Thursday, 16 July 2009

stanislav, it all shit is.

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stanislav get letter off nutter in Aberdeen, professor of bottoms is.

Dear Mr stanislav, is best not croak from bowel cancer and no need is, Jock Tribesman government of Alex Lard committed is to Immortality for all Jocks or people living in here, only not English oil-stealing bastard who can all fuck off and die, so here is simple little test kit, is fun for all the family but only you can play. Just to follow simple instruction:

Go in shithouse, put hand in rubber glove and poo into. Can also poo into jamjar or any other similar clean but disposable container and not for fucks sake re-use because rhubarb jam is not so good made in shitjar and maybe fucking poison Vicar when come is for afternoon tea and hypocrisy How you is Mr stanislav, eh, Jesus special place has in heart for plumber, D'ye ken, the noo, and Polack, too, Our Lord was very fond of Polack bastards, Matthew 3 verse 1, Take what ye have and give unto the Pole, is the Word of God, man, How can ye doubt it. I say, Mrs stan, this jam's jolly good, meaty sort of jam, is it a Polack recipe ? I will have a wee dram wi' ye, just the one. Ah'm away over to see Angus at the fairm and get blootered wi' him.

Can also fold thickly several sheet of bogroll, only not Izal, fuck me, no, place in toilet pan, do quick-fire, no-messing-about poo and hope it floats long enough on bogroll to be rescued from drowning, poo sample is fucked, you see, if go in bogwater and have to start all over again and maybe not ready is again for few hours or even tomorrow, all depends. And anyway not every bastard can just do one poo and stop in mid-dump, is it, and would probably just bombard floating Andrex platform with kilo or two of hot poo and sink to bottom of pan and whole shit sampling process is fucked. Is no fucking wonder, is it, that NHS is fucked, people sending out fucking rubbish advice like this and probably come from desk of shit-sampling-solyoushunsRus senior manager on hundred grand and free carpark space. Most people find is best to do poo straight in hand with glove on and not fuck about, if poor bastard is and no glove has can use crisp packet, or Dorittos; if was nurse, after all, no big deal would be. Nurse! Mr McFadden in bed two shit the bed again, the dirty old bastard, just pop down and clear it up,hen, there's a good girl, only I'm having a right good gossip here. And don't waste time washing hands after, patients need to be fed lunch, chop-chop.

Toilet paper method is crap, really, requiring jump-up from bog and turn around with trousers round ankle and arsehole not wipe or nothing because no time is and no place to put used bogroll would be apart from wastepaper bin filled with old Bic razors worn out and blunt as fuck because mean fucking bastard husband use twenty times rather than just scrap after one shave and only cost ten fucking pence to start with but is every morning Oh Fuck me, can get one more shave out of this bastard, waste not fucking want not eh, and maybe in rush to rescue turd on toilet paper and keep dirty bottom with cheeks apart can fall over and crack head and drown in fucking toilet, with lungs full-up of soggy Andrex fill-up with shit, maybe with cancer in, and no point was trying to avoid bowel cancer in first place, because has drown in shit, innit, instead, anyway. And all thanks to lunatic professor in Aberdeen.

Don't embarrassed be, every bastard has to do this but is best just to keep door close in case of passing Liberal Democrat might feel hungry and come in

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and say Oi, stan, can do dump on my face, is no problem will just lie down here because of pressure of work and constituent bastard whining about 'bus fucking stop and hip replacement and give you fifty quid, alright hundred, alright but two-fifty is tops and better be good shit, hot and fresh and big and steamy and smelly and not shrivel-up, miserable little turd, like from Treasury Bench lesbian comes out, fuck me, is one sourfaced, constipated looking, miserable fucking bastard that Angela Eagle, and need good rogering off decent bloke if would do her a favour, only not stanislav, and good colour, too, brown, and not black. Or fucking yellow.

