THE MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS

THE MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS

The milk of human kindness
Doth runneth over
And turneth sour
And clot
And stinketh to high heaven.

PUBISTAN WRITERS SUPPORT CAMPAIGN TO REVIVE INSOLENT RUDDER

COMMUNIQUE FROM COLLECTIVE OF WRITERS OF THE PUBISH TO THE GREAT INQUISITOR ON INNER NET:

My Dear!

Please release great comrade and eternal friend of Pubish revolution, Tim Ljunggren, to continue on the paths - revolutionary, economic, social, five year orientated and promulgated through institutional instruments of rehabilitation - to the glory of the worldwide creative thrust!

Thank you!

We kiss you!

But not your ass!

Verdimita "Steve" Ripyorebollokov

PS Is me, Maxim. Ha! Pull finger out, Tim. Let sun shine in!

You remember this below?


NOTES FROM PUBISTAN PART 3 – by Maxim Ripyorebollokov
Translated by Stewart Sumner

Dear readers, it is me again, Maxim Ripyorebollokov, the future of literature in the unfree world! Greetings to you all! As I squeeze the final drops of fervent dew from the horn of the affair with Larissa, Miss Pube 2007, a vegetarian, I thus seek the ultimate clarity (Trans – the Pubish word for red wine and lucidity are the same – klarkost. It is unclear what Maxim means to convey here). But where to find clarity? To shout loudly from the tree branch? To shudder in front of farmyard animal traffic? To pluck hair from a rabbit till the bladder is on display? “Drink to thine clarity”, the great Pubish poet Dmitri Ripyorebollokov – no relation – proclaimed as night was drawing in over State Rabbit Farm 6.5 one hoary night post-Revolution (Trans – you’re on your own here, the meaning is all but lost on a non-Pube).

O Sweet clarity, come forth to me. Show yourself, if thou’st dare. I was deep in thoughtfulness at the office yesterday when I was approached from behind by the man they call Spider. Officially, he is chief of quality control and a fine sculptor, which is a amplitudinous shame since sculpture was banned in the Second Decree of the Post-Revolution Phase of Our Great Revolution. So Spider – genuine name Richard but Spider since he is full of mischief and malice and crawls rather than walks. Also, he is deceptively quick to pounce. “So,” I said, “Spider, you are here!” “Yes,” Spider said, “I am. I have recipe for rabbit cake. You want?” I suspected a trap. “Yes, all right, Spider. Please.” Ha! He gave me no recipe, just the price to pay for such top secret information. You know, the last time rabbit cake was made in Pubistan was in the cruel, foreboding, winter of ’76. That was when we still had an abundance of cream. For your intrigue, now a bowl of imported cream cost 2 Pubes on blackest market. That is roughly 10 million of your American dollars! So anyway, I watched intently Spider with his hairy legs as he slowly crawled back to his darkened corner by the trap door to the exit used for employees who have displeased the furtherance of the glorious State of Pubistan in some despicable way. Sometimes, it is possible to believe Spider is indeed a spider and that it is my self-deception which maintains him to be a human being, but that way madness lies, and the trap door.

What does Spider want in life? What can he hope for? Will he fall through the trap door before he has realised his dream of assembling the greatest collection of octopedes the world outside Pubistan has never seen? Despite the fact that he is truly creepy and smells like a rabbit’s genitals after a prolonged session of heightened activity, I wish him only happiness and a resolution of his mother’s gender reassignment issues.

But sorry. Really. Where is the literature? You ask. I present you with two paragraphs of my novel, which unfortunately, do not follow sequentially, consequentially or even logically from what has gone before. You like? There is hope.

Night fell. The burrowing began. He stretched his arm out. The hand was not there. Just the newspaper with no news and the walking stick with no handle. They would find him. Soon. The trail of imported peanut butter would lead them to his resting place. His movements were slight. More twitching than calculated. The in-tray of despair mounted ever higher.

Were you gripped? And this paragraph. I think this might be the end. We shall see. Forgive me, for it is short.

The words tumbled. The wind blew. The extremely happy rabbit clucked. A pause. A heartbeat. Silence.

Oh, joy extended beyond, my friends. The literary journey continues. I must extinguish the candle now and think of Marsha, Miss Pube 2008, a carnivore. She could partake of my meat any day.

