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bop_radarI'm distressed! I can't work out which is funnier--David Tennant on Friday Night Project, the Battlestar Galactica Season 3 gag reel or the oh-so-brainbleach-necessitating wank? Eee!! Too many giggles to choose from!
(Actually I think my favourite is still David Tennant's facial expressions and occasional spontaneous gales of laughter on Friday Night Project, but it was a photo finish...)
So since my f'list has linked me to so many great giggles, I feel I should return the favour. :-) On the weekend I picked up this book in my local bookstore. I laughed so hard I had to buy it so people would stop staring at me. I would best describe it as crack!fic for/by literary geeks. Evidently it's based on a Radio 4 show in the UK--I picked it up because I like Sebastian Faulks (at times--I was pretty disappointed in Human Traces). Anyway, it consists of short parodies of famous writers, including:
- Jane Austen dates an American Psycho
- Geoffrey Chaucer celebrates the appointment of Geri Haliwell to the UN ambassador on AIDS education in Africa
- Franz Kafka tackles Microsoft
- DH Lawrence writes a brochure for 18-30 holidays
- Hemingway writes a family Christmas letter
- the Brontes place personal ads
- Oscar Wilde tries his hand at being an agony aunt
- Shakespeare writes a speech for Basil Faulty
For a taster, here is Martin Amis sends his lad to Hogwarts, with a warning for smut, *g*
Primped and shining in the school's idea of a uniform - to which my success in the risibly straightforward scholarship exam had condemned me - I was presented to 'Professor' McGonagall, a chestless sexagenarian with halitosis that could have downed a wing of Lancasters; then to Dumbledore, the shuffling dotard of a headmaster, whose eyes appraised me with the unhurried insolence of the career pederast.
He entrusted me to Hermione Granger, a smug little number with a row of coloured gel pens in the pocket of her Aertex shirt, an item given pleasing heft by the twin discs of her tumid little breasts. She was, I had already been told, rumoured to give hand jobs of Stakhanovite efficiency to the gods of the Quidditch team as they showered off the stardust of their sporting triumphs, lined up in engorged single file.
The dormitory was a row of iron beds, purchased at some Gulag boot sale; the wanking opportunities, doubtless in breach of numerous human rights, looked about as promising as those at a lock-down facility for convicted Islamic pick-pockets.
Next from that baleful twilight emerged 'Ron' Weasley, a spavined welterweight who reeked of chav, with his fucked-up bathmat of orange frizz and his eyes full of cancelled hope. In the bed next to mine was Harry Potter, a weapons-grade geek with a thunderbolt of acne through his candidly sebaceous forehead, who told me he lived in a cupboard for fuck's sake.
Outside, I waved goodbye to my parents with sinister, noir-ish gestures, the sculpted rhomboids of my fingernails still glistening from the manicure they had received that morning from Renska, the tragically unmagnetic Pole in Hans 'n' Feat on Ken High Streeet, who had more or less begged me to let her go down on my, admittedly, triangulated groin.
'Gosh,' said little Potter, 'I hope you'll be in Gryffindor.'
'I think not', I said, watching as the witch McGonagall embarked on some embarrassing hokum with an oldster's
rug-covering into which she periodically plunged her veiny claw.
I had been given the low-down on the houses by one Malfoy, an enthusiastic sodomite in the second year, whose parentsknew mine through some unspeakable, almost certainly adulterous, connection of tennis and 'pot-luck' suppers, for which Mrs M favoured pleated white skirts of possibly illegal brevity, granting occasional glimpses of white cotton gash that had furnished material for an entire summer of jackhammer fantasy.
And so it was that at the end of my first day, answering wearily to the call of my name, I pulled myself up to my full four feet eleven and sauntered through the porter's lodge to Slytherin, its turbid quadrangles, its simmering ante-rooms...
Bonus snippet from Dan Brown visits the cash dispenser,
The world-renowned author stabbed his dagger-like debit card into the slot. 'Welcome to the NatWest,' barked the blushing grey light of the screen to the forty-two-year-old man. He had only two thoughts.
NatWest is a perfect heptogram.
Will share more on demand. ;-)
ETA: Other authors mocked within are: Kingsley Amis, Samuel Beckett, Alan Bennett, John Betjeman, Enid Blyton, Byron, Lewis Carroll, Raymond Chandler, PG Wodehouse, Agatha Christie, Coleridge, Conan Doyle, Catherine Cookson, Noel Coward, Richmal Crompton, Roald Dahl, Charles Dickens, TS Eliot, Ian Fleming (Bond!), Freud, Graham Greene, Thomas Hardy, Hilaria Holmroyd, Henry James, Dr Johnson, James Joyce, Kafka, Virginia Woolf, Philip Larkin, AA Milne, Johm Milton, Iris Murdoch, George Orwell, Pepys, Harold Pinter, Sylvia Plath, Alexander Pope, Beatrix Potter, Tolkien, Dylan Thomas, Evelyn Waugh, John Updike, Yeats and Wordsworth.
