Sunday, 19 January 2014

Stand Up

Bloke walks into a bar. Bar reconfigures molecules and they perform an incredible material synthesis that even Feuerbach would approve of. Ok....

Confessional, that's it isn't it? The joke is dead. Ok, hands up who has ever tasted their own poo? I see a few hands courageously creeping towards the ceiling - ah, they're going down - too late in the 2nd row, your girlfriend saw you, didn't you darling? Ok. In that case hands up who's tasted their own pee-pee? Ah many more hands. Good - an honest audience. For the fella - every partaken of the bleachy-fish-teaspoon? All of you - very good. I applaud you. No - I applaud you - you don't need to clap just because I am. Girls ever tasted - oh we fellas know you're all filthy cats. Of course you have. Put your hands down! Are you proud? How can you be Madonna and whore without the whore bit edited for the sake of the children? No, Madam. Not that Madonna.

Anyway, that's as funny as Gary Numan at a hen-night. Actually that is funny. Or (Frank Skinner) Jimmy Savile at a school disco, or (that Carr twat) Osama Bin Laden at a 9/11 memorial, or (someone else) Iain Duncan Smith at an Auschwich reunion.

Problem with comedians, for immortals like me, is that as soon as you get the tone, you know every joke. Shock wears thin. How can you tell your sisters started her period, etc. The tragedy of comedy, is that nothing is very funny in this world. The act of laughter, when we consider it, is absolutely forced. Is life different for you? I wonder.

Pray, forgive me my ponderings and questions. I'm in a confessional at the moment as a never-Catholic-enough to call myself lapsed. I'm a locally entropy-reducing material complexity with a net-decrease in wider entropy thing. It's called life. We build to destroy more utterly. We condense for the ultimate aim of making everything bland.

In other words, true freedom is the realisation that it does not matter what we do, and the courage to accept the deal. So, let's just go along for the ride.

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