Long live The Pubish Writers Union!

Hail words together! May they never be parted!

I kiss you!

Maxim

THE CUCUMBER OF LOVE ONCE SCORNED

WINNER OF THE 2009 PROMOTING THE RESPONSIBLE USE OF CUCUMBERS AND OTHER VEGETABLES IN LOVING RELATIONSHIPS POETRY PRIZE

THE CUCUMBER OF LOVE ONCE SCORNED

I offered her
my great throbbing
cucumber of love
But she didn't carrot all for it.

AND THE WINNER OF THE NOBEL PEACE PRIZE 2009...

BARACK OBAMA REFUSES TO ACCEPT THE PRIZE AND INSTEAD GIVES IT TO THE BIRD & BUFFALO, FOR EXTRAORDINARY EFFORTS TO PROMOTE PEACE AND MUTUAL WARM GOAT SACKS IN FINLAND IN OUR LIFETIME.

IN AN ABORTED ACCEPTANCE SPEECH, DUE TO INTERNECINE FIGHTING, WOLVERINE INDIFFERENCES AND FERAL FESTERINGS, THE AULD BUFF SAID...

FINLAND, LAND OF THE FINN, THEY SAID YOU WERE FINNISHED, THEY SAID FINNS WEREN'T GOING SO GREAT, THEY SAID YOU COULD NO LONGER ENJOY THE FINNER THINGS IN LIFE, THEY SAID THE FINN STOPS HERE... NO, HERE! NO, HERE! OH, HERE THEN! THEY SAID HUCKLEBERRY FINN WAS NO FINN AT ALL. BUT AS THE OLD FINNISH SAYING GOES, TO CRACK A RABBIT YOU MUST FIRST GREASE THE PITCH FORK AND LOWER THE RUMP VERY GENTLY. FINN OF ME WHENEVER YOU'RE LONELY. HELL SINK YE NEVER! BURY YOUR IRREVERENCES AND PREPARE THE BOAT. THE RUDDER IS STIRRING, TOGETHER YOU CAN BE INFATUATED. LIVE O FINNICLE ONES! AND THRIVE IN YOUR FORESTS SO DARK! FLY! FLY! FLY... FINNAIR!!!

THE REAL STEWART SUMNER REPOSED TO PROFANITY FAIR

BUFFALO: Is dat you, dude?

BIRD: WotdaFachenbach! My own mother, selling the family jewels to Profanity Fair. Does family honour mean nothing in a rectal world?

BUFFALO: So you ARE Stewart Sumner!

BIRD: Merely a Doppelganger.

BUFFALO: Dude, that IS you!

BIRD: OK, OK, OK! It's me. Yes, I am THE Stewart Sumner, the writer. Happy now?

BUFFALO: I don't believe you.

BIRD: The camera doesn't lie.

BUFFALO: Dude, I've never met you. You could like the way this guy looks and pretend to be him, because you like the glamour and intrigue that goes with being a writer.

BIRD: Dude, I'm tired of the centrifuge. Maybe if I just fess up, MI5, the CIA, the FBI, Interpol, the Women's Institute and the Jehovah's Witnesses will finally leave me alone, already.

BUFFALO: Un-ber-feck-Inn-B-leave-ab-all. So you really are THE Stewart Sumner! I've read all your stuff. You're a friggin' genius!

BIRD: Thanks, Buff. You're not so bad yourself. I especially liked Moose Turd Pie. A modern classic of scatological entropy.

BUFFALO: Blushing here, dude.

BIRD: Ha! So you are THE Marcel DeClercq, literary powerhouse of Michigan.

BUFFALO: 'Fraid so.

BIRD: Wow. So they were right. I don't get it. Who did we think we were fooling?

BUFFALO: Our lovers, mostly. But that's another inventory.

BIRD: But dude...

BUFFALO: Yes, dude?

BIRD: You're always be da auld Buff to me.

BUFFALO: And you'll always be Birdy to me.

BIRD: Phew. So nothing's changed.

BUFFALO: Apart from the global recognition, ya mean? Nope.

BIRD: And the blog goes on.

BUFFALO: Yarp.

BIRD: Excrement.