(Actually I think my favourite is still David Tennant's facial expressions and occasional spontaneous gales of laughter on Friday Night Project, but it was a photo finish...)
So since my f'list has linked me to so many great giggles, I feel I should return the favour. :-) On the weekend I picked up this book in my local bookstore. I laughed so hard I had to buy it so people would stop staring at me. I would best describe it as crack!fic for/by literary geeks. Evidently it's based on a Radio 4 show in the UK--I picked it up because I like Sebastian Faulks (at times--I was pretty disappointed in Human Traces). Anyway, it consists of short parodies of famous writers, including:
- Jane Austen dates an American Psycho
- Geoffrey Chaucer celebrates the appointment of Geri Haliwell to the UN ambassador on AIDS education in Africa
- Franz Kafka tackles Microsoft
- DH Lawrence writes a brochure for 18-30 holidays
- Hemingway writes a family Christmas letter
- the Brontes place personal ads
- Oscar Wilde tries his hand at being an agony aunt
- Shakespeare writes a speech for Basil Faulty
For a taster, here is Martin Amis sends his lad to Hogwarts, with a warning for smut, *g*
Primped and shining in the school's idea of a uniform - to which my success in the risibly straightforward scholarship exam had condemned me - I was presented to 'Professor' McGonagall, a chestless sexagenarian with halitosis that could have downed a wing of Lancasters; then to Dumbledore, the shuffling dotard of a headmaster, whose eyes appraised me with the unhurried insolence of the career pederast.
He entrusted me to Hermione Granger, a smug little number with a row of coloured gel pens in the pocket of her Aertex shirt, an item given pleasing heft by the twin discs of her tumid little breasts. She was, I had already been told, rumoured to give hand jobs of Stakhanovite efficiency to the gods of the Quidditch team as they showered off the stardust of their sporting triumphs, lined up in engorged single file.
The dormitory was a row of iron beds, purchased at some Gulag boot sale; the wanking opportunities, doubtless in breach of numerous human rights, looked about as promising as those at a lock-down facility for convicted Islamic pick-pockets.
Next from that baleful twilight emerged 'Ron' Weasley, a spavined welterweight who reeked of chav, with his fucked-up bathmat of orange frizz and his eyes full of cancelled hope. In the bed next to mine was Harry Potter, a weapons-grade geek with a thunderbolt of acne through his candidly sebaceous forehead, who told me he lived in a cupboard for fuck's sake.
Outside, I waved goodbye to my parents with sinister, noir-ish gestures, the sculpted rhomboids of my fingernails still glistening from the manicure they had received that morning from Renska, the tragically unmagnetic Pole in Hans 'n' Feat on Ken High Streeet, who had more or less begged me to let her go down on my, admittedly, triangulated groin.
'Gosh,' said little Potter, 'I hope you'll be in Gryffindor.'
'I think not', I said, watching as the witch McGonagall embarked on some embarrassing hokum with an oldster's
rug-covering into which she periodically plunged her veiny claw.
I had been given the low-down on the houses by one Malfoy, an enthusiastic sodomite in the second year, whose parentsknew mine through some unspeakable, almost certainly adulterous, connection of tennis and 'pot-luck' suppers, for which Mrs M favoured pleated white skirts of possibly illegal brevity, granting occasional glimpses of white cotton gash that had furnished material for an entire summer of jackhammer fantasy.
And so it was that at the end of my first day, answering wearily to the call of my name, I pulled myself up to my full four feet eleven and sauntered through the porter's lodge to Slytherin, its turbid quadrangles, its simmering ante-rooms...
Bonus snippet from Dan Brown visits the cash dispenser,
The world-renowned author stabbed his dagger-like debit card into the slot. 'Welcome to the NatWest,' barked the blushing grey light of the screen to the forty-two-year-old man. He had only two thoughts.
NatWest is a perfect heptogram.
Will share more on demand. ;-)
ETA: Other authors mocked within are: Kingsley Amis, Samuel Beckett, Alan Bennett, John Betjeman, Enid Blyton, Byron, Lewis Carroll, Raymond Chandler, PG Wodehouse, Agatha Christie, Coleridge, Conan Doyle, Catherine Cookson, Noel Coward, Richmal Crompton, Roald Dahl, Charles Dickens, TS Eliot, Ian Fleming (Bond!), Freud, Graham Greene, Thomas Hardy, Hilaria Holmroyd, Henry James, Dr Johnson, James Joyce, Kafka, Virginia Woolf, Philip Larkin, AA Milne, Johm Milton, Iris Murdoch, George Orwell, Pepys, Harold Pinter, Sylvia Plath, Alexander Pope, Beatrix Potter, Tolkien, Dylan Thomas, Evelyn Waugh, John Updike, Yeats and Wordsworth.
