-
Dear Senor Quixote
Don't know the works of Mr Blackadder I am afraid and would run a mile from little Mr Ben Elton. I understand that their joint opus was a bit like Dad's Army for Oxbridge types but I have no way of knowing as I rarely watch TV. There may be a touch of Mr Adams, off the wireless, in my jottings but it is much more likely to be a Mr Persig, whom you will not have heard of, you being an avid tv watcher, and it will be there subliminally and not a bare-faced pinch.
I grant you that in my avuncular note to Mr Rotten there is much of the King James Bible and Shakespeare but I fear that such is unavoidable in anyone with an education and can hardly be called plagiarism. Again, you will probably be unaware that both these sources somewhat predate Mr Rowan Atkinson and Mr Elton in their influence on the language.
It is touching that you spring to Mr Rotten's defence; more telling, though, that he, if not you, read my note in the spirit in which it was intended. That squiggly thing, by the way, after the word defence in the last sentence, is a semi-colon; no Senor Quixote, it is nothing to do with the arse, which in your case seems to be located where others keep their minds and through which, no doubt, your share your wisdom, such as it is, with your unfortunate, backward children, on the, one hopes, restricted occasions on which you meet them and for whom, I regret, there can be little prospect of academic excellence, not with a dimwitted troglodyte like you for a pater. Do you still see them at all?
I would love to stay and chat with you about Mr Elton; he does musical theatre now, I believe, and jolly good luck to him. Do you perhaps envisage a career in show business yourself ? I must warn you that even in these dumbed-down days a budding entertainer requires a firmer grasp of English than that you display and indeed even a slender acquaintanceship with irony. Fuck me mate, there's fucking Poles round here write better stuff than you do, as it were.
As for visiting libraries, I have my own library, thank you; I am sitting in it; it is only about twelve thousand volumes, but none of them, I assure you, are by Mr Elton or any of the other celebrities you mention. If I did want an autobiography, say, of Mr Max Bygraves or Ms Kirsty Wark, then I would probably take your advice and venture to the public library; such desires, however, would be most uncharacteristic and, in any event, I would rather leave the library service exclusively to folk like yourself, who cannot afford their own books. It is, so I am told, very difficult on Incapacity Benefit these days.
I really must go but I fear I would be failing the body politic - or that snarling, resentful, libertarian portion of it which resides hereabouts - if I failed to mention that you are a fucking po-faced, humourless, sanctimonious, toilet-dwelling cocksucker. I suspect you're one of those presbyterian chaps. Only a presbyterian thinks as you do.
People rant and rave and froth and gibber on here but they are also quick and sharp and bright and funny, alert, enthusiastic and compassionate and angry and well, well, well acquainted with the dark doings of our masters; some are partisan, some anarchic; poor Dr Moneybags, for instance, is so angry that he is dying from multiple ailments: prolixity, angry cynicism and pure hatred. You, on the other hand are merely a prick and a dullard.
Mr Shitbag
In my country, calling someone a Liberal Democrat is considered most infelicitous and can lead to a sudden catastrophic and involuntary falling incident - or, detubare deorcum shaftus Scargillitum fatalis.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
john bright said...("the finest slagging-off in internet history").
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Dear Mr Rabbie rotten
Is there anything in eternity, in the infinity of space and time which you feel would not be illuminated, amplified, clarified, altogether improved, embellished, glorified by you commenting upon it, from out of your arsehole?
Is there no occasion or event or circumstance about which you are not compelled to comment at insufferable length? Might there ever be something happen in this world without it attracting your observations ?
If someone was to write OH NO, NOT THAT CUNT AGAIN in letters as big as the Milky Way it would be a poor illustration of the effect you have on sensible people. You are as funny as rectal cancer. You have the insight of a cement mixer, although entirely lacking its utility. You know nothing of any value. You and elegance are estranged. There is better reading on a bus ticket. Nothing you say is witty, informative, provocative, original or scurrilous; nothing you write is worth reading, You are clumsy, cackhanded, plagiaristic, trivial, meaningless, insincere; unredeemed garbage. Even pored-over, analysed, the odd nugget is seen to be stolen from other postings, shabby, second-hand, grubby; you cannot even recycle with any distinction.
You are a one-man walking Daily Mail. You make Iain Dale look like a revolutionary. You are the dullest, most boring, predictable, tedious, mind-numbing gabshite on the planet. Aside from that bloke with his double rrs, and he, narcolepsy in the flesh, doesn't even merit correction. Contrasted with reading your musings, watching the grass grow is scintillating, dazzling and provocative. You are as stupid as it is possible to be and still be sentient; nay, that is a misjudgment, lumps of rock are smarter than you, a bag of sand has a better sense of humour. Living with you, even a garden gnome would hurl himself in front of a train, rather than endure one more moment of your endless, infantile commentary. You are an unspeakable cunt. Why don't you just either shut the fuck up or seek psychiatric assistance for your delusion, the one that makes you think the world cannot survive without you being its continuity announcer. Nobody on earth, not even your mother, if you have one, gives a fuck about what you think about anything. Most people would rather gouge their eyes out than read your drivel. You are an almost unassailable argument for shutting down the Internet; single-handedly you undermine the case for freedom of speech.
The Saviour himself, encountering you on the mountain, would say Fuck me, not this cunt again, does he ever, ever, ever even for a fucking second, shut the fuck up and just be? Or does he think that he spellbinds his betters, enchants his peers and renders reality herself incomplete without his tuppence worth. This is one cunt and a half, lads.
Do you really imagine that you are so perspicacious, so wise, so seasoned that your turds of wisdom, your barrel scrapings of warmed-up Daily Mail leaders, your worthless sweepings-up are indispensable to the world? Do you think people tune in to Radio Four in the morning and exclaim: I can’t wait to hear what Robbie Rotton thinks about copper smelting in Zambia ; gosh I hope he posts quickly?
It may be argued in your favour, although I wouldn't, that crass as you are, your heart is in roughly the right place; you head, however, remains, inextricably, cemented up your arse.
You are unpardonably stupid so, here, for Mr Rotten, your very own, easy to understand parable:
"Omar went to the Master. He said, Master, I have been painting for years and remain unhappy with my work, can you help? Go, said the Master, and do your finest work and bring it to me. Five years later Omar returned with a painting he had slaved over and handed it to the Master, who threw it straight on the fire."
Look at your posts for something not already better said; its not there. Is this the point of you ? Cover versions?
If you would speak, first learn silence. Learn some Zen, Shithead. Learn some plumbing.
With apologies to the Buddha for the worthlessness of incarnations like Mr RR.