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RANDOS MEETS
THE INTERLECTUAL HALFWITTS
2 September 2003
One day after a hard meeting with the heads of state, which
involved many broken bones and bloody noses, Randos came home
to his comfy arm chair, sat down and kicked off his shoes,
‘Oh what a hard days work that was’ he thought, lighting
up a cigerette.
‘Some times I do get tired of being brutal. Putting the world
to rights, Doing battle with evil men. I’d
like to have a more gentler past time. A hobby to take my mind
of my violent work. Something where I can exspress my imagination
and creativity.’
Randos looked around his room. On his book shelf was a few books.
"The compleat works of C Manson". "The philosophy
of a clown and killer by John W Gacey".
‘That’s It’ thought Randos. ‘I shall take
up the gentle art of poetry.’
Randos immediately put pen to paper and after much thought this
is what he wrote.
BYCICLES AND FLOWERS
A medow filled with blue bells.
Swaying gently in the summer breeze.
A bycicle rusting away.
The red oxide reminds me of
Bloodshed of those that deserve it.
In my mind I dream of plate glass windows
And shatterd limbs which they go through.
But for now I am on my bycicle of life
In the world of flowers.
Blow it out your arse motorcycle man.
‘Wow. The last line realy sums it up’
Randos was very pleased with his first attempt at poetry. He recited
it to himself for many days. Then one morning, just by chance,
he saw in his news papper a poetry compitition:
"Send in your
poem to the Fabric society of poets.
First prize: A chance to perform your poetry with
other profesional poets at the Cambridge International
Poetry Festival."
Randos jumped at
the chance and sent off his poem "Bycicles and Flowers"
to the compitition.
With in days Arnald Ballcox the chairman of the Cambridge poetry
festival received and read Rando’s work.
‘This is the winner" Arnald Ballcox said to himself
holding the poem up to the light. ‘Its abstract in a
non sensicle sence. Asphetic but perfetic. Plus it obviously written
by a moron. We will be able to impress this Randos with our interlectual
prowes. He will feel small and inadiquot by our knowlige and understanding
of beauty. Ha ha ha. What fun us interlectuals will have with
this plebian pleb.’
Two weeks later Randos
received a paid train ticket to Cambridge. He was most excited.
‘I shall wear my best Tuxedo’ he thought as he put it
on. On the train Randos watched the beautiful country side glide
by his window. This inspired more idears for poems.
He arived in cambridge. And found the big University where the
festival was being held. Arnald Ballcox greeted Randos himself.
"Greetings Randos. I am so pleased to meet a bull who can
write such interlectual poetry" he lied. ‘You must excuse
me. I’ve been drinking quite heavily.Us artists have to drink
because it gives us vision. Something you would not understand
yet. Since you’ve only written one poem so far.’
‘I like to drink beer with cold baked beans’ said Randos.
Ballcox laughed and led him into the hall where the poetry reading
was beginning.
There in a brown corderoy suit with leather elbow patches was
the master of ceromonys, Manuel Mange.
‘Our fist poet this evening is Jan Lamb. She is going to
read a poem composed by her called "Art"’.
Everyone clapped.
Some old bag in a mini skirt come on to the floor and leaned up
a grand piano. She began to recite:
‘Take my love and crush
it like a rose.
Take my soul and burn it like a candle.
Ravage me.
Abuse me.
But oh…philistien
Leave my art alone.’
When she finished
there was a thunder of aplause.
‘That was great, Jan. You obviously know what its like to
be an artistic woman’ said Manuel Mange.
‘And now a great Cambridge poet. Amerdaious Tarquin.’
Tarquin swaned around the hall for a few moments with the back
of his hand against his brow as if he was about to faint. Then
began:
‘I cannot tie my shoe
laces.
I cannot cook food.
The bath tub is alien to me.
And a maid makes my bed every day.
But oh…philistien
I can talk you under the table.’
Every one cheerd.
‘That was wounderful Amerdayous. Show those morons that we
are the elite. And now a new poet from a rough background. Randos
the bull.
Randos took to the floor. He was very nervous but did not show
it. He cleard his throat.
‘Here is a new poem that I wrote. Its called ‘Strong".
‘When I popped out of
my mothers womb
she looked down on me and said.’
"This child will grow to be strong".
I have never failed her yet.
I’ve been done for GBH more times than you’ve had
Paxo stuffing.’
Nobody clapped. There
were murmers of discontent.
‘That didn’t go down too well’ thought Randos.
Durring the interval every one went to the bar. Many people were
talking bullshit that they had invented.
Arnald Bullcox who was getting more drunk took Randos to meet
some poets.
‘Let me introduce you to Willie Mature. He is forty three
but still has a chip on his shoulder and has written over fifty
voliums all dealing with his deep rooted problems.’
Willie was talking to another writer called Jim Skidmark.
‘Either we are all special or none of us are. But why my
storey is in an anthology with the rest of these tossers beats
me.’
Jim Skidmark gulped down a mouthful of Guinness. ‘I’m
writing a new radicle book. The book is going to be called ’Cunt"’.
Randos could not help himself on hearing this pretensousness and
utterd ‘Oooh big words for little turds.’
Jim rounded on him. ‘Listern Randos. I sppent six months
on a council estate. I am one with the deprived classes. And by
the way I found your poem hypercritical.'
‘I don’t know what you mean’ said Randos taken
a back.
‘That is because you are thick. What books do you read?’
‘Pulp horror storeys. Stephan King and all that.’
‘I have read Kafka, Tolsty, Isban, Virginia Woolf. The list
is endless. This proves you are stupid, I am brainy.’
‘Gosh’ thought Randos. ‘I’m out of my depth
here. I could punch his face in but that would just prove his
point. I need help.’
‘Help is at hand’ came a voice. Then smashing through
a window came a duck. ‘Quack, quack’ it went.
‘Puffy Duck’ cried the poets in horror.
‘That’s right. Puffy Duck. The slayer of all interlectual
halfwitts,’ and in seconds like a pirrhana Puffy Duck snipped
of their penis’s.
‘Thanks very much for saving me Puffy Duck’ said Randos
shaking his wing.
‘Take my advice’ he said. ‘Don’t go down the
interlectual road. Because if you play the game you will get beat.’
The End.
Post script. A new
nieghbour moved in next to Randos. One day he heard a strange
kind of music eminating from the new niebours house very loudly.
The music seemed to be an arpedgio repeated over and over.
Randos knocked on the door. A poncy looking man opened the door.
‘What is this music your listerning too?’ asked Randos.
‘Phillip Glass’ said the niebour. "I like John
Cage, Morten Fieldman, and Jan Van Carral. You could say I’m
enegmatic..’
‘Are you an interlectual?’ asked Randos cautiously.
"Yes.’
‘Oh no" thought Randos. ‘Interlectuals give me
the horrors. I need the help of Puffy Duck.’
‘No problem’ came a voice from the sky. ‘Puffy
Duck to the rescue.’
THE END
SEXTON MING,
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