heart case who never got the tip
from this strawberry-tights nurse with bedeviled toes,
just goes to show, coronary bypass was the other fork in the road.

Falling off a cliff right after cranking the nitrous,
burning up in flames, a giant cheeto ball down the gorge.
Mastication of a thousand nerds at a weekend Assembly marathon,
then just a charred, bent over skull, tooting forever on the horn.

Decades upon flies till the insects just got too big and went away,
horn run outta juice but still pressed upon it anyway.
In a dead desert dream she sways in from all dry horizons
a great water urn on her head and hips like an island.

Monkey News: Ghost

More monkey news. (c. 2007). For all Monkey News, see the 'monkey news' tag on the left, or click here.


Carl Dilkington here with some spooky Monkey News this week. Got this news with
some cassettes n' all, some recordings n' that, from a bloke I know in the
Paranormal Underground. Can't give you those recordings tho, cos of copyright.
What with the MPAA closin' down n' all. A man has to keep his
cover, even when bringin' the News to the people.

Wasn't going to release this one this week, with it being so Spooky n' all -
don't want to scare anyone, you know, especially kids n' that - but in the end
I figured the News must be let out. So ... let's get down to it, shall we?.

There's this bird, right, Rita. Likes hangin' about in the woods. She's a right
flower girl, yeah, believin' in Nature and all that. Rides her bike to college
instead of drivin' a car like everyone else. Twelve miles. Always turns up with
mud on 'er ankles and that. Doesn't kill the mice in her house - instead she
leaves a bit of cheese out for 'em. Gruyeyeyere or summat. They like that, she
goes, to blokes comin' over to stay for the night n' that, that's the best
flavor. That's the best cheese, accordin' to Rita.

So, turns out, one evenin', Rita's cyclin' back home. Arrives about 7pm, mud all
over her skirt and cakin'. She can't wait to park her bike n' get into a nice
bath with some soothin' dead sea salts, yeah, but there's no lights.

What's goin' on, she wonders. Usually the lights round the shed are turned on
about this time. She looks over to old Mrs. Miggin's house. Strange, she
wonders, ol' biddy's usually in the kitchen 'bout this time. Makin' dinner for
the children. Never mind they've all grown up and moved off, but she usually
still goes into the kitchen. She wonder's if old Mrs. Miggin's alright, but then
she looks at the biddy's shed lights, and those are still on. Strange, thinks
Rita, 'n looks at the Barries' home on the other side. Shed lights on. House
completely dark, but they're usually out at some theater or summat. They don't
come in till about 11.

What's wrong with my bloody lights, thinks Rita, walking her bike up to the
shed. This is right inconvenient - now I'll have to cycle up to the town n' get
some new lights tomorrow. She hopes it's just the shed lights. And what's wrong
with old Mrs. Miggins - why isn't she cookin' tonight? Right about now, you'd
see her silhouette in the window, hobblin' about n' all, prodding around with
her old cane n' pullin' potatoes from the shelves.

She almost up to the shed, yeah, tryin' to find her way in the darkness through
some overgrowin' branches n' that, when something touches her at the back of her
leg. She drops her bicycle and turns quickly, muddy skirts twisting in the wind.

"Who's there?" she calls out, unable to see anything in the darkness.

She hears somethin' scratchin the ground, searchin' around. It touches her leg
again, quickly, then keeps scratchin' away.

"Fuckin' 'ell, who's there?" screams Rita, backin' away from the sound. Then,
the scratchin' stops, yeah, and there's silence. Rita strains a ear in the
darkness, tryin' to peer into it - see what's happening. She takes a step back,
just to pace herself, but there's something behind her, and she trips backwards
over it. As she falls over, she hears a soft creaking sound in front of her.

Like in slow-motion, Rita falls back. She's seein' nothin' but darkness, and
the moon somewhere high above. It's full moon tonight, she thinks to herself
as she goes down. She listens for the creaking sound in front of her, but it's
gone. Then, suddenly, there's a sharp pain at the side of her belly. Crashin'
down, something tears into her left thigh, and her right elbow bangs on a hard
surface, shockin' her. There's a loud crash, like a chainsaw or summat bein'
thrown about. Dazed, Rita looks up and around, but all she can see is the moon.

