Llywarch: and the generational thing.
Laertus: generational thing?
Llywarch: yeah like when you're on Instagram and you think
Westworld is a brand-new cutting-edge leading-edge scifi series that has broken all the rules. nothing on tv has ever been done or seen like this before! it's revolutionary! writers are having a hard time writing for it cos no one fully understands what it means……...and then you find out from your new Instagram friend you just followed 30 minutes ago who's a nostalgia geek and freak and really into bringing back
Jem pink hair for men that
Westworld was already a wellworn '80s series that had weird blocky robots and cheap sets of noon-dust and was generally laughed out and forgotten. i feel for you millennials, you have nothing to hold onto that's original.
Laertus: can it be green hair that's not a hoax?
Dirg: i love when a piece starts with the word
and. just goes right into it. that was my favorite part of
The Shivering Truth if i'm being honest. yeah the sets were elaborate, the puppets were freaky, but the stories tended to meander…
Laertus: that was definitely the point. eep, you scared me! when did you get back here?
Dirg: i am always around. around you, inside you...
Llywarch: hello Dirg, long time no see. i think. how are you enjoying these environs?
Dirg: oh so YOU'RE my best friend's lover. can't say i blame you. or that i'm jealous. i mean you're not real, right? you're CG.
Llywarch: be careful with that question, mister, those simple labels. the more you think i'm computer-generated, the more you have to ask who it is exactly who's pushing the computer button strings.
Dirg: yeah so it's a nice-enough pastoral setting. if a little bland and predictably green. want to sleep with my hood over my head like that shepherd hanging over the hanging rock cliff over there. welp, that NPC shepherd just got hooked off the screen by his own hooked staff. that's always unpleasant.
Llywarch: no, you're missing everything as usual! your New Zealand was patterned after this area! don't you see it? you have to venture forth a few miles on foot past the purple mountains to get a gander at the sparkling-emerald lush landscapes and a sea so blue you can spot the green Loch Ness Monster belly-flopping at its bottom.
Dirg: you said bottom. the Loch Ness Monster was not in the brochure. so where are all the Hobbits?
Llywarch: yonder.
Chris Matthews at the MSNBC studios: fuck. let's play Hardball. *cue
Hardball music*
Chris Matthews: seriously tho, i seem to be the only one at this network who's upset by all this. i'm flustered, that's not easy for an Irish guy.
Chuck Todd: have you signed up for my new Toddcast yet, Chris?
Chris: fuck. you. sorry, i'm on edge all the time. hey they should have your infamous flicking-off middle-fingering finger when you thought the cameras weren't on you as the cover for your podcast page, that would get people to sign up!
Maria LaRosa has moved a few feet with her beautiful small big feet and now resides in New Zealand:
Maria: this is gorgeous. but i don't like the new changes. right after i left, they refurbished the intro prompt for
Weekend Recharge on The Weather Channel to feature that black bitch who replaced me and you, Goody Paul. i don't like it one bit, it shows you and her beautifully smiling and folding arms, they never took my picture for that ONCE all those decade-years i was there! not once!
Goody Paul: i do like how we're getting a surplus of Alexandra Steele now. there can never be too much Alexandra Steele. i mean except for you, dear. i like when she's paired with the black dudebro Alex. Alex and Alex. the ratings go down when it's Alex and that other black dude, scientifics show. and meteorology is nothing if not a science thing. and i like the diversity of when i'm paired with the black girl, it shows diversity. which reminds me, i have to spelunk out of your orifice now and get to work. it will take me the weekend to hike to the studio. i wish i could layabout all day fucking you but papa's gotta pay the bills.
at the ESPN stiudios, Molly is adjusting her fluted skirt.
Molly: thanks JRose, for caring. i know this isn't what you bargained for when you signed the contract and thought you were marrying me the unattainable bombshell. it's been hard on you. but i hurt down there, and i have to go see a specific doctor for my down-there every week, that's why the viewers hardly see me weekends beginning Thursdays, i'm not in studio for In Studio anymore cos i'm always at a doctor's office.
