Category Archives: satire

Bring on the Geishas! (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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I don’t understand Violet Crepuscular’s literary technique. I was expecting to read, in Chapter CLIII, all about the preparations for the party to be held in honor of the Japanese ambassador, Walt Dropo. Instead, she gives us a digression about her sister-in-law’s atrocious table manners. This is most unedifying.

Moving on to Chapter CLIV, we find Lord Jeremy Coldsore trying to recruit geishas to serve at the party. He has to settle for members of the Scurveyshire Ladies’ Garden Club, who agree to do it in return for a zoning variance that would allow them to erect a colossal statue of their founder, Mrs. Elefanta Williams, in a statue-free zone.

“I hope this works,” says Lord Jeremy. “Not one of those women is a day under fifty, and not one of them knows the first thing about being a geisha.”

“Get the ambassador drunk in a hurry, and he’ll never notice,” replies Willis Twombley, the American adventurer.

With the vicar still laid up with conniptions, his gardener, Jock the Crotchety Gardener, takes it upon himself to empty the controversial wading pool and put it away. Jock and all his crotchets is promptly sucked under the wading pool, never to be seen again. Constable Chumley arrests the one eyewitness on the scene, charging her with Not Watching.

“But I saw some octopus kind of thing shoot out and grab him, and pull him under!” she protests. “Ain a fair vymin’ wi’ me hatriff,” counters the constable.

Lord Jeremy has no time for this: he is desperately trying to find half a dozen geisha costumes. Jo-Jo the Carefree Tailor, in complete ignorance of what constitutes a geisha costume, has created six outfits can only be described as rather like cowgirl clothes. This makes Twombley nostalgic for the plains of Texas.

“If we throw a square dance instead of one of those Japanese tea parties, we’re home free,” he assures Lord Jeremy. “Sort of a Japanese square dance, with that funny-soundin’ music that they like.”

There is no time left to pursue alternatives. The party must be held this very night.


Another book That Dont make No Sentse!!

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I reely hate To reed books Becose reeding “it” is Racist but i tryed to Reed “This” one becose a Musslum he rote it!! i dint espect It “to” be intresting becose it was abote “a” bird The Maltees Falkin thare was Some kind Of bird “on” the cuvver but I reddit becose the guy whoo rote It “he” is a Musslum named Dashel Mohamet.

Hear at Collidge we has now be Interllecturals so we dont Reely has got to reed no books but this “heer” book it didnt Make No sentse!!! I seen thru it rihght aweighy! It was all abote This guy Sam Spayed and i thinked thats a Funny “name” becose My father he keeeps sayin i shuld ouhght to get Spayed but this hear guy “he is” a Privet Eiye and that “is” two mutch like A Cop! so wye wuld i evver whant “to be” Spayed i dont like himb!!!

and I kepped whaiting to reed “some” Musslum stuph but thare Wasnt anny!!! Jist al this Racist stopid stufff abote some “bird” i think it had Maltees in it and i lyke Maltees as mutch “As Any” boddy expesally wen I amb whaching a Movie but I dont know “Why” any “boddy” wuld whant to Wrihght a hole book about Maltees in a burd!!!! it is a fragrent ixample of Wite Prifflidge!! and I assked my Self waht kind Of Musslum “is” Dashel Mohamet anny weighy???

so I diddnt whant to reed anny moar it was Making my Moth Antenners hurt somthing offal!!! it Maid me hongry too and i diddnt has no jim sox so I had to eet a Bo Tie insted! I dont think Ties thay wil evver replase jim sox!


Lawsuit: ‘I am not Mr. Bean!’

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A Social Justice Studies professor at Mordor State University has sued a fictional character for “making people think I’m him.”

Dr. Che Lastima says the well-known comic character, Mr. Bean, was purposely created by racists to be an identical duplicate of him, “so as to make my students laugh at me,” he told several random passers-by. “They even got him sitting on a chair on top of a car, because I do that.”

The lawsuit, filed at Porky’s Mini-Golf Park across the street from the campus, demands that Mr. Bean’s creators, if they can be found, pay the professor $895 million in damages. No one at Porky’s, which is closed until Memorial Day, was available for comment.