So now, Rita's like, shit, pull y'self together luv, pull yerself together. She
feels around n' sits herself up by her hands. Eventually, she sighs, and gives
herself a bit of a smile. My bicycle, she says to herself. Fuckin' tripped over
the soddin' bike. In the darkness, she smiles, glad that no one else was witness
to her bein' a right daft cow. She gives herself a breather, feelin' around her
body and massaging the side of her belly. Nasty cut - the chains must've grazed
me there. There's some pieces of glass around her bleeding thigh - ah - the
bicycle light was shattered in the fall.

Rita laughs to herself, n' tries to pull herself up, but then falls down again,
exhausted. She laughs some more, and decides she'll just have a good lie down
for a bit. Bit of a bad fall there, but that's ok. She closes her eyes n'
listens to the crickets. There's a nice, warm buzz accompanying their chirpin',
the sort of sound of - like - summer. In the distance, she hears a soothing owl.
She perks her ears to listen for the sound of the road, wonderin' if she may
be able to hear the children playin' far away in the other houses down the

Hmmph, smiles Rita - strange. No kids playin' about tonight. Just crickets, n'
flyin' insects. And everythin' else about the summer that's so lovely, if you
closed your eyes - and just listened. And soft footsteps in the grass. Wot? Rita
sits up, straining on her hands, straining her ears. There they are
again. Footsteps! In the darkness in front of her - coming at her!

"Who's there?" she calls, into the night. There's no answer. The footsteps get
closer. "Who's there?" screams Rita again, yeah, and there's no answer - just the
steppin' getting closer. She tries to get herself up, but, the wound on the
side of her belly won't let her. She collapses back upon her bike. "Help!"
screams Rita into the darkness. "Help! God, someone, please help me!"

There's no reply. Then, there's a loud bangin' from somewhere on her right. Like
hands bangin' on wood - like drums, even. Rita, turns, squinting, and realizes
the banging is comin' from old Mrs. Miggins' house. Like, from her basement.
Like some angry, desperate fiend wailing to be let out. Like something deeply
wronged and tortured, that wants break out and seek sweet revenge on someone -
anyone! She turns from the bangin' and looks ahead of her. The footsteps are
louder now - gettin' louder as they come. "Someone please help me!" screams
Rita, lost, and unable to see a thing in the darkness of the shed.

"Alright?" says a voice.

"Help me!" screams Rita again, pleadin' to God one of the neighbors was around.

"Rita?" says the voice.

Rita tries to get a hold of her breath. "Charles?" she gasps.

"What's wrong?" says the voice. "I just parked my bike here, and you started
screamin'". A hand comes out of the darkness and picks Rita up.

"Oh, Charles!" says Rita, grabbin' a hold of him, "Oh, Charles, I thought..."


"I thought ... " Then she pulls herself together. "My God Charles, I have been
such a buffoon!". Rita laughs out, hysterically.

"Alright luv, calm down, calm down," says Charles. "What's goin' on?"

"The darkness - the - the - I fell - and - the - f-footsteps - Charles - oh,
Charles - I have been so stupid! I thought you were a ghost!"

"A ghost?" asks Charles.

"I - I heard a creaking - a scratchin' - like - like old Mrs. Miggins -"

"Yeah, I was tryin' to get me motorcycle's stand down" says Charles.

Rita bursts out laughing. "Your motorcycle's stand? Oh my god, Charles - and
here I - haaa haa - I thought Mrs. Miggins was dead, and was come to haunt me!"

"Mrs. Miggins?" asks Charles, incredulously, enjoying the feeling of Rita's
breasts against him. "Now there, Rita - a little too much cyclin' perhaps, eh?"

"Sod off," laughs Rita, pushing him affectionately. "You tellin' me it took you
that long to catch up?"

"I was ridin' really, really slow. So's to let you bike happily," goes Charles.

"I love you, Charles," says Rita.

"You love a lot of blokes, Rita," replies Charles, laughin'. "Ah well. Let's
pick your bike up, 'n get in, shall we? You won't guess what I have in my
pocket here..."

"Dead Sea Salts?" says Rita, eyes brightenin' up like clovers.

"No less, no less."

"Right. Let's do it." They pick the bike up together and go up to the shed.
"Let's just dump it here, shall we?" says Rita. "I'll fix it up in the mornin'".

"Sounds good to me luv," says Charles, moving her out of the way and slamming
the shed door down.

Immediately, loud banging erupts again. "Wot's that?" asks Charles.

"That wasn't you?" asks Rita. "I thought that was something to do with you!"

"Why would I be bangin' around like that?" asks Charles. He listens to the
sound again. "And gruntin' like that?"

Rita turns towards the sound. "Charles," she goes, "Mrs. Miggin's light - it's
not on tonight!"