Jalen Rose: i know, honey, and i happily take you to the doctor's and vet's. in my scooter. that's what a loving husband does, his duties, to be in a sexless marriage of just love. all love, boo and bae. truth to my troth is, we're in an empathetic twinship you and i, for i too am troubled in my down-there, it hurts for a different reason.
Max: you know you two are weird. when the cameras light up, you talk to each other and interview and ask questions and answer like you're two complete strangers, Molly addresses you as Basketball Player Jalen Rose, it's weird.
Jalen: i know, at least mention the Fab Five or my socks.
Molly: *playfully* shut up, Max, i'll get to your new boxing show next week. i actually wasn't at the doctor's this time, i was at an audition. i can't believe that bitch Tiffany Smith got my Meghan Markle part! i was a shoo-in!
Dirg: oh, so THIS explains Tiffany Smith's long absences and hiatuses over at the old Marvel YouTube Channel. renamed R.I.P. Stan and some twelve-year-olds think it's pronounced Rip Stan and are confused. mystery finally solved. this is kinda a Red Circle table, right? just soaking it all in for my reeducation. Max is more black than Stephen A, Max was an actual street-rapper.
Stephen A: *stands up flabbergasted and points his finger at her* don't stress me more, Molly Q! you know that Tiffany Smith is an absolute stunner save for the turkeyneck and she ain't no chickenhead i checked. and she is a DEAD RINGER for the new Princess so don't you even front!
Molly: *slaps his hand away from her face* *not playfully* shut up, Stephen A!
Stephen A: hey man, if you want some more learnin', get into that car that i'm seeing right now pulling up to the studo downstairs, many floors down next to the Statue of Liberty by the bay. with my own two peepin' eyes that don't need no glass. eye don't lie. that's the ride you need to get into.
Dirg: *attempts the pound-hug on Stephen's back* thanks my brotha. lobsta on the house.
Stephen A: don't touch me i don't know you, don't say brotha, and don't speak with a Boston accent near my general vicinity.
Dirg races downstairs as fast as his skinny nerd legs can take him without any drone cameras noticing and skips into the cab with an open side door willing.
Dirg: still smells like shit. i was expecting at last some passable Persian musk. oh! the cabdriver is Wendy Williams! well, hello fierce doll! you are hot to me, imma tell you on front street from jump, you do not look like a man to me at all when i masturbate at night.
Wendy Williams: look. let's keep things on the QT, not-cutie. i don't want the papa razzing and on my back---my big shapely round tail. that's why i'm wearing this hood. and a wedding ring. and a wire. i divorced him and i don't wanna make it a big deal. that's why i'm taking, like, three months off, starting my summer vacation early.
Dirg: Fiji, right? this is perfect! i mean this really is perfect timing! i need to learn the black life. i need an in at the inn table, ya feel? take me to one of your many palatial Manhattan high rises mansions. and let the chicken-chewin' begin in earnest!!! hey by the way, whatever happened to Lauryn Hill?
Wendy Williams: that remains a tightly-guarded secret in the black and black-twitter communities, but I am Lauryn Hill.
the cab screeches over and drives one block in traffic. at the nearest curb, President Bump gets in.
Bump: this cab smells like my hair. so you're still going with using the yellow-checkerboard cabs, huh? haven't moved yet to the Brexit black cabs? i mean i ain't telling yous how to run your ship, all i know about cars i learned from Michael Cohen and he's more my best frenemy than anything.
Dirg: a pleasure, sir! may i shake your hand?
Bump: of course not. you masturbate with that hand, i can tell and smell it. i'm a guy, too, you know. wait you said shave your head? okay, good, that's a vote. yeah, i knew that about Lauryn Hill, i'm into black culture, i know her oranges story.
Wendy: oranges? or origin story?
Bump: don't tell anyone, it's a tightly-guarded secret in the Fort Knox twitter community...…...but, well, i have orange skin.
