Monsieur_LeBehemoth

And now, this is a thing I did Thursday night for Babble Liner Notes "The Cure" edition:

The baby screamed. He didn’t know why it was screaming. Screaming babies weren’t his game. His game was trouble. His game was alleys and switchblades and late boozy nights at the office and dames with legs up to their ankles. And he’d never met a dame that wasn’t trying to bring him low. There was one, he remembered...she came to him like a beautiful dream, all cotton candy hair and incurable psoriasis. He remembered the way she smelled in the morning, like fresh coffee and rabbit pellets. But she’d done him wrong like all the rest.

And the baby screamed. He remembered the first time he’d heard a baby scream. Dubrovnik Zoo, 1938. He wore grey, Stalin wore mauve taffeta. He’d leaned in for that first kiss, but then the baby had screamed, the moment was broken, and Stalin was gone. It was the story of his life, every man he’d ever loved had left to frolic with sea lions. He never found that baby, but it haunted him, like a lobster squatting in his sinuses.

And the baby screamed. He looked it in the eye and said, Whaddya want kid? And the baby said, Eeeehhhh, eeeeeehhhhhhhhh. And he laughed. If he had a dollar for every time he’d heard that, he’d be a poor man. He thanked God he had a more stable source of income

And the baby screamed. He wondered when they’d be back. Just look after this baby for a few hours, they’d said. That was eight weeks ago now. He didn’t know how often babies were supposed to eat, but he suspected he may be pushing it.

And the baby screamed. Sometimes he wished he were a baby. Screaming, crying. Swooping and plunging above the mountains. Plucking fish gracefully from the surface of the water...yes, of all the birds of prey, the baby was the most noble. And ever since he was a child he had wanted to lay eggs. Oh they laughed at him at school and called him Eric the Egret Boy. But he had a dream, and he had hope, but it was crushed.

By dames.

And the baby screamed, and he made a decision. He grabbed the baby, opened the window and threw himself out...

And then he was flying, flying high above the cold dark city. And he felt alive, and he felt grateful. Grateful for the stars and the moon. Grateful that he had filled the baby with hydrogen. Soon, like all babies, the baby would explode.

But until then, he could live.

And then...

I was thinking today about children's television, and how horrible it is. And I was thinking about all the people who stop me in the street and say, hey Ben, we love your nude centrefolds, but why don't you write more about the viewing habits of two-year-olds? So I thought I would bring you:

( MR BEHEMOTH'S GUIDE TO KIDS' TV!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! )

Next: AMERICAN KIDS' SHOWS

During the dream I made a sly derogatory reference to Julia Sawalha, and Alan got very defensive. Good times...

Being Guanacoman, there's every chance odd formatting will be left as is, of course.

In latest New Matilda news, supermodel can change structure of cells with her MIND!!!

I guess that really, Monsters Inc is the story of what happened to Timon and Pumbaa after they fell into a vat of radioactive waste.

1. What is the best feeling in the world?

a) Waking up and realising that you don't have to get up for another two hours
b) Putting your penis in a bear-trap
c) Listening to Mozart
d) Punching black people

2. What is the most important quality in a life-partner?

a) Strong thighs and calves
b) Kindness
c) A direct ancestral link to eighth-century Russian tyrants
d) The ability to transform into a leopard

3. How many times a day do you drink to excess?

a) Well over seventy
b) Between sixty-five and seventy
c) Even further over seventy
d) A billion

4. Who is your favourite movie star?

a) John Wayne
b) Nicole Kidman
c) Sandra Bullock, but only in The Net, otherwise I hate her
d) Jonathan Lipnicki

5. What song best sums up your life?

a) I Feel Fine by the Beatles
b) Cocksucker Blues by the Rolling Stones
c) Son of a Preacher Man by Dusty Springfield
d) Most People Find Me Quite Creepy Because of the Inappropriate Things I Say to Those I've Just Met, and Also I Have a Nasty Rash Completely Covering My Face, by Westlife