"Her light is always on, Charles." She creeps closer to to him, and they both
look at Mrs. Miggin's dark house. "I'm worried about her Charles. We need to
find out if she's okay..."

"Rita - let's just head in n' call the Bill. They'll know how to handle it..."

"Charles - no. Mrs. Miggins was always wonderful to me - we must go check on

"Blast this" says Charles, but Rita's already pulling him along toward Mrs.
Miggin's back door.


"No lights," says Charles, flicking the switch as they walk in. "There's no more
bangin' either. Maybe she was just angry, Rita - cos of our noise n' that,
maybe she's well into bed by now."

"Don't be daft Charles," goes Rita, as they inch into the dark house, "she's
always up around this time, cookin' for her kids."


Rita rolls her eyes. "Yea - they're all up n' gone off now, but she still likes
to pretend."

Charles like, squints his eyes, yeah, seein' summat on the fridge door in the
kitchen. "There's a n-" he goes, and suddenly falls, yelling "Bloody 'ell!"

"Charles, Charles," yells Rita, runnin' after him. Half-blind, she trips over
Charles and crashes onto the kitchen floor in front on him. A fruit bowl on the
counter by her comes crashin' down and breaks upon her head.

"Rita! Rita!" she hears Charles call.

"Hmmphsh" says Rita, rubbin' her head n' that.


"Wot?" asks Rita, gettin' up, woozily. Everythin's a blur now - she can't see
nuffink. She squints, n' sees what looks like Charles pointin' down at the
floor and then pointin' up at the fridge. Then, the loud banging starts again.
Between the bangs, Rita hears a desperate, animal like grunting. She turns and
sees it's comin' from the basement.

"Poor Mrs. Miggins!" she yells. "She's trapped in there!" Dazed, and vision
still blurred, she ambles to the basement door. Suddenly, Charles' arms come
around her.

"Stop, Rita, stop! It's not what you think!"

"Mrs. Miggins!" yells Rita, and the bangin' downstairs gets louder. "We must
save her"

"Rita, look!" says Charles. "Look!"

She follows his hands pointing up and down. "Mrs. Miggins is dead, Rita!"

"No!" screams Rita. "Wot?"

"She's dead, look!" Rita looks where Charles is pointin'. In her blurry vision,
she sees a shabby, furry lookin' figure, sprawled over the kitchen floor.

"You wot?" cries Rita, confused. "Mrs. Miggins? She's a - she's monkey???"

"No, luv," says Charles, running over and taking her in his arms. "No, she's
just wearin' 'er angora ... but look", he says, pointing.

As the banging below gets louder and louder, Rita drunkenly follows Charles'
finger, to the fridge door - to a little note stuck on with a magnet.

"Dear sir or madam," it says.

"In the event of my unexpected demise, please be shore to come here, to this
place, every night..."

"Wot? Wot?" cries Rita, readin' on.

"... and prepare some dinner for my dear Koko wot I keep down in the basement,
and wot has kept me company well into my old years."

Alright. That's this week's news. Spoo-ooo-key! Hope that didn't shake you up
too much. Cheers and have a great weekend, and let me know if you see little
dark shadows messin' about in yer room through the corners of your eyes..

Carl Dilkington,
Dartford, Kent.

The Half-Words-Mangled One


without coercyan,
there will always be another rising shun.

Oh meaning, lass
prowessless nessie
hunts my taunted dreams fat bully that she is.

of the creature creauteur
elegant as an oliphaunt's ivory showers.

pascal, seul dans ma voilture.
There will always be an apprising sun.

Veteran's Day, Feb. 14th 2009

My friend does not support the troops,

he is a consummate lover of love itself, and himself.
Not for him, getting shot down like a lackey
in the front-lines -- he spies exclusively to fourth base
n' blows that fucker up.

Fireworks signal his return to the Homeland by sea,
queues of women with I.O.U.s gripped firmly in hand.
For them, barrel-fulls of exotic chocolate, unloaded.
As they grab and pull, my friend the lover slips away.

Poker in Vegas and pay-as-you-go prostitutes,
filet-mignon at a steakhouse by himself, on his own time.
Sits in a hotel room with a warm golden light and a television
veteran of loves bygone with a single bullet gun.

Saturday, February 7, 2009

Monkey News: Cheating Monkey

More monkey news. (c. May 2006). For all Monkey News, see the 'monkey news' tag on the left, or click here.