Wendy: now you know how it feels to be colored in this society.
Bump: my father was Hitler. wind farms cause cancer. yeah, those spokes on windmills, you know? those are actually sharp pointy autism-vaccination needles. hax vax. those wind turbines gave Deborah Norville cancer.
Dirg: i hate wind. not that any wind could bring down the strongman strength of YOUR hair, sir. and you do it without any hairspray at all, right? just pure willpower. strength of your own will.
Wendy: um, i'm the cabdriver here, i'm supposed to be the crazy one who rambles incoherently to keep from the awkward silence. but i'm really rambling meta-coherently. we're almost here. just round the bender.
Dirg: wait, this is a sober house. what...…...the...…...fuck.
Wendy: yes, i'll be living at this sober-facility-residence for the next, oh, three months or so should cover it.
Bump: that's fine. i can adjust, it's already less-stuffy than the Cream House. more loose once you start drinking. get to know my voters. like the ones who sell oranges at the Border. i don't drink, by the way, and i'm not crazy.
at the highest point-tip of New Zealand, Coach K and Zion have traveled a long and arduous journey by sandal up many steep paths and hilly crags to reach their final destination: Mount Zion. the Mount closes its Eye of Sauron to sleep, Maria covers her vagina with her two dainty hands like a proper fiery Spanish woman, Fuerza looks on in disgust and jealousy, and the Eye opens up once more, pried open by Zion's dunk-hands, it rains bright red warm-to-hot light on the young acolyte, burning his skin.
Coach K removes the hood of his brown monk robe and bestows it upon Zion's body.
Coach K: here you go, son, from now on you will be more famous than me. i saw a spraypaint the other day on a bus which read
Cock K and i knew right there i was done, i couldn't take this life anymore. go and form your own religion.
inside the cave Rog Federer in an all-white seersucker suit is entertaining Chris Evert wrapped in his medium-sized arms. she's a bit tipsy.
Chris: i'm telling ya, hunk, the Miami Open is gonna replace New York as the U.S. Open some day!
Fed: needs a better atmosphere, dear, a more---what's the word in Swiss?---a better tomato atmosphere.
Chris: tomater?
Fed: and more Communism. good European Communism. but i do love the salsa dancing on court instead of the serve motion. not all by Monfils. i still gots it. and you gots it, too, toots.
Chris: look out for FAA, he's the next big black thing i mean big thing. and look out for Tiafoe, he's the real deal, he's what Donald Young was hoping the fans wanted. Tiafoe has the ancient spiritual African wisdom, he's Manut Bol's son, right? or cousin?
Fed: FAA? is that an airline?
Eye Luggage: thank you for listening, folks, joining us just one week on from the New Zealand massacre tragedy, so we know everyone's still a bit tender. we hope you can work through your raw and maybe lighten up for an hour, distract yourself from the interminable world pain and have a few tips and tip-backs and tricks talking tv.
Dirg: Silverchair predicted this massacre. and why didn't the Power Rangers stop the shooter? they were right there in New Zealand.
Laertus: dude. bro. dudebro. it's too soon. it's still too soon. it will ALWAYS be too soon for you.
Dirg: i am digging the new season of
Power Rangers tho. well up to a point. so far. they should have been dispatched like the real New Zealand police.
Laertus: the initial concept for the show this year was right on point, inventive and so relevant to current times what with the energy thing, the moving away from fossil fuels. just three Rangers, makes it less busy, more time for tight writing.
Dirg: and the asses. right? i mean i thought Yellow had the best ass, but then you get a look at Roxy's ass and it's like UMERFGHHHHHHHYASHHHHH
Laertus: a couple of episodes in, and it's starting to suck. it's starting to go back. to middle-of-the-road, ordinary, normal, and boring playing-it-safe. standard. we'll see. of course nothing tops the interestingness of the cast: Teuila Blakely is on
Beast Morphers!
Dirg: THE Teuila of the blowjob?