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no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 10:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 11:26 am (UTC)A Girl of Spice that highte Geraldine.
Upon hir heed were locks of copper hue;
...
She shriek'd with other gentil damosels
In minstrel troupe; and get full serious was she,
... 'By Christes bones,'
Quoth she, 'when that ye desiroous be to swyve thy wif,
Tak care in caul or bladders greased to wrap thy knob
...
A wondrous wench was she. Full fearsome was
Hir voice, yet of increase of it there was no ende.
no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 10:34 am (UTC)What I meant to say was:
Heeeee! I might pick up this book, I'm reading Stephen Fry's, atm and they are not easy for me to read, idk why.
I hate Dan Brown, lets mock him more! :D
no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 11:29 am (UTC)Scratching his aquiline head, frantically trying to remember a number, the sun came up at last and rained its orange beams on Dan Brown. 'What do you want to do?' asserted the blinking screen. His options were stark for Brown, more than ever now. 'Get Mini Statement'. 'Withdraw Cash'. 'Change PIN'. For what seemed an eternity, trying to remember his PIN, the screen mocked the famous writer.
...
OMG, I have to STOP! It's hurting my brain! (Just like Dan Brown!)
no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 05:04 pm (UTC)Mwahahahaha!
no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 09:50 pm (UTC)It goes on!
Someone somewhere knows my four-figure PIN
Whatever my PIN was once is still my PIN and in some remote safe someone somewhere still knows it.
In Paddington Station, an iconic railway terminal with a glass roof like the bastard offspring of some greenhouse and a railway station, a line of fellow travellers was waiting on Brown. Brown frowned down at his brown shoes and for the hundredth time that morning wondered what destiny may have in store for the Exeter, New Hampshire graduate.
HUAHAHA. Count the badness!
no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 10:09 pm (UTC)PIMP!! How now brown cow:) Priceless! These snippets totally made my day. Thanks SO much for sharing the wealth.
*still chortling*
no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 10:18 pm (UTC)Of course. They must pass on the secret PIN. An unbroken chain whose links are not forged (not in that sense).
9 ... 8 ... 7 ... 6. His fingers pronounced the Sigma number. The Sigma number was almost impossible to fake, whereby the Liberace Sequence was quite easy to forge for prominent author Dan Brown.
...
'Take your cash now please,' pleaded the mocking screen, no longer mocking.
It's like giving candy to a baby, it occurred to the universe-celebrated prose stylist.
It's like shelling eggs..
no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 11:48 pm (UTC)And I don't want to know about the forging part of the Liberace Sequence. *g*
no subject
Date: 2007-02-28 02:53 am (UTC)I love the misplaced modifiers best.
no subject
Date: 2007-02-28 05:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 10:42 am (UTC)Give me Hemingway and Wilde please. And Dan Brown! ♥
no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 11:33 am (UTC)Wilde as agony-aunt:
From T. Blair of Downing Steet, London, SW1
Dear Uncle Oscar
I have had a long off-on relationship with a man called Peter. It always ends traumatically when he misbehaves, but a few months later I find I have to take him back. He is in Brussels at the minute. How can I break my cycle of dependency?
My dear Tony
To forgive is human but to err is divine. For myself, I make a habit of never making promises that I can keep; it renders one predictable, and predictability is the godfather of tedium. By the way, Brussels is all very well, but not for the whole weekend.
...
Hemingway's Christmas letter (the start):
It was another year at 43 Havana Avenue.
The boy went to university. We drove to the university in a car. When the weeks had passed the boy took exams. He took exams in media studies, sociology and theory of knowledge. He studied other girlish subjects. He passed the exams.
:-)
no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 06:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 09:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 10:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 11:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 11:52 am (UTC)Also, may I request some Raymond Chandler? :3
no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 09:58 pm (UTC)I had a short let at the time on an apartment in Berkeley Mansions. The rent was low because the owner was a way in Pentonville and the rusty elevator screeched like a Palm Springs widow at a blackjack table. The super was called 'Fancy' Jeeves, the sort of stuck-up guy who reads Spinoza for the gags.
...
Back in the apartment, I was counting my winnings when Fancy Jeeves came in and started plucking at my sleeve. 'There is a Miss Madeleine Bassett to see you, sir. The lady has been waiting a considerable time.'