Hope the weekend is going alright for everyone. Got some new monkey news. Sorry about the wait, but some servers crashed somewhere and I had to go Administer them.

This week's News comes from the social Scene. Got a mate who has another mate who's girlfriend's step-mother told him about this one. S'about this bloke, right, Dan. Dan works in the technical writing industry. You know, when you buy your iPod and get the manual an' all that, that's Dan there. Talking to you through the iPod manual. Those of you sad enough to open your Star Wars DVD and browse the menus to the actor biographies - that's Dan there. Faffin' to ya about some other bloke's life via his own personal soul.

So, Dan somehow lands himself a bird. He's all happy as larry, running around buying flowers and Cadbury chocolates every now and again. This is it, he says to to himself. She's the one.

This goes on for a couple of months. One night, when he gets a chance, he goes over to his mate Henry's house and they're sitting down, right, playing on Henry's Wii.

"I'll betcha she's seein' someone else" says Henry.

"Wot are you talking about, mate?" says Dan, waving Henry's Wii around.

"Just sayin', you know what I mean. They always do that."

"Bollocks. Stop it. I'm not letting this one go down the drain wiff that kind of paranoia nonsense" says Dan, throwing Henry's Wii on the floor. "I've had enough of you", he says, and walks out of Henry's apartment.


So, a couple of weeks later, Dan wakes up in bed. He turns, and Suzanne isn't there. "Hmm," he says to himself. "Must of gone down to get some breakfast." He puts his pants on, and walks down, and sure enough, there she is, eating some cereal.

"Alright luv" says Dan.

"Hey there," says Suzanne. "You got any fruit, Dan?"

"Fruit? Nah. Why?" He walks over and starts playing with her hair from behind.

"Just thought it'd be nice to eat these cocoa puffs with some banana" she says.

"Bananas?" says Dan, bringing his hands down upon her shoulders. He loves giving her a good massage. It feels good the way her body squirms under his hands. Even better when she moans softly in pleasure. "Give us a little moan" says Dan.

"Wot?" asks Suzanne, turning around.

"Nothing! Nothing!" says Dan, startled from his own trance wot he'd just induced his self into. "Just talking to myself, luv".

Suzanne shrugs his hands away and gets up. "I'm off. Going to Sainsbury's to buy some bananas."

"Why? What is this about bananas?" asks Dan.

"Fancy a man who's got cocoa puffs for cereal and no fucking bananas!" she yells back, and stomps out of the house.

So there's Dan, standing around. What the fuck, he wonders to himself. Bananas? He tries to tell himself to let it go, for a bit. But he can't. He loves this woman too much. "If she must have bananas", Dan says to himself, "I need to know why". He puts his anorak on and walks out.


Doesn't take long to find Suzanne, but Dan decides to keep a good distance - fifty paces. That way if, say, a bird shat on her head, and she turned around wondering what the hell happened, she wouldn't see him. So he follows her at fifty paces - she goes over the hill and into town. She walks past the W.H. Smiths and the chippy, and then - then, she walks right past Sainsbury's!

What's this, wonders Dan. He follows her on, and she goes right past the town center and onto the other side of town. "Never been in this area much" says Dan to himself, looking at all the houses there, right. He looks back at Suzanne - and she's gone! Cursing under his breath, Dan runs up, fifty paces and stands looking around. Then he catches eye of Suzanne. She's standing at the one of the houses and ringing on the doorbell.

Dan hides behind a hedge one house over and watches. Sure enough, the door opens, and Suzanne walks in.

He waits for a couple of minutes. Probably just chatting with a friend, he says to himself. But after a while, he can't stand it anymore. Fuck this, says Dan, and walks up to the house. He thinks of ringing the doorbell, but then he's like, hold on a minute. He walks up to a window, and peers in. There nowt there - no one in the living room. No one in the kitchen. That's kinda strange, thinks Dan. Why would they have gone upstairs? He waits another five minutes.

"Right" he says, finally. "What would they possibly be doing upstairs for five fucking minutes!" He looks around and sees a ladder lying in front of the garage. He picks it up, props it next to the window on the upstairs floor, and climbs up.


"She wasn't worth it, mate" said Henry, taking his Wii from Dan's hands. "Forget about it."

"Oii" said Dan, "I wasn't done with that. Give it back!"

"It's my turn" said Henry, "let off!"

"Give it!"

"No," said Henry, holding fast to his Wii, "Let off! I'm going to take this to another level!"

"Alright then" said Dan. "Have it your way. I'm off. Gonna go talk to her."