Laertus: one and the same. she's on there. playing a no-nonsense commander. and i hope she gets to address the issue right there on the show. i mean isn't that what
Power Rangers is for? to address societal ills? i hope she arches her back and points her fiery lens of eyes to the camera and fixes her commander madam vest and tells off the world:
Commander Teuila: yes i gave that handsome rugby bloke a roadhead blowjob! well a jeepjob. yes! i'm a woman dammit and i can do what i want! i'm a woman of power! and if i want to be Kim K fuck that bitch! we were just having a bit of fun, everyone has fun! i used the cum as a mixing agent to harden the green goo slime we need to save the world! that's what separates us from Evox! Evox only has fang spit.
Llywarch: these are dangerous times we're in. we all must be allowed to be human. we all give blowjobs, we all have to come to terms with this.
Eye: let's move on to that feature film-fest special we did on the white sheet outside the dorms on campus by the moonlight, for the first time ever on bluray on the blue sky:
Stand and Deliver.
Dirg:
South Park did it better. i don't like learning. why watch a movie about school at school? that's a beach bummer. they prolly cheated anyway, look at the college scandal, Operation Varsity Blues Was A Crap Film. Operation Aunt Becky.
Laertus: but what a film! oh you know you would lie down on a busy highway on the broken yellow dotted lines drunk to get initiated to a sport if you could play a sport. any sport. that Edward James Olmos heart-attack scene tho! that went on and on and on the stairs. i guarantee you this: EVERY actor practices the heart-attack in the mirror, prolongs it like that, takes up ten minutes of film by gesticulating on and on and on with the heart attack till her or his fall is broken by the bottom flight of stairs. but EJO can get away with it, can win awards for it, cos he's Captain William Fucking Adama.
Dirg: *shaking his damn head* Karla Montana, where did you go? you were hot enough for the white rich businessmen in Los Angeles who drove their Porsches up to the curb of an innercity gang chainlink public high school in danger of being disaccreditationed, why'd you quit acting? you could have at least guest-starred in an episode of
Hannah Montana. we need your body and beauty...and yes brains...on screen. and that one poor actress, the only one who was actually based on a real student---the one who served tamales at her family mexishop---she didn't need to die but got suicided-by-cop against her will cos she was crazy. she didn't get pregnant like her father feared but they put something else in her: lead. hey it wasn't her fault, she got touched by the George Clooney Curse. all women will eventually get hit and struck on the head by The George Clooney, he has that affect on women. we knew her, Laertus, from her stellar work on the early seasons of
ER. only Eriq La Salle even bothered to twitter-mention her after her death cos you know he got some of that on set with his hair goo. did you know you could bend a taco?
Laertus: taco bender? taco vendor? yeah, sure, not the hard crunchy
Taco Bell
shells but the soft white flour-tortilla shells you can bend. they should make a soft Doritos Locos taco shell. Prop 13 DESTROYED California forever. i mean didn't our forebears know better? not to get all millennial here but the warning was in the name: 13!
Eye Luggage: Lou Diamond Phillips IS Jesus. Lou Diamond Phillips in peaches and i'm all set for dreams. no relation to Wilson. right? but yes relation to diamonds on my toes.
Eye Luggage: why wasn't this film called
Ganas? it so obviously should have been! and why the hell is the film called
Stand and Deliver? what does
stand and deliver even mean? those words, that phrase, is not mentoned ONCE in the entire film.
Dirg: pizza.
at a cottage just outside the burbs of the New Zealand space situates a tavern off the beaten path yet fully marked with a golden path. it's the Hobbits' Hideaway, one with a flashing neon arrow pointing at it, a touristy attraction now ever since the films but more ever since the Disney merger. inside there is much merriment, gladhanding with furry feet, and backslapping amongst the hobbits, each wiping the foam off their fellow hobbits' beards.
Dirg: you couldn't do that with women. just think, one touch of the shoulders is gonnna cost you four more years of Bump.