“I’ll show them they can’t do this to an intellectual!” said the professor.


Japan Declares War on Scurveyshire (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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In Chapter CLII of Violet Crepuscular’s romance masterpiece, Oy, Rodney, it turns out that the Japanese ambassador who keeps getting snubbed and trampled on is a favorite cousin of the Emperor, and they are mighty mad over the treatment he’s been getting in this book. Consequently, Japan has declared war on Scurveyshire. Rumor has it that a Japanese fleet is on its way.

“Everything happens while you’re trying to arrange a wedding!” Lord Jeremy Coldsore complains. He and his friend, Willis Twombley the American adventurer, are to be married to Lady Margo Cargo, who has been tricked into believing they are one and the same person. Lady Margo’s wealth will save Coldsore Hall from its creditors.

In the absence of any undertaking by Her Majesty’s government to defend Scurveyshire–“Let them sort it out!” says Queen Victoria–Lord Jeremy, as Justice of the Peace, finds himself saddled with the responsibility to defend Scurveyshire. “With what?” he cries.

“Germy, you worry too much,” says Twombley. “All we gotta do is throw a nice party for the ambassador, and it’ll all blow over. Only thing is, first we got to find him.”

Together they pore over the chapters of the book related so far. Finally, late at night, they locate the Japanese ambassador. His name is Walt Dropo.

He enters Coldsore Hall with a samurai sword in his belt and bows stiffly from the waist, as far as his tight corset will allow.

“You have treated me very badly!” he declares.

“My dear fellow, we’re going to make it up to you!” says Jeremy. “You are to be the guest of honor tomorrow night at Lady Margo Cargo’s lavish country house.”

“I don’t have a date.”

“We’ll set you up with one, ol’ hoss!” says Twombley.

“Will there be geishas?”

In fact, Scurveyshire is clean out of geishas. There hasn’t been one in the shire since 1602, and she was only passing through. Twombley assures the ambassador that there will be geishas galore. Dropo-san is greatly pleased.

“I will immediately contact my government to call off the war,” he says. Bowing, he takes his leave, promising to return when they have his date ready for him.

“Where are we supposed to get geishas?” cries Jeremy.

“We got a whole chapter to scare some up,” says Twombley.

 


Artafishiul Intelerginse! It Is The Waive Of The Futre!!

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I amb hear to tel yiu ordinary Dum peeple “abote” Artafishiul Intelerginse that meens Roebots! Thare is a guy he “Is” in Jappan he sais he is “Going” To has roebots and Cumputers run his hole Town and thare wont be No Moar stopid peeple “Trying To” do it!!

Hear at Collidge wee “are” wirking on Roebots thay wil do Evry Thing and us Interllecturals al we Wil has to do fromb now On is studdy moar Gender Studies and rite Cow Boy potery and play whith Play Doe!!! Exept our Prefessers thay dont Whant Roebots “to” do thare prefessering Becose then thay wuldnt has no jobbs!!

Wel the Thing abote Roebots “is” thay al gots Cumputers in thare branes so thay Are alyawys Smart and thay cant nevver make No misteaks!!! Becose Artafishiul Intelerginse it is Better “then” Reel Intelerginse in fact’d Thay are a Lot like “Mr. Spoque in” Star Treck and if Artafishiul Intelerginse it was Voting insted of stopid dum peple Hillery she wuld Be our Pressadint!!!

My prefesser he sayes Artafishiul Intellerginse it shuld jist “do” Evry Thing becose Work Blows! and no boddy thay shuld nevver has to Work no moar exept al them dum and stopid christins and oncet we got Artifishiul Intelerginsse Up and Runing then we Can “get rid” of Boarders and give Anmesty to al the Undoctaminted Immergrints in the whorld!!!! and aslo Free Stuff to Evry Boddy exept wite hetrosexial Mails!!

This hear It “is The” Waive Of The Futre!