"She isn't worth it mate" said Henry.

"You're not worth it" said Dan, walking out.

"Mate, come back man! Alright, alright, here you can have it. Here, take it!" said Henry, holding his Wii up in the air - but Dan was gone.



"Hello Dan" said Suzanne. He could see she'd been crying.

"Just wanted to say hi, and that."

"Hi" said Suzanne. "Um, do you want to come in?"

Dan peered into the house. "Is he - is he in there?" he asked, kind of curiously.

"Upstairs" said Suzanne. "Here, come in. I'll put some tea on."


A little later, they're both sitting in the living room, right. Dan hasn't said anything, Suzanne hasn't said anything. She's like, looking at him, kind of anxious an' that. He's lookin' back at her, thinking.

"I've been thinking" says Dan, looking away out of the window.

"Yeah?" says Suzanne.

"I think it's alright," he says, looking back at her.


"I'm alright wiff it. I still want you."

"Really?" she says.

"Yeah," says Dan, "Come to think of it, it could be kinda charming doing a threesome together with a monkey."

Alright mates. That was it. Shocking news, for sure. Until next week then!

Carl Dilkington,
Dartford, Kent

Fancypants (Part 4): God Fearin' (Conclusion)

This part 4 in a series. Jump to Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Conrad's eyes bounced around as he stood next to the bordello. Those whores ain't running down the stairs unless there's something mighty fine to shriek about, he figured. He smiled inwardly for a moment, but it was soon cut off.

"How's the evening treating you Joseph?" asked Jackson, wiping his mouth upon a handkerchief.

"Why best of the evening to you Jackson," replied Conrad, eyeballing him up and down. "And where might you be coming from, at this most opportune moment?"

"Just had a mighty fine lunch with the Judge, Joe," said Jackson, putting his bag down at the wall. "Nice woman".

"Why certainly, Jackson," said Conrad. "If you like your britches pulled down like a whore."

"Heh, yeah," replied Jackson. "Almost got my britches pulled down, but escaped on account of agreeing for her to buy me lunch" said Jackson, winking.

"Hah" spat Conrad. "Bought you some lunch did she?" he asked.

Now, Jackson didn't like the face on Conrad, but he put his hands in his pockets and kicked an imaginary butterfly. "Harper Lee sure does know how to tell a man a story," he said.

"Story," spat Conrad. "I'll betcha Harper Lee has never looked into the heart of darkness."

Jackson took his hand out of his pockets. "Heart of darkness, Joe?" he asked.

"Hell yeah, Jackson. The heart of darkness."

"Hmm." said Jackson. "My lady friend may just enjoy such a tale. Is it about ghosts?"

"Hah," spat Joe, "I'm very sure your lady friend will be very interested in this very tale, Jackson."

"And why might you say that?" asked Jackson, smiling back at Joe.

"Because, for one, Jackson," said Joseph Conrad, "your 'lady friend' is not really your damn friend by any stretch of the word!"

Jackson took a couple of steps back.

"For another thing," continued Conrad, "she isn't even at the morgue! Never was."

"Haw haw," said Jackson, slapping Conrad's back. "All those years of sailing have surely put a blemish upon your judgment, good man. Haw haw."

"I'm not kidding Jackson" insisted Conrad. He pulled out a small diary from his pocket. "Look," said Joseph Conrad. "There she is," he said. "Isn't she beautiful, Jackson?"

"She sure is," said Jackson putting his hands back in his pockets and tipping his toes.

"And there she is again," said Joseph, eyeing Jackson again. "Look at her, Jackson. Look at her."

"She seems pretty happy" said Jackson to Joseph. "Thank you for showing me these wonderful photographs, Joseph."

"Sure, Jackson. Sure she's happy. But look at it," he said, flipping the photograph that was pasted into the diary page.

"She ran away Jackson," said Conrad. "Years, you spent traveling up that river, and there she goes. Just running away."

"She looks happy though," said Jackson, bending down to appreciate the picture a little more.

"Sure Jackson. She's happy. She's happy because she ran away with your slave boy to Delaware, and now both of them are happy as pecan pie. Your hussy ain't dead by a long shot, Jackson - she clean ran away from ya" said Conrad, his eyebrows fuming.


Jackson hoped he hadn't permanently maimed Joseph Conrad. After all, he was only a little character in the entirety of things. He'd asked if he should call an ambulance, but Joseph had shaked his head furiously, weeping. As he walked up to the park, Jackson felt sorry for landing that blow upon Joseph Conrad's balding head.

