Home   |         NEW: (hypothetically starring) VIC REEVES as LUKE SKYWALKER .. in "Waiting for Godot, the hollywood version".

A further comedy interlude.   Share:  
Thrust of argument: From an unfinished version of my first book, "The Story of Bob", this version written some time in the first decade or so if this century. Not sure, maybe 2003 to 2006, or maybe later on. Probably not important, as a detail. May figure it out from other documents/files etc eventually. Direction of resistance / implied resistance: And in all the little built-up zones on either side of the River of Difficulties people were, instead of taking to the road, getting aboard river boats and heading for the port that way. In one particular boat a pair of Mexican hoodlums, a Don Pablo and his sidekick Fajita, were entertaining a visitor claiming to be willing to pay a lot of money for their bounty hunting services.

The man looked like Robert Deniro and had a name which was a somewhat easy-to-spot variation on the name Satan. He was offering them 200 million pesetas to seek out a man named Johnny Favourite as part of a cable television film season being sponsored by a fried chicken giant. Don Pablo pulled out his trusty pistol and shot the Deniro lookalike in the head, at which point Satan stepped out from behind the sofa and congratulated them. He informed them that he had been testing them to see if they were of the right calibre to take on the job he required, which involved nothing less than eternal wealth as their reward. All they had to do was to catch up with an eleven year old boy who was on his way to pick up a book, and steal the book from him.

'Can we kill him and feed him to the chihuahuas?' asked Don Pablo casting a generous glance at his pet Chihuahuas who growled hungrily.

'Do what you will,' said Satan. 'Just get the book, and I'll come and find you when you have it.' 'Where will we find him?' Don Pablo asked the evil one.

'You and he are now an equal distance, temporally speaking, from the Yellow Brick Road. Head for it and you will find him. Stay on his tracks, lurk in the background and when the moment is ripe, take the book, and I shall come back before you even open it.'

Satan, who was currently disguised as Peter Cook (but wasn't the real Peter Cook, who was with Ozymandias the King of Kings, having a stiff whisky in a lively bar in the Port of Limitless Enchantment), vanished into a very cheaply-drawn black and white cartoon cloud and briefly morphed into Fu Manchu on the way out owing to technical hiccups.

'Ayayayayeeeee!' exclaimed Fajita. Don Pablo thumped him with a solar-powered toaster.

In yet another direction from the mountain, in the Plains of Ceaseless Dissent and the Forests of Hope, the Robin Hoods and the Lord Byrons were not too bothered. They were just as sure that the magma flow would not come in their direction as the press people on the exact opposite side of the mountain to them. To them the eruption of Eagle Mountain was more like the snow at Christmas is to the middle classes - a picturesque backdrop to them, rather than the bone-freezing killer of old and homeless beggars. Indeed, artists who had never been drawn into Hell were arriving at the Forest of Hope in droves, to drink in the beauty of the event. Moojadin Rumi of course was amongst them, having heard early on about the forthcoming eruption from the wisest of the Greeks. 'I have composed a little poem for the occasion,' he told a group of wandering artists who had gathered around him with bevies and smokes. 'It's called Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

At 3am you fill our A-roads

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

O'er hill and dale you carry consumer items

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

How will you flee the apocalypse?

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

With your burdensome materialistic load

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

What of the cyclist?

And the lone gazelle?

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

Will you envy them their safety from the flames?

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

When hellfire merges you with your heavy goods

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

Who will buy the merchandise you carry?'



There was uproarious applause at this, since most of the listeners had thought this to be the end of the poem, since it was such a great set of lines, but it was not, and when the uproar and din died down, Moojadin went on



'Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

Where does your haulage end?

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

From mountain, to village, to city, to port

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

Like a loathesome Postman Pat of decay

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

You spread the products thick over the land

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

And seal them over in oil and plastic

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

How inflammable you are

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

How toxic the smoke when the Hellfire claims you

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

The top of the mountain has fallen off

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

It will vomit its magma all over your trade-routes

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

Your rigid, delimited form means nothing

To the raging chaos from which we all were born.'



'A fine lyric indeed,' said the vociferous casuist poet and pimp, Numpty Dumpty, who happened to be there. 'That is to say, bogota gadfly and albeit jammy. For indeed we know that they are one. And vamptuous the day!'

Much quaffing and chortling in joy continued amongst the poets as the fountain of alcohol laid on by Robin Hood (the forest authority) continued to fill their bellies. Meanwhile on all the A-roads connecting the various urban enclaves and sprawls all under the gaze of the Eagle Mountain, heavy goods vehicles were indeed to be seen lying abandoned in every layby. And since most people in most of these places feared the Gluntic Plains, the roads leading to the Port of Limitless Enchantment were severely jammed up. Many of these people wouldn't even get to the port before the lava finally came, and of those who did, and who indeed managed to escape being killed in the growing cloak-and-dagger violence now seizing the port and its surrounds (in times of apocalypse, when there aren't enough tickets to ride no matter what the price, the odd dagger produced out of the odd cloak becomes a matter of form), those who escaped all that and got aboard some vessel or other - would mostly all be consumed by the Ocean within a few weeks anyway. So most of this fugitivity was for nothing. As though the fate of men precedes, long precedes, the days of their judgement.

 

 

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Removal of resistance: The previously completed version, written long ago, from the age of 16 to 23, copyrighted at the Library of Congress in spring 2001, is in the url in the references below. Unification: The rest of Bovary/Snark/Godot2 asap. Tis the season.
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Click here to read about Shams Pirani, the editor and chief author on this grid - note, if you can actually prove anything written above wrong, I would gladly, if the proof is sufficient, correct what I've written and what I think - if I could, however, prove your attempted proof wrong, then I would accordingly say so and maintain whatever point of view is completely based on fact and proof.