6. What would you do with a million dollars?

a) Buy a space shuttle
b) Pay nuns to kiss each other
c) Build a house inside a volcano
d) Put my penis in a bear-trap

7. What colour is your hair?

a) I don't know, I've never looked
b) Black, but not literally
c) Sort of blonde, but with mice in it
d) Pizza-coloured

8. How often do you masturbate?

a) Every time I read a questionnaire
b) Every seven seconds
c) Every two hundred years
d) Only to coincide with the opening weekend of each new John C. Reilly film

9. The most important element of great sex is:

a) For both partners to have legs
b) A big Chinese man with a whip
c) Punching black people
d) Nazi porn

10. I would describe myself as:

a) An intractable racist
b) A racist who is trying to change his or her ways
c) A gender-confused rhinoceros
d) A rare form of pleurisy

CALCULATE YOUR SCORE:

If you answered mostly As, you are a dangerously unbalanced homicidal paedophile, and should immediately commit yourself to a mental institution and ask them to keep you under heavy sedation for the rest of your life.

If you answered mostly Bs, you are Barack Obama. Congratulations on your recent political success.

If you answered mostly Cs, you should buy a T-shirt reading "C for Crrrrrazy!" and open a juice bar. Then your mother may love you again.

If you answered mostly Ds, you are sterile due to prolonged exposure to radiation, and will never know the joy of fatherhood. Suicide is a very viable option here.

( Also, many many Jonahs )

BOOKS

HARVEY & HARVEY - A pictorial essay featuring over 7000 colour photographs, instructing casual readers and aficionados alike on how to tell the difference between Harvey Weinstein and Harvey Fierstein. "A gripping read", according to The New Yorker.

THE BENFICA CONJUGATION - Dan Brown's latest once again follows the adventures of rugged symbologist Robert Langdon, who must decipher a series of clues left in the form of intricately-knotted licorice whips scattered throughout the snows of the Himalayas by a mysterious order of cleft-palated nuns. Along the way he uncovers a startling truth about the history of the Pony Express that threatens to destabilise the NATO alliance and destroy the fabric of spacetime, while falling in love with a beautiful yet aloof Spanish zoologist whose third-grade handwriting homework may contain the key to the whole mystery. This is the first Dan Brown novel to be written entirely in rhyming haiku.

NIGELLA LAWSON'S BIG BOOK OF TITS - For the first time, see domestic goddess Nigella Lawson's fifty favourite recipes, on pieces of paper which she holds up for the camera in a series of explicitly pornographic poses.

GORDON RAMSAY'S BIG BOOK OF FUCKWITS - Gordon Ramsay tells the tales of his fifty favourite fuckwits, and how he punched their stupid fucking faces in.

JAMIE OLIVER'S BIG BOOK OF TWATS - Jamie Oliver searches for someone who's a bigger twat than him. He fails, but has lots of fun along the way and makes some horrible things out of lettuce.

WINTER IN CLONBINANE - An award-winning tale of loss and redemption set in the sweeping majesty of the Australian outback. Shearer's prostitute Nance discovers the diaries of Ned Kelly hidden inside an angry sheep, and reading them sends her on a strange voyage wherein she discovers her innate sexuality, gets addicted to heroin and learns about the rich culture of the Australian Aborigine. A powerful rumination on the meaning of hope and the seductive sexual power of the merino.

SKANK YOUR WAY TO HAPPINESS - Acclaimed radio sexpert Vanessa Magwitch reveals the secret to landing yourself a man by being incredibly obnoxious and poorly-groomed. Essential reading for every woman who is desperate to find love, but has no desire to be in any way pleasant while doing so.