"Why, hello there Jackson" said the ladies at the picnic.

"What a surprise to find you ladies here today" said Jackson walking in and shaking hands with all of the women. He took a deep breath, and then told them about Conrad.

"Oooh. No, baby," said Sylvia Plath, taking him by the shoulder and ushering him into their foray. "That man is certainly lost to us all!" They all giggled away. Jackson helped himself to a slice of honeyed turkey and home made bread. "He called her a hussy," said Jackson, munching away, angrily, "and he called dear Uncle Tom nothing but a negro slave."

"Well, that's certainly not acceptable" said Harper Lee, winking at the others. "Certainly not in any of my courts."

"Too right," fumed Jackson.

"So I hear your lady friend has gone away to the north," said Virginia Woolfe, passing Jackson some homemade orange confiture. "With Uncle Tom, no less."

Jackson smiled. "Well of course. I remember the times she would laugh and talk about old Tom. There is something beautiful about it."

"Jackson," said Sylvia, rising. "Why don't you let me take you home?"

"Certainly not, Miss Plath" replied Jackson. "You know I cannot go back there."

"Of course, of course," said Sylvia, sitting down again.

Jackson rummaged in his pocket. "There's something here," he said. "Joe must've slipped it in while I helped him up again."

The women all leaned over to look as he produced a bunch of paper from his pocket.

"Looks like ... a little story," said Jackson, musing over the sheets. "A History of the World" he said, eyeing it up and down.

"Really Jackson," gasped Virginia, clasping her heart, "Whatever does it say?"

"Well, Virginia," said Jackson, "says here, that mankind will do the ugliest things in order to try to make sense of, and improve, their lives. Hmm", he eyed down the document, "Nothing much here worth looking at," said Jackson. "Just the ramblings of a tired and depraved man, it seems."

"Burn it, Jackson," said Sylvia, Virginia and Harper together.

"Burn the History of the World, ladies?" asked Jackson, surprised.

"Yes, burn it."

Jackson looked at the History of the World. Then he looked back at the three women. "I cannot go home now, you understand," he said.

"We will never go home Jackson," said Harper. She stood up and pointed to the woods at the end of the park. "Look yonder, to those woods. We'll go into the woods, Jackson."

"The woods," said Jackson, a smile coming upon his pallid face. "Surely, the woods. Shall I burn this History of the World, ladies?" he asked.

"Burn it" said the ladies.

Jackson stood and bunched up the History of the World in his hands. He smiled at Sylvia, Virginia and Harper Lee, and tossed the paper into the picnic fire. Everyone let out a deep breath as the story hit the flames.

"It was poorly written, anyway," said Virginia, taking Jackson's right hand.

"A trifle in the mind of the living," said Sylvia, taking his left.

"Let us walk into the woods, Jackson, and never shall we return home" said Harper Lee, putting her arms around his neck and goading him forward.
This is the end. In a series. Jump to Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Monkey News: Monkey Who?

More monkey news. (c. Jan 2007). For all Monkey News, see the 'monkey news' tag on the left, or click here.

Carl Dilkington here with some News this week that will leave you unseated - especially if you're a sci-fi fan and that. Got this from crossin' together a few pieces comin' to me from my friends in the Entertainment Industry. So secret is this news, there is no one Source - prolly on account of the hot, angry tirade and the big-name, uh wossnames, Executive Producers, involved. Anyway, on with the News.

There's this bloke, right, Shafiq, who's been thrown a gig as Assistant Producer
in what may be the biggest of television productions ever undertaken by the BBC, yeah - the latest, greatest brand-spankin' newest series of Dr. Who. So, he's right chuffed. Assistant Producer on Dr. Who - that's the bollocks mate. He can't wait to get started.

So they get him runnin' around, gettin' everything ready for the show and that. He's walkin' from studio to set, to studio. Calls from Paris, callin' Brazil, London, New York, and all that. Talkin' to the crew, writers, directors. Makin' sure all the execs are seein' eye to eye. Getting all the shit together, basically. That's his job. Keep the Shit Together.

He's doin' it as well. He's got it all. He's got the writers sittin' in their rooms, writin'. Stories' are comin' along fine. He's got the Special Effects gang all fired up with their tricks and gags. Everyone's always happy to see him. He meets up with the director in chief, and they're both gettin' on alright.