Simple text version.

A further comedy interlude.

From an unfinished version of my first book, "The Story of Bob", this version written some time in the first decade or so if this century. Not sure, maybe 2003 to 2006, or maybe later on. Probably not important, as a detail. May figure it out from other documents/files etc eventually.

And in all the little built-up zones on either side of the River of Difficulties people were, instead of taking to the road, getting aboard river boats and heading for the port that way. In one particular boat a pair of Mexican hoodlums, a Don Pablo and his sidekick Fajita, were entertaining a visitor claiming to be willing to pay a lot of money for their bounty hunting services.

The man looked like Robert Deniro and had a name which was a somewhat easy-to-spot variation on the name Satan. He was offering them 200 million pesetas to seek out a man named Johnny Favourite as part of a cable television film season being sponsored by a fried chicken giant. Don Pablo pulled out his trusty pistol and shot the Deniro lookalike in the head, at which point Satan stepped out from behind the sofa and congratulated them. He informed them that he had been testing them to see if they were of the right calibre to take on the job he required, which involved nothing less than eternal wealth as their reward. All they had to do was to catch up with an eleven year old boy who was on his way to pick up a book, and steal the book from him.

'Can we kill him and feed him to the chihuahuas?' asked Don Pablo casting a generous glance at his pet Chihuahuas who growled hungrily.

'Do what you will,' said Satan. 'Just get the book, and I'll come and find you when you have it.' 'Where will we find him?' Don Pablo asked the evil one.

'You and he are now an equal distance, temporally speaking, from the Yellow Brick Road. Head for it and you will find him. Stay on his tracks, lurk in the background and when the moment is ripe, take the book, and I shall come back before you even open it.'

Satan, who was currently disguised as Peter Cook (but wasn't the real Peter Cook, who was with Ozymandias the King of Kings, having a stiff whisky in a lively bar in the Port of Limitless Enchantment), vanished into a very cheaply-drawn black and white cartoon cloud and briefly morphed into Fu Manchu on the way out owing to technical hiccups.

'Ayayayayeeeee!' exclaimed Fajita. Don Pablo thumped him with a solar-powered toaster.

In yet another direction from the mountain, in the Plains of Ceaseless Dissent and the Forests of Hope, the Robin Hoods and the Lord Byrons were not too bothered. They were just as sure that the magma flow would not come in their direction as the press people on the exact opposite side of the mountain to them. To them the eruption of Eagle Mountain was more like the snow at Christmas is to the middle classes - a picturesque backdrop to them, rather than the bone-freezing killer of old and homeless beggars. Indeed, artists who had never been drawn into Hell were arriving at the Forest of Hope in droves, to drink in the beauty of the event. Moojadin Rumi of course was amongst them, having heard early on about the forthcoming eruption from the wisest of the Greeks. 'I have composed a little poem for the occasion,' he told a group of wandering artists who had gathered around him with bevies and smokes. 'It's called Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

At 3am you fill our A-roads

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

O'er hill and dale you carry consumer items

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

How will you flee the apocalypse?

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

With your burdensome materialistic load

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

What of the cyclist?

And the lone gazelle?

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

Will you envy them their safety from the flames?

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

When hellfire merges you with your heavy goods

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

Who will buy the merchandise you carry?'



There was uproarious applause at this, since most of the listeners had thought this to be the end of the poem, since it was such a great set of lines, but it was not, and when the uproar and din died down, Moojadin went on



'Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

Where does your haulage end?

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

From mountain, to village, to city, to port

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

Like a loathesome Postman Pat of decay

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

You spread the products thick over the land

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

And seal them over in oil and plastic

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

How inflammable you are

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

How toxic the smoke when the Hellfire claims you

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

The top of the mountain has fallen off

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

It will vomit its magma all over your trade-routes

Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry

Your rigid, delimited form means nothing

To the raging chaos from which we all were born.'



'A fine lyric indeed,' said the vociferous casuist poet and pimp, Numpty Dumpty, who happened to be there. 'That is to say, bogota gadfly and albeit jammy. For indeed we know that they are one. And vamptuous the day!'

Much quaffing and chortling in joy continued amongst the poets as the fountain of alcohol laid on by Robin Hood (the forest authority) continued to fill their bellies. Meanwhile on all the A-roads connecting the various urban enclaves and sprawls all under the gaze of the Eagle Mountain, heavy goods vehicles were indeed to be seen lying abandoned in every layby. And since most people in most of these places feared the Gluntic Plains, the roads leading to the Port of Limitless Enchantment were severely jammed up. Many of these people wouldn't even get to the port before the lava finally came, and of those who did, and who indeed managed to escape being killed in the growing cloak-and-dagger violence now seizing the port and its surrounds (in times of apocalypse, when there aren't enough tickets to ride no matter what the price, the odd dagger produced out of the odd cloak becomes a matter of form), those who escaped all that and got aboard some vessel or other - would mostly all be consumed by the Ocean within a few weeks anyway. So most of this fugitivity was for nothing. As though the fate of men precedes, long precedes, the days of their judgement.

The previously completed version, written long ago, from the age of 16 to 23, copyrighted at the Library of Congress in spring 2001, is in the url in the references below.

The rest of Bovary/Snark/Godot2 asap. Tis the season.



http://46.37.32.133/prologue.html