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

WARNING: The previous conversation does not constitute irreputable proof that the above individuals are who they say they are. And since the advent of PhotoShop, photographic evidence don't mean badgershit. You have been fooled. I mean warned.

COMING SOON: What Stewart Sumner said to his mum when he went home for tea to confront her over selling explicit images to reductable publications. INCLUDES FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY AND EXPLICIT LOW-FLYING SCONES.

THE SHIT SANDWICH GOES ON...

BUFFALO: Dude, I've just been told I have a 5% chance that I'll live.

BIRD: Well, don't blame me that you're on the CIA shit list. I mean, those fooklars have NO sense of humour whatsoever.

BUFFALO: How da fawk was I to know they'd tap our Skype? I mean, you and me, we're just shootin' the breeze, innit. Messin' with the pessin'. Rumping the trumpet.

BIRD: Jealousy, dude. There are some comedians out there that can't take our cult status. They'll ask you a few questions, take a few jugshots, shove a meerkat up yer arse then toss you back where you belong.

BUFFALO: You don't understand, I've been implicated. I'm heading for the state penal tensionary.

BIRD: Dude, you're innocent.

BUFFALO: I know, but they need someone to take a hit.

BIRD: A fall guy?

BUFFALO: You got it.

BIRD: I see. So the shit sandwich goes on...

BUFFALO: Jeez. I need this as much as I need another asshole. Maybe we should come clean about Marcel DeClercq and Stewart Sumner.

BIRD: It won't make any difference.

BUFFALO: But the intercepts...

BIRD: Hearsay. Coded messages at best.

BUFFALO: Dude, if I'm Marcel DeClercq...

BIRD: A-ha.

BUFFALO: And you're Stewart Sumner...

BIRD: Right.

BUFFALO: Then who are the Bird and Buffalo?

BIRD: Oh, yeah. That's a good one. Well... they might just be the guys that Marcel DeClercq and Stewart Sumner aspire to being when the constraints of a tyrannical imaginary delusionary non-participatory gyratory construct are set free.

BUFFALO: Or total impostors who deserve all the fame and recognition that comes their way.

BIRD: Or a satirical monolithic retrospective vision of the future in the past tense.

BUFFALO: Wotdafachenbach! You've got it, dude.

BIRD: Collateral thinking, doncha know.

BUFFALO: Rock on, Marcel and Stewie!

BIRD: Seize the whey!

BUFFALO: Arf, arf!

CIA INTERCEPT LEAKED TO WORLD MEDIA - CODENAME ARF, ARF TEMPLATE 28871593 DONUT

REPRODUCED HERE VERBATIM.

"Dude, they're on to us. From now on, to evade capture, or any responsibility for our actions or thoughts or our debt to society bullshit, we MUST, repeat MUST talk in code. Dude, are you there? How's the scooter? Still on holiday? Eh? Eh? Arf, arf! Shit. Shouldn't have said that. Arf, arf! I mean. Come in, autumn! Dude! This is beyond an enclosure, innit. What's the title? Quick. We don't have much time. I'm telling you, that Marcel DeClercq is a frigging genius. Learn more, compose edit, preview. Dude, you're fading. Html! H-T-M-L! Fugget! Whither the REAL Stewart Sumner? Moderation posts. Comment. Monetise. Template. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1. Dashboard free. Repeat DASHBOARD FREE. Dude? Dude?"
END OF TRANSMISSION

SO YOU'RE TELLING US THAT WE'RE MARCEL DeCLERCQ AND STEWART SUMNER! HA! HAVE YOU ANY IDEA HOW MUCH PUBLICITY MARCEL DeCLERCQ AND STEWART SUMNER ARE GOING TO GET OUT OF YOUR ILLEGAL WIRE TAPPING? HMM? HMM??? THESE TWO, BY ALL ACCOUNTS, EXTREMELY TALENTED WRITERS AND THOROUGHLY NICE CHAPS ARE GONNA MAKE MILLIONS OUT OF THIS.

EGG ON YOUR FACE, CIA!

EGG ON YOUR FACE.

HEAR THAT GUFFAWING?

'TIS THE GREAT MARCEL DeCLERCQ AND THE FAB STEWART SUMNER LAFFING ALL THE WAY TO THE BANK.

ARF, ARF!