Finally, about a week before shooting starts, yeah, he meets up with this bird, Angela, who's playin' the new sidekick in the show. She's right hot, and charming to boot - they're havin' a few drinks at this bar, yeah, and everythings' going swimmingly.

"I really like your taste in clothes," says Angela, touching one of his sleeves.

"Yeah?" says Shafiq, kinda sheepish, "Well, I kinda have to choose the right stuff to wear, y'know. What with having to move around so much, gettin' things done."

"Very admirable," says Angela, yeah, and she's like, givin' him this demure grin. "It felt so good for you to actually call me up and ask to meet me."

"Yeah, yeah" grins Shafiq, "just part of the job, luv. Got to make sure all the Shit is Together."

"Yes," replies Angela. "So ... who's playing the new Doctor, then? Have you met him?"

Shafiq is about to nod, yeah, but then he stops short. "New Doctor?"

"Well, there's always a new Doctor, innit? Like, first there was that bloke, William Hartnell, yeah, in the 60s. Then there was Pertwee, I think, in the 70s. Tom Baker, Sly McCoy ... Eccleston, David Tenant ... ooer. There's been so many," she smiled, "can't wrap me little head around all of 'em."

Shafiq's, like, put his drink down and trying hard to breathe.

"Is there summat wrong?" asks Angela.

"Bloody hell!" yells Shafiq, losing all his cool. "I've only forgotten the bloody Doctor!" He runs out, yeah, forgettin' to pay for the drinks, not even sayin' goodbye.

"Hmm," says Angela to herself. "Who forgets 'bout the Doctor in a production of Doctor Who?"

So Shafiq's running out, running down the street yeah. He pulls his cellphone out and calls Kevin, one of the Exec. Producers. "Kevin? Kevin! I forgot thebloody Doctor, mate. Shite, I just clean forgot him! What are we going to do?" There's no reply at first - he looks into his phone - then there's a quiet little snicker on the other end. "Kevin?" yells Shafiq again.

"You're not seein' the Doctor," replies Kevin quietly.

"What? What do you mean, man? I'm the bloody Assistant Producer! I've got to meet him! I've got to set things up! I've got to Keep the Shit Together, man, fer cryin' out loud!"

"You tell Joey to let me see the mid-season finale, and I'll give you the Doctor," says Kevin.

"Wot?" yells Shafiq, dodging a car on the street. Amidst its blaring horn, he goes on, "Kevin - this ain't no laughin' matter mate. What's this got to do with Joey?" Joey was the other Executive Producer.

"The bastard won't let me read the mid-season finale! He's keepin' me up at nights just wonderin' what happens. You get Joey to send me that finale, and I'll let you see the Doctor."

"Kevin, mate - Kevin, come on mate. We're all in this together! I'm sure Joey's got a good reason for keepin' the finale. Come on man, this is a team - we're supposed to be a team here!"

"Fuck you bastard, I'm bloody losin' my sleep here! Fuckin' hell, I got to write episodes 12 and 18, here, n' I'm completely wrung out of my creative juices 'cos of that tosser. Get me the finale!" The line goes dead.

"Blast!" yells Shafiq. "What's Joey's number?" Just then, he crashes into an old woman in a wheelchair, toppling her over. The old bird lets out a yell and writhes in pain on the cobblestones.

"Oh crap," says Shafiq, picking himself up. "Joey! He's flyin' off to Honduras on vacation tonight! Crap, crap!" He looks at his watch. Quarter to seven - Joey's flyin' off at eight. "I can make it!" yells Shafiq, running off toward the Tube station, ignoring the old woman's pleas for assistance.

As he runs, Shafiq keeps trying Joey's number, but to no avail. When he reaches the station, he hears the train pull in below. "Bollocks," says Shafiq, "I can make this one." He runs faster.

Then, right in mid-stair, the train doors opening below, Joey calls him up.

"Alright mate?" says Joey.

"Joey! Yes! Just the man I needed to see. Joey - I need to get the mid-season finale scr-" All of a sudden, Shafiq realizes he's running, but not moving. He turns slightly, and realizes someone's holding on to his collar.

"Right there lad - what's the hurry?" comes a deep voice from behind.

"Blast, a copper!" says Shafiq. "Sir - please, I'm -"

"There's no runnin' on the stairs, lad - could topple someone over. Not pretty, that."

"Sir - I wasnt - Joey? Joey, hang on, one minute - please - " wails Shafiq desperately.

"Mate - gotta split - headin' into customs" goes Joey. "I'll see ya in June."

