Thursday, October 19, 2006

Fan Mail

Dear Mr. Fish,

My name is Kenneth L. Boggflange. I am 37 years old and 765 lbs. I am a huge fan of your blog. As a shut-in, I spend a great deal of time on my own, stewing in my fetid cocktail of generic corn alcohol and self loathing. Each day is spent in my single room flat, with nothing but my own overpowering stink to keep me alert. Naturally, I have no friends outside those whom I meet online who, for some reason, believe me to be a twenty year old female pre-law student. As I vainly attempt to shift my mammoth, gastropodic girth around the abhorrent, noxious filth of my Ikea sofa, my thoughts turn to the subtle, tastefully coy humour of your cheeky little blog. Only last week, while I was watching the latest episode of Survivor and enjoying the exploits of a bunch of unrecostructed, attention deprived, post modern fuckwits, I could not help but wonder at the age of enlightenment in which I live. I sat in sheer wonder at the grand variety of experiences available to a soul such as I. I sat and ruminated while imbibing handfuls of Betty Crocker icing washed down with lashings of ice cold Coca Cola and Wild Turkey, slowly and peacefully shitting into the folds in my thighs. It was during this glorious repass that I came to wonder about the famous Mr. Green Fish and his Endless Ocean Of Gravy. Your timidly tasteful journal of the reluctant Hero is a tale of woe and triumph that is both devastatingly evocative and uncommonly soothing. In this vast and ever changing world, I can be sure of two things: Artistic endeavor is the noblest of pursuits, and a man of my carriage should not attempt to mount a unicycle.......the doctors tell me it can never be removed. And Sir, may I say that your pursuit of the muse is a staggering testament to the infinitely delicate beauty of the human spirit. You are a singing, dancing, magic making, triple threat on the level of Paris Hilton. You are a jive talking, banjo playing, sheep shagging, lady lovin', mountain of a man who's like has not been witnessed since a young Larry King impregnated Tiny Tim during a marathon broadcast of This Is Your Life, during the dying stages of Richard Nixon's first presidential campaign. You Sir, are quite simply, the cat's ass. It is now, with great humility, that I can admit that I have been moved to invoke The Muse myself. So, Mr. Fish, for your consideration, I present, my own poem. Unworthy as it may be, it is my soul, and I humbly offer it up you. Thank you.

Kenneth L. Boggflange

Don't look at me or I kill your dog
You dirty lousy hippy
I'll smash your face with a hollow log
You dirty lousy hippy
Ya'll think your better than me
I'll kill you all and then you'll see
Fuck off, quit lookin' at me
You dirty lousy hippy.


Monday, October 02, 2006

One More Angus!!!

Well folks, it's me again, Angus Thripshaw. Old Green Arse is coming back from vacation today so I thought I would return for one more post and see if there is anything else worth stealing around his place that would lend a touch of class my filth encrusted tar paper shack. No such luck. He was apparently invited to a wedding by a sad friendless couple who either felt sorry for him or decided that the presence of a six foot drunk Irishman with a mohawk would lend some tone to the proceedings. Again, no such luck. For those bleary eyed sentimentalists out there, Mr. Fish Finger has posted his photos of the event on the interwebs. Nice. I guess he forgot to take any pictures of the guys.
Anyway, down to the business at hand. I seem to remember requesting entries some time ago for The 2007 Guild Award For The Years Worst Poem. I could be mistaken because I had been partaking heavily of Jim Beam, Banana Liqueur, Scrub 'n' Flush, and industrial varnish. I have a faint memory of sipping my pint, gently raising my left front buttock (I have four buttocks as a result of a batch of tainted botox) in an attempt to release a small fart, and someone asking for a light. My next memory is me waking up on a Grey Hound bus bound for Tulsa, clad in a pink taffeta evening own, hip waders, the right side of my body totally hairless, clutching a bottle of Drambuie and a picture of Sammy Davis Junior. You know how it is when your having fun.
As you are all well aware the response has been overwhelming. Through endless debates, several heated arguments, a few fist fights, and a mysterious smothering, I have managed to draw three nominees from the 47 million entries. The final three are as follows:


My Poem, entitled 'In 60 seconds written.'

Sex with Jesus makes me pee
And pooping with Hoff brings me glee
Tomkat, Arses, Willies, Boobs
I rub these on me with no clothes
Life & death, a disease that's demented
Winning this award I have cemented!

Now hand it over you crazy Hibernian bastard!!

This vulgar little entry dripped from the pen of The Writer. He is famous for his biting pop culture satire and lengthy treatises on arse wiping. The poem's strengths lie in it's brevity and sheer volume of disconnected vile imagery. It's only weakness it the fact the the author is more than capable of far, far worse.


Ode to the Greenfish


Oh, Greenfish. You are green. You are a fish.
You swim in the water. Your tail makes a 'swish'.

When a worm takes a dip, you eat him all up.
Then you go to the pub and you order a cup. (of soup)

Oh greenfish. So green. So fishy. So stinky.
Let me introduce you to a swanky octopus named inky.

Nice to meet you)

Good with lemon and spice. Pan fried or grilled.
Oh Greenfish, dear Greenfish... do you feel fulfilled?


This mad little ditty sprung from the fevered mind of Elizabeth. This young lady is well known for presenting foul, profane, blasphemous, obscene, and profoundly demented flotsom and jetsom of human expression, served up with a sweet smile and a touch of whimsy. It's strengths lie in the hints of foul odors, erotic cannibalism, and a subtle wind breaking, happy ending, bodily excreting sort of motif. It's weakness lies in the bold similarities with the early works of Walt Whitman.


The Chicken Fucker's Fable

I am the Chicken Fucker
born to a feather plucker
aka Ms. Chicken Tucker;
see, Mama had a fetish for
a chicken up her pinafore.

Around the barn I'd gravitate
to woo the hens out for a date
on which my firey loins could sate;
all this against Ms. Tucker's warn "hen dates'll bring your pecker harm!"

A silly, horny lad was I
for rubbing chickens up my thigh
all to the shock of passers-by
(I did, I forgot to mention,
enjoy a crowd for cuckold sessions).

I should have heard my dear old Ma
who's a scar on her vagina
from just this sort of whoopala
(which, by the way, I do no more
my pecker still is mighty sore).

T'was a sunny day the air was warm
the same as most on our chicken farm
when my favourite hen did bring me harm;
She mistook my long and pinkish nob
for an ear of corn still on the cob.

So if you want to fuck a hen
you might want to stop and think again
of what could happen to you then.
For a penis that's been pecked by hens
a penis that has seen the end.


This relentless, cathartic, brutal experiment in the mockery of decent mores and deeply held taboos was presented by a very odd force called Kat. This young lady is the final word in pee, poop, weird shit, David Hasselhoff, and cooking. It's strengths are manyfold. Vulgarity, perverse sexual acts, cruelty, the sheer length for Christ's sake. This is an early favorite hampered only by the fact that it is quite good.

Alright sickos. I have to get my but out of here before Fishymon gets home and starts asking pointed questions about the smell in here. The winner will be announced in the new year at The Foul Arts Academy Social Club And Terror Suspect Holding Area. I will be presenting the award if I am still alive and the entire event will have a special guest celebrity host . So good bye and good luck from your old pal Angus, and say hi to Green Fish for me when he gets back. Piss off.