For shit-sampling to be success must take in bog, also, ballpoint pen and cardboard stick and packet of testing envelope. When fresh poo has got in hand take cardboard stick, provided, and get little smear of poo on end, is not much, just a bit and squash onto testing area of little envelope, and then take different bit of poo, from different part of hand-held turd, onkly not with sweetcorn, and squash onto the other testing strip and stick down that section of envelope, only not for fucks sake by licking edge otherwise get hospital acquire infection without even going near hospital, then write date on with pen. Will be hard because right hand is full of turd and must very best do with left hand, if has shelf in shithouse/bathroom/ahn sweet is best put envelope on shelf and clutch with edge of left hand and write as best as can, taking great care to hold other hand, with poo on, some distance away but not up in air just in case can fall off on fucking head. Once date is on envelope can now dispose of turd from hand and best is to just shake off, over bowl and hope that turd fall off when hand is directly over bowl and not onto carpet, not that fucking carpet should have in shithouse but is ahn sweet so ok is, or worse fucking still into glass with teethbreeshes in which most people keep generally close to toilet on account of how everybody now all oral hygiene conscious is but moron just the same and clean teeth in nice warm germy ahn sweet bathroom full of shitbugs and airborne sanitary towel germ and blockage of warm spit and gumblood and scraps of food in fucking vanity unit sink Ubend which no bastard ever empty until bathroom flooded is and need fucking plumber and never even pour-down some Dettol or Tesco value equivalent product which can't tell the difference from and is only half of fucking price, not even that, is just decades of spat-out rubbish go down hole and fucking fester and monstrous, invisible little army of germs come storming up pipe and parachute in fucking mouth and down to Doctorbastard is with case of DirtyBastarditis Poisoning, Oh, fuck me, Doctorbastard, Irritable Bowel Syndrome has got and need three month off from work is, best make six until fullpay runs out and Doctorbastard should say Fuck off dirty bastard and clean fucking house up and never mind Glade Air Freshen Up, get Jeyes Fluid and pour all over filthy fucking gaff and try turning off heat and open fucking windows but of course is in meaningful relationship dialogue with patient and got no balls has and instead of do proper doctoring refer every bastard to nutter in Aberdeen and do shit test is having to, as above. But is not just one time, balance turd in hand and write left-handed on envelope on top of cistern or on comfortable design feature shelf in airless, windowless ahn fucking sweet germ factory but is three bastard times has this fucking nonsense to do, and would soon be expert and job could get in circus, juggling turds and writing left-handed, with trouser down round ankle and unwiped arse if was any fucking circus left apart from fucking government and house of fucking common and Royal fucking bastard Family of para-fucking-site like Charles, Prince of fucking Wales, and cardboard cut-out Duke and fucking Duchess of this that and fucking other with fucking hundredweight or Euro fucking equivalent of scrap iron costume medals and fucking sashes and fucking ribbons as though useless shower of fucking inbred German ruffians and ponce and pimp just stepped out has from Gilbert and fucking Sullivan Comic fucking Opera set in Ruri-fucking-tania and expect stanislav to bow and fucking scrape at useless fucking idle slags, good for fuck all and up against wall should go. Is fucking twenty fucking first fucking century, innit, can drop fragmentation bomb right on Paki school playground from Washington DC and yet still bowing and fucking scraping is like was New Mediaevalists and stanislav garden party should go to and stand like cunt and useless fairy bastard prince says Oh, and you are a plumber, how very thrilling that must be for you, but not for me, fuck no, carry on, there's a good chap. stanislav bet fortune that Prince of fucking Wales poo stuff procedure doesn't have to do, get royal footman, keeper of the royal shithouse and get him to do it all,

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I SAY, WIPE ONE'S ARSE FOR ONE,
THERE'S A GOOD CHAP.

Yes, Your Royal Highness, just poo right here in my hand, if you will be so gracious, oh, Fuck me, Sir, isn't that a magnifent Royal turd, Your Highness is so clever and my goodness, Sire, such an aroma, I'm getting Saxe Coburg and I'm getting Battenberg and if I'm not mistaken I'm getting a hint of Coldstream Guard, Sire, but that'll be from last night, Your Worship.

Would rather fucking have cancer and die than do all this shit, catching poo in hand and jumping up and down in shithouse like demented person with anal fixation, or Herman the German. Herman has special little tray in his toilet so's can examine each and every turd, make sure it is fit for Thousand Year Reich, mad fucking bastard, no wonder all German bint is dyke. Every morning Herman says Ach du Lieber Gott, Mein Frau, look at the size of dis bastard, is like from dambusters, nein, big bastard is, nothing wrong is mit Gunter's bowel, Ja? Can have close examination, bitte, ov your movements' mein Liebschen, Oh, Ja, is pretty little ones, nein? Dirty, filthy bastard is Herman.