Laertus: thanks, Sticky Joe.
Gladyce has turned herself into a catgirl, her glistening listening ears cutely demur as she prepares the spaghetti sauce. her tail circles as she boils but not necessarily toils nor troubles:
Gladyce: mew Mew Zealand! almost ready, boys! just one more turn. and twitch of my catear. or a trick. i'm making sensitive marinara sauce. for you sensitive men, you gallant gents.
Doryce roughly puts her feet up on the rough-hewn table. and her arms back to touch her Cover Girl hair.
Doryce: i'm making Fradiavolo spaghetti sauce. yeah, *spit*, learned how to cook from my bitch. Fradiavolo, i figured Frodo would enjoy it.
Frodo: fraid not, love, i'm a man. a real man.
Doryce: yeah i hear ya, and i feel ya, and i want to feel ya up. yeah, i just came back from a high adventure, much journey. i had to take a shit, you know? i had to go poo so bad. i just woke up one morning and thought i was gonna fart as i always do so i turned my asscheeks over to an opening in my sheets but instead i shit all over my bloomer panties! streams and streams of liquid brown feces unexpected! it was so bad my delicates weren't even worth saving with a wash in a tiny tub. and then i had to go to The Store for my weekly biweekly grocery-shopping, the entire two hours i was there pacing the halls on my flying broom my asscrack itched so bad. SO BAD! i wanted to sink my entire karate-chop hand into my asscrack to ease the pain of the itch but if i did that, my only other panties would be ruined. that would be unmentionable. i should prolly just go naked from now on, huh? o it was so distracting, the only thing on my mind, i even forgot about sex for two minutes. so the first thing i do when i get home is to the bathroom and used the entire roll of toilet paper. which was thin like tissue paper. i forgot to buy any food!
Bilbo Baggins, smoking a pipe: i wish you hadn't told me all that, madam. that story made my beard fall out.
outside from the ruckus on a wet patch of green grass Madame Pons squats wetting her purple lace dress while she listens to Llywarch by the fire. he's spit-roasting a small bird and turning a crank:
Madame Pons: i'm getting told.
Llywarch: never, madam, you are a very-sensitive woman, not like the others in there. i can feel your aura, no i can SEE your aura! right in front of my eyes, your aura is spilling out of your body in bright rainbow gum stripes which bend around and shimmer into sparkle pots. dare i say you are even a more sensitive being than i. i pray to the goddesses that it is you who are equipped to save the world.
Pons: this beats the drivethru. ah, nature. and that roasting bird is making my esophagus water.
Llywarch: almost ready, golden brown like Amercia should be. hey, when you gotta eat you gotta eat. one wing or both?
Pons: i know i need to eat, for strength, it's just...i can't. and this isn't a Hollywood fad diet excuse, i follow The Pope's diet. of cinnamon holy wafers. but i need to deny myself right now if i am to grow. ignore the hunger pains, pass the pangs with the salt.
Llywarch: i see. very austere, very monk, i commend your communion. poor Yoricka, i knew him well. well her. that's the name of my hen. she was my constant companion, my protector, my guide. she was good for a few belly laughs but she belongs in my belly. and a few poems. but it's over now, everything must end.
he eats the roast hen in his mouth, but there's a twinkle in his eye as he looks at Madame Pons whilst he eats.
Pons: that's hot. when you look at me as you eat.
Llywarch, smiling, even his teeth smiling: behold what happens next, madam. and realize that i am fully-stuffed, i have had my fill, i ate Yoricka, i had dinner.
the roast hen comes out of Llywarch's mouth, reforms its feathers which fly back from clouds in the sky, and the hen is healthy and happy and alive once more, fully-together, shiny coat, legs kicking, rustling the ground for scraps, clucking up a crazy storm, pompadour blowout blowin', chickenhead bobbin'.
Llywarch: good as new. better even after having been inside me.
Pons's eyes awe. darting back between Llywarch and the hen, Pons's eyes star.