SNARLY WICKSFORD AND THE CATACOMBS OF TEPPLEWHITE - Having sold over two billion copies around the world, this is the latest children's fantasy sensation, the first volume in the adventures of Snarly Wicksford, an eccentric Welsh schoolboy who is visited one night by a sexually ambiguous gnome who informs him that he is the Lost King of Tepplewhite. Travelling to the magical land through a portal in his underpants, Snarly discovers a delightful world of cheery talking animals and dashing submariners, as well as the pleasures of the flesh. He must also find an enchanted necklace in order to save the kingdom from the wicked Princess Ardleemop, but to be honest he's not in too much of a hurry.

Meantime, new NM.

Who's Britney?

Don't you read the future paper?

I don't get the future paper, I had to kill my cat at a Henny Youngman show.

Hey, did you see that cartoon about Henny Youngman?

Yes, this truly is a golden age for comedy.

Yeah. And poverty.

I'll say, I'm so poor I had to kill my cat for food.

There's a strange inconsistency in your story.

There's a strange inconsistency in your FACE, bitch!

Yeah, people in the 1930s were incredibly rude. Not show-everyone-your-pubic-hair rude, but more like exhibit-unreasonably-extreme-anger-and-hurl-hurtful-insults-for-no-good-reason rude. Franklin Roosevelt, for example. Once he was in the kitchen making a sandwich, and Eleanor came in and said, oh, let me help you because of your polio, and he replied, wanna help me? Get to the gym and work off some of that wobbly jelly-alp you call an ASS! Then he rolled his chair over her foot. It got infected, she nearly died. That's what started World War Two.

The funny thing is, nobody ever recorded what kind of sandwich it was. When Captain Cook discovered Hawaii he named it the Sandwich Islands. People said, hey Jimmy, it's called Hawaii, but he was all, I like my name better, it makes me think of a magical land filled with jam. He actually wrote a book called Harry Potter and the Sandwich Islands, wherein he expanded on his original premise and named each specific island; Peanut Butter Island, Creamed Honey Island, Olsen Twins Island and so forth. JK Rowling sued him because he used the name "Harry Potter" and because the book was mostly about a pretentious Scottish woman who was no better than she ought to be. It was settled out of court by means of a cage match. Cook got the upper hand early until Rowling tagged her teammate, who was a large Hawaiian tribe with spears. So anyway, that kind of pissed Roosevelt off, so it's no wonder he snapped at Eleanor. But Eleanor didn't know all this, so she just thought it was because she wasn't good enough in bed, and she started cutting herself.

But yeah, Joan Rivers. What's up with that?

Also, a meme from jobaby.

1. Tell you why I friended you.
2. Associate you with something - fandom, a song, a colour, a photo, a word etc.
3. Tell you something I like about you.
4. Tell you a memory I have of you.
5. Ask something I've always wanted to know about you.
6. Tell you my favourite user pic of yours.
7. In return, you can post this in

http://mrbehemoth.livejournal.com/307015.html

Or to put it another way...what?

Why is it socially unacceptable to turn around, stick your face a centimetre away from theirs and scream:

"IT'S CHICAGO HOPE YOU FUCKING BITCH!!!!!!"

Also, she's "morally opposed to jukebox musicals". What a fuckstick.

Had a good time at crazyelf's slam the other night. Hope to be back there in the future, whether featuring or competing or...clicking. You should all go along too.

Got something big brewing for a near-future LJ entry. Can't say too much, but it starts with G and rhymes with tasty chicken taco man.

SO for a Christian, dying would be a really great thing. BUT God has slipped in a nasty little clause: you're not allowed to kill yourself, or you won't go to heaven. Which must be a bummer for them, knowing how great it's going to be when they're dead, but not allowed to get themselves there.

If I were a Christian, I'd be heavily into extreme sports. Just keep jumping off bridges and whitewater rafting, crossing my fingers, saying, "Come on, THIS time!"

I will be at crazyelf's slam Wednesday night at Bar Open, 317 Brunswick Street from 7:30pm. If you get there early you can sign up to compete yourself with your own poetic stylings. Or you can just watch and shout out how crap the poets are.

Don't do that when I'm on stage though, because I'm really big.