Can’t Miss! ‘Throne of Games’

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While I’m waiting for them to print The Silver Trumpet, I’ve got an idea for another fantasy series that just can’t help but make boxcar-loads of money.

I’ll call it A Throne of Games–I’m already offering the TV and movie rights–and it will feature beloved fantasy characters with really cool names.

Tydibol, the drop-dead gorgeous Invincible Female Warrior who does jumpin’, spinnin’ kicks.

Gassex the Crusty But Benign Old Wizard who talks like a text message.

Clairol the Buxom Tavern Wench, always up for a good time.

The Duke of Pez, villainous beyond belief, with a castlefull of monsters.

Solgar the Strong, the drop-dead gorgeous Hunk, Invincible Male Warrior with this really thick neck, it’s hard to tell where his head begins, who does jumpin’, spinnin’ kicks.

Plus a multitude of drop-dead gorgeous know-it-all Elves, insatiably lusty Dwarves, and all sorts of supporting characters who have absolutely no morals and commit all manner of revolting crimes.

Because, you see, in A Throne of Games, everyone’s bad–unless they’re, like, this total victim who’ll be lucky to survive two pages–and so the reader doesn’t have to decide who to root for, he can just sit back and enjoy the sex and carnage. In fact, these characters are so loathsome, even I’m turned off. Whose idea was it to get me to write this garbage? Well, confound it, I won’t! And I am withdrawing those movie and TV offers as of this confounded minute!


I Am Not Violet Crepuscular (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Just because Ms. Violet Crepuscular’s books are so hard to find doesn’t mean I’m writing them. I am not Violet Crepuscular. I have a beard; she doesn’t. I’ve never read a romance novel, except for her inimitable Oy, Rodney. That having been settled, we move on to

CHAPTER CL

Every trial in Scurveyshire is the Trial of the Century. This time the defendant is the merry poacher known as Mickle the Merry Poacher and the plaintiff is Lord Nodule, demanding justice. This is the first case to be tried by Lord Jeremy Coldsore as Justice of the Peace.

“I demand justice!” barks Lord Nodule. “This peon, this excrescence on the body politic, this walking bubo known has Mickle the Merry Poacher, has been poaching on my land for 15 years and I want him stopped! I demand he be punished by drowning!”

The first witness is Constable Chumley, the arresting officer. “Oh, aye,” he testifies, “Mickle been doddlin’ the cairns swofty-like aforementioned deedle.” He is dismissed from the witness stand as soon as possible.

Several of Mickle’s neighbors, and six of Lord Nodule’s tenants, testify that the Merry Poacher has never actually succeeded in poaching anything. “He couldn’t catch a cold,” swears the Widow Flibbert. But the defendant, when he is finally sworn in, insists he has been very successful indeed.

“Caught me a centaur, once’t!” he boasts. “Let’s see anyone top that!”

“What did you do with it?” Lord Jeremy wonders.

“Was gunner eat it, wasn’t I! Only then I found a note on my door from Black Rodney tellin’ me I had to let it go, so that’s what I done.” The crowd gasps.

“I object!” Lord Nodule roars. “Ask him about the badgers!”

“Badgers? Ain’t never caught no badger,” Mickle admits.

“My lord, there are no badgers in Scurveyshire!” interjects the shire’s game warden, Officer Foffle.

“Caught me a Elf once’t, too,” says Mickle.

The public defender, Mr. Potash, moves that all charges be dismissed. “My client is obviously mad, my lord.” He produces a notably ridiculous-looking gadget. “This absurd contraption is one of Mr. Mickle’s homemade snares. You can see it’s perfectly useless for any purpose whatsoever.” Mickle scowls at him.  “I call on you to find him Not Guilty by reason of demonstrable idiocy.”

“He still ought to be drowned,” grumbles Lord Nodule. “What’s this shire coming to, anyway?”

Lord Jeremy sees no alternative but to dismiss the charges. Lord Nodule glares at him.

“You haven’t heard the last of this, Coldsore!” he declares. “I shall be with you on your wedding night!” [Editor’s Note: I think that’s what Frankenstein’s monster said to his creator, Victor Frankenstein, in Mary Shelly’s classic horror novel. What was Ms. Crepuscular thinking when she penned that line?]

