Archive | August 15, 2011

It’s Howdy Doody time.

And she’s back in the game!

(Gallops onto stage with mop and cowboy hat) (Bad Boy Bubby of the executive set). Howdy y’all (tip of the hat) and wassup mutherfuckers (to the roughians in the back).

Apols for the satellite delay. I’ve been in a cult boy / gunslinger meltdown from which it took a fortnight to recover (the time it takes for one to fly over the cuckoo’s nest). Their collective psychosis was like 20 tonnes of water pressure on the tiny cabin of my mind. Ipso rectum: totally stressin’ me out, yo (to be said like damsel in distress, hip-hop hand to forehead).

You may be wondering, what does an extended foetal look like? Well, Barry. It’s a cocktail of broken-down autistic robot, primo PMT and the Six Million Dollar Man at 2am. In short: the kind of wild ride only Pamela Anderson is trained for (she’s got airbags, Barry).

I was exiting my confounded cocoon this morn, when Cult Boy happily told me that the world will END in September. Like, total bummer man (to be said like Keanu token-the Reeves).

CB and his fantastical followers will be okay (whistle phew), but all others will be smidged. Smited. Would you believe, smote? New Yorkers are the first to go (holds clipboard and looks apologetic) and after that (looks to assistant, inquiringly), shall we go with a clockwise decimation?

Now, apart from the obvious concerns (should I delay my tax return to October?) (will I ever see Gay Prince in the nudey?) (for all of us, baby), there’s this nougat nugget: this is Chump in Charge of the 5 Year Strategic Plan for the business. (Can I get an x-men?)

In fact, he’s spent months diligently planning the budget, drafting a prescient pitch and is due to present to the Board in … anyone? Bueller? That’s right Barry: Sep-tem-ber.

He is the Walrus. Cuckoo ca choo.

I wish to make tutu of irony, to dance with drivel in the pale moonlight (to be said in Russian accent) because something tells me this aint covered in his weekly 1:1 meetings with Schwarzenegger. I’ve seen his Q4 objectives and “end of days” is conspicuously absent.

The festy de résistance is that, come the Morose Month, Hymey starts working part-time. What’s he gonna do with the spare time, you hesitantly hask? My money’s on crazy old-man undies, a sign declaring ‘THE END IS NIGH’ and a clanging bell to signify the Ark is boarding.


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