He showed in a young blonde with eyes like the foglamps of an Oldsmobile.
'I don't do matrimonial,' I said.
no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 11:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 09:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 12:06 pm (UTC)oh, yes. that's wonderful! do you have time for a little eliot?
no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 09:42 pm (UTC)THE WASTE LAND
Said a Lloyd's clerk with mettlesome glands:
'To Margate - I'll lie on the sands.
The Renaissance and Dante
Dardanelles and now - Shanti!
God, it's all come apart in my hands.'
THE JOURNEY OF THE MAGI
We were freezing, ripped off and forlorn,
As we travelled towards a false dawn;
But the truth of the stable
Showed my world was a fable;
Now I wish that I'd never been born.
no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 09:51 pm (UTC)thanks for transcribing. shanti shanti shanti.
no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 09:54 pm (UTC)THE LOVE SONG OF J. ALFRED PRUFROCK
I once missed the moment to be
Someone not on the periphery
But my second-hand life
Was too dull for a wife:
Now the stairlift awaits only me.
;-)
no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 10:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 10:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 10:28 pm (UTC)when i hit 50 or so, i decided to stop being afraid and began to read eliot for the pleasure of his language. there are parts of some of his poems that break my heart. not that i claim to understand a lot of his abstruse references, but the language, mmmmm.
no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 10:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 03:16 pm (UTC)Zomg, pro crossover fic! Hee!
no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 09:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 06:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 09:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-09 10:54 pm (UTC)'Gosh,' said little Potter, 'I hope you'll be in Gryffindor.'
'I think not', Love. I'd adore snippets of Ian Fleming or Wilde (one of my all time favrite authors)
no subject
Date: 2007-01-10 01:39 am (UTC)Bond lowered himself through a ventilation grille in the ceiling above the savoury dips aisle. He brushed the dust from the coat of his midnight-blue worsted suit and lit one of his custom-made Morland cigarettes with the three gold rings round the tip.
...
Ignoring the selection of instant mashed potato (Cadbury's Smersh, he thought ruefully), he walked through pet food and made for the wine selection, which was supervised by a young Mexican.
'Tell me,' said Bond, 'do you have a Chateau Gruaud La Rose 1990?'
'Eh, no, sir, but we 'ave the Sauvignon/Shiraz from Paraguay for 3.99.'
It was part of Bond's profession to kill people. He never liked doing it, but, he reflected as he fitted the silencer to his .25 Beretta, regret was unprofessional.
no subject
Date: 2007-01-10 01:46 am (UTC)Shaft. Hee.
no subject
Date: 2007-01-10 01:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-10 01:26 am (UTC)And I lurved the gag reel. 70s-era Olmos was too funny. "Eat sh!t and die" and "perv cam" were right up there too. And I'd forgotten all about Katee's awfulawfulawful death scene in whatever horror movie that was--wax heads rolling down the stairs for the win!
no subject
Date: 2007-01-10 01:43 am (UTC)Book is very addictive, yes. Plath! Hee. This is a bit of Plath tackling the story of Goldilocks:
Daddy Bear, your gruel,
Grey as the Feldgrau,
Pungent as a jackboot,
Rises under an ailing moon.
I have been sleeping
In your bed, Daddy.
no subject
Date: 2007-01-10 01:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-10 08:48 am (UTC)Very well, if I must decide would you mind sharing some Enid Blyton goodness?
also oh god the Plath, JKR, Fleming, Hemingway and Wilde ones have just about slayed me.
no subject
Date: 2007-01-10 11:00 pm (UTC)The Enid Blyton is 'the Famous Five grown up':
After their success in catching Blackbeard and the Foreign-Looking Man at Smuggler's Cove, the Five found they had been posted to the Anti-Terrorist Squad in London.
'Poo-ee,' said Anne on their first afternoon in the office. 'Let's have a jolly good tidy up, shall we? I'll do the washing up.'
'Shut it,' barked Julian, who had picked up the new office talk. 'You can't wash up a styrofoam cup.'
no subject
Date: 2007-01-10 11:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-26 02:31 am (UTC)Harry Potter, a weapons-grade geek with a thunderbolt of acne through his candidly sebaceous forehead, who told me he lived in a cupboard for fuck's sake.
Bwahaha...best use of "sebaceous" ever...
And "admittedly triangulated groin" -- there are no words. :D
no subject
Date: 2007-04-26 02:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-27 04:50 pm (UTC)You find the most amazing things. Can I be added to the Book Filter so I don't miss anymore lit geek gems?
no subject
Date: 2007-04-28 01:02 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you liked it! And sure--I'll add you right now! :-) Though it's not always as fun as this. I'm way behind in updating on the books I've read recently--this has reminded me.