The chapter ends abruptly with a recipe for aphid jelly. I cannot bring myself to repeat it.


One More Time, ‘Revive Us Again’

Do you find that these morning hymns come back to you throughout the day? I do. But this one, Revive Us Again (by William Mackay, 1863), started knocking on my door as soon as I got up today.

Performed at home by Nathan and Lyle in Denton County, Texas.


We Has got To Bann the Bibel!!

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Wuld yiu beleave it?? i acturelly Fourgot I was ellected to the Stodent Soviet “And” I misssed a buntch of Meetings!! so i maid Sure “I” shoed up Last Nihght “and it”” was a good Thing I “did” becose wee has voted To bann the Bibel fromb our campas!!!

Whe desided to “do” it becose the Collidge LGBTQIAMW Inclution Concil thay Asked “us” to done it becose thare “is” Alll that hat speach in the Bibel and lots of christin Prifflidge tooo! so nowe yiu cant Has no Bibel hear at Collidge and yiu “beter” Not becose iff we ketch yiu whith One we will Take It “away” and aslo put yiu in Sensertiffity Traning like fourevver!!!!

and than some Ijjit he sayed Wel waht abote “our Freedem to reed any Thing we wannt?? so” six of us wee jist Beet him “up” he is only A Racist annyweiy!! Freedem meens yiu shuld auhght to reed jist the Book’s “on The” List!!! The Books that thay Are “not” on the List yiu cannt reed becose thay got hat speeach in them!! And aslo tooo meny Big Wirds witch them wirds thay are Micro Agrecian!! and aslo Triger Wirds!

Wel i amb prowed of “waht” wee done Lasst Nihght and neckts time may be we Wil bann Moar Racist Book’s!!


The Peasants Are Revolting! (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Chapter CXLIX of Violet Crepuscular’s worst-selling romance, Oy, Rodney, is action-packed! Honest.

But before it all heats up, Lord Jeremy Coldsore’s friend, the American adventurer Willis Twombley, has a problem. He confides in Lord Jeremy.

“Germy, ol’ hoss,” he says, “you sure got a lot of creditors. I ain’t sure I’ve shot the half of ’em, and I’m afraid you’re goin’ to have to expand your cellar here at Coldsore Hall, ’cause I’m runnin’ out of places to stash the bodies. A few of ’em, y’see, they’re gettin’ kind of high, if you know what I mean. Especially that fella I parked in the closet in the billiard room. We need more space!”

“Oh, really, Sargon!” Twombley still thinks he’s Sargon of Akkad. “I am trying to prepare our wedding to Lady Margo, and I’m sure I don’t have the funds to hire a construction crew!”

“Who said anything about hirin’ ’em? You’re the nobility, ain’t you? And they’re the peasants. Just draft a bunch of ’em to dig out a bigger cellar. This is England, after all–you don’t have to pay ’em.”

Meanwhile, Miss Lizzie the spider girl has been crying for action vis-a-vis the vicar’s mysterious, dangerous backyard wading pool. In the taproom at The Lying Tart, her heated oratory inspires the rustic patrons to snatch up scythes and torches and form a mob to attack and destroy the pool–which is now believed to be the “nest” of the ancient sorcerer Black Rodney, from which he periodically emerges to devour his unsuspecting victims.

Howling and roaring, the mob streams toward the vicar’s property. But when the uproar dies down for just a moment, Albert the Daft Old Minstrel asks a daunting question.

“Er, I say! What are we to do if Black Rodney comes out and gits us all?” The mob is a mere twenty yards from the hedge marking the border of the vicar’s yard. Behind it lies the pool.

Albert’s question stops the mob in its track. Everybody looks at everybody else. Suddenly they all drop their makeshift weapons and run away in every conceivable direction.

Constable Chumley, alerted by the noise, arrives too late to see anything but a large pile of scythes, pitchforks, and guttering torches. He shakes his head.

“‘Tis a froffin’ mair dindle hereabouts, this verning,” he soliloquizes.


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