"Joey - nooo!" But the line goes dead. Shafiq bows his head down in tears,and turns to the copper. "Sir - I - I have to get to the airport. I have to catch that train!" he pleads, pointing at the train below.

"Hang on, hang on," says the copper. "I've got to fine you first," he says, pulling a ticket book from his pocket.

"You wot? For runnin'?" says Shafiq.

The copper points to a sign high up on the stairwell wall. "No Runnin'. £500," reads the sign.

"Five hundred pounds?" yells Shafiq. "For bleedin' running?"

"Right lad. May as well pay up now, if ya like, eh. Make things shorter," grins the copper, nudgin' at him. Below, the train pulls away.

"Bloody hell," shrugs Shafiq. He pulls £500 from his wallet and pays the man. Then he skulks down to wait for the next train.

"How? How could I forget about the bloody Doctor? In a Doctor Who production no less!" Sitting on a bench, Shafiq tries calling Kevin again.

"Do you have the finale?" says Kevin.

"Kevin, no mate. But come now Kevin. Be reasonable." There's no reply, and Kevin slams his phone down.

The train arrives and Shafiq gets in. "Don't think I'll make it," he says to himself, looking at his watch. It's half past seven.

Finally, the train arrives at Heathrow. Shafiq jumps off. There's ten minutes to go. He runs up the escalator, runs down to the departure gates. There, he's stopped by security.

"Got to wave you in mate," says the woman.

"Bloody hell," thinks Shafiq, but he lets her wave him in. By now, they're prolly all in the plane anyway. Having been waved in, he runs up to the gate. But there's no one there. The gate is empty. He looks desperately at the Information monitors. Flight 873 to Honduras - Departed Early.

"Departed *Early*? When does that happen?" He slumps into a seat. "Why can't I ever get a break? Why doesn't it ever go right for me?" he cries, holding his head. "The one time, the one time I get to be Assistant Producer, get to Hold the Shit Together, the one time, and -"

His cellphone rings. "Joey!" screams Shafiq, standing up.

"Alright. Sorry got cut off there before. They made me turn me phone off."

"Joey. Where are ya?"

"I'm on the plane," says Joey. "Usin' one of them 'airphones'. Anyway, just wanted to tell you summat about that bird, Angela-"

"No, Joey - no - bugger that. Joey - I need you to send me the mid-season finale! Please, send it to me. I need it."

He hears a curious laughing from the phone. "Joey?" he asks, getting a little angry.

More laughter. Then, "Alright, alright. You can have it. Here, hold on. I'll open up my laptop 'n send it to ya."

"Wot you laughin' at?" asks Shafiq angrily, but all he gets is more laughter.

"Check your files on yer mobile - I just sent it." says Joey. There's a little more quiet laughter, and he hangs up.

"What's that about?" says Shafiq, decidedly irked. He checks his files, and sure enough, the finale is there. He emails it to Kevin, then calls him up.

"Do you have the-" says Kevin.

"Yeah, you bastard. I just sent you yer soddin' file. Now fuckin' tell me who this bloody Doctor is."

There's more of this sneaky, quiet laughter, gettin' Shafiq all hot and that. "He's waitin' for you. Upstairs, at the private phone booths. Number 32. It's shaped like one of them old police boxes, ya can't miss it."

"You wot?" demands Shafiq.

"Just arrived, ten minutes ago. You can meet him there." Again, the laughter. "Got to tell you a little about our new Doctor, though..." Shafiq runs up the escalator.

"Wot are you laughin' at mate, eh? You think that was fuckin' funny. I've got shit to do, y'know. I got to have all the info. I'm runnin' the Production. I got to Keep the Shit Together mate. I'm the only one who's Keepin' the effin' Shit Together!"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," giggles Kevin. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

"That really sucked, you bastard," says Shafiq, approaching the phone booths. "I lost five 'undred quid in that!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," laughs Kevin. "You there yet? I've got to tell you-"

"I'm approachin' booth 32 now."

"Right. Well, before you meet him, you got to know, this new Doctor. He's a bit of an unusual fella-"

"Yeah, yeah," says Shafiq, grabbing the handle to 32. "Aren't they all though, the Doctors, I mean? All a tad strange. Not a problem, mate - I can deal with the eccentrics. Just not bastards like you - and that Joey. Executive nobs, and all that."

"Right, well, just wanted to let you know."

Shafiq opens the door to booth 32 and peers in. There's a monkey sittin' on that chair next to a suitcase.

Carl Dilkington,
Dartford, Kent