But have good idea, can just follow dog, Buster,

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on evening dump walk, or morning, or afternoon dump walk and poke little stick in BusterPoo and send off to mad professor, all stuck down in triple envelope. Mind, is good job living in country now and not suburbia, Buster was sick one time, well not just one time but this time VetBastardUlike but not very much said Oi, stan, here is tinfoil tray and just follow Buster around street and when is in mid-stream and leg cocked just shove tray underneath and get sample for me and get sent in laboratory and that'll be twenty nine pounds, please and tray was just piece of junk like faggot and peas come in from Spar CheapShop4Uis but stan and Mrs try to be good citizen and do like told by professional thieving bastard and take dog, Buster, out round streets armed with tinfoil tray. Buster over shoulder was looking like his people has turned into deranged dog-murdering bastard perverts and sitting down and refuse to budge and po-faced Presbyterian bastard neighbours in Inverness
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is all peep from curtain and go Oh fucking dear, so it is, lookit what they're doin tae yon puir wee dawg, JesusMaryandJoseph, d'ye think we should call the Jock RSPCA or the polis, lookit, they're chasing him again and the bloke's trying to get underneath the wee man's howsyerfaithers, so he is, Oh my goodness, I heard about they Polish men but Ah didnae ken they was intae this shit, and in broad fucking daylight, when is the guvinment going tae do something aboot they damn foreign devils coming over here; d'ye ken ye cannae get a book in English doon the library, they're all fucking Polish, excuse my language, but how do they read all that shit all full up with zeds and vees and doubleyoous and queues and cees, fuck me, that's a desperate lingo, d'ye suppose it affects their teeth, or the way they breathe, no wonder they cry so much, but in the name a Gawd that's no reason for them sexually molesting the puir wee dawg, look he's doin' it again, the noo, out there in broad daylight, and the Inverness shops, they're all filled up with beetroot and cabbage in vinegar and vodka, and chocolate-covered rice crispies; Aw fer Gawd's sake, Angus, they've got the puir wee divil and they're squeezing him, so they are, intae a frozen food container and his puir wee bit a tinkle's coming oot and yon man, in the overalls, he's jumpin' up and doon in delight, so he is, and so stanislav not have very happy memories of chasing dog, Buster, for a urine sample and nearly get run out from town on tar and fucking feather off sour old Jock fishingwife, would no point have been saying Look, Mrs in dog own interest is and not for fucking fun am chasing bloke round street and try and catch piss in tub for analysing,like lunatic with head stuck up dog arse, what you think, stainslav crazy bastard is ? No fucking point, but now is in country living and no bastard neighbour has, because if neighbour saw stanislav poking about in dog shit and putting in envelope and drop in village postbox, shotguns would be out. Anyway will try to sort things out, compulsory not is to do poo nonsense, and just as fucking well. Maybe can email professor and say shit in the post is, honest.

19 comments:

Anonymous said...

That is some funny shit- not unlike the waste of time NHS leaflets telling 80 yr olds to go fuck themselves (and how to get viagra for the job), and programs telling teenagers how not to get pregnant with the useful slogun "an orgasm a day keeps the doctor away"

Brahan Seer said...

Stanislav - have been through this ghastly process twice!, cunt in Aberdeen demanded a recount!

Brahan Seer said...

Just occurred to me that the fuckers could including poo results on id cards. A kind of shite-o-metric profile.

The Dyer's Garden said...

It is peerless, Mr Smith, your skill at keeping it afloat.

lilith said...

You could try cutting out wheat and dairy for 10 days, then adding them in one at a time. They can play havoc. May just be that.

You are marvellously integrated Stan with this willingness to chat about poo.

lilith said...

I am sorry, I sound unsympathetic. I'm not. Down these parts they send you several packs of dessicated goo that have to be mixed with water and drunk, no food for 24 hours then the nice doctor man gives you a little prick of rohypnol and the next thing you know they have photos of your colon. (Then the next thing you know is that the doctor performing the procedure is really an impostor and the whole thing has to be done again...)

Daisy said...

Dear Mr Ishmael,

Nice to know that the ingenuity of the Tribesmen is so boundless in finding ways to spend our money, especially when obesity, alcoholism and drug overdose is so low on the most frequent cause of death totem pole in Jockland. Can I suggest that everyone invests in a bigger envelope, inserts a complete turd and addresses it for the personal attention of the even bigger turd in 10 Downing Street.

In other news, I see the PM appeared before the select committee chairmen this morning, to answer questions that were clearly designed to tease out whether we are being governed by someone who is simply on the loopy side of loony, or whether, in fact, we are dealing with a case veering more towards the plumb loco end of the mental health spectrum.

The committee concluded, in their usual cowardly way, that the results were inconclusive, but I'm not so sure. It would be hard, in my humble opinion, for anyone watching Brown's pitiful and arse-clenchingly embarrassing performance to come away failing to be convinced that the man is anything other than a complete fruitcake.

My personal favourite was his answer to the direct question "Did the Army ask for 2000 extra troops"

"No, no, you're quite wrong there. If the number of troops is now 9,150, there was no request for 11,150."

Arbuthnot, who had asked the question, showed cowardice above and beyond the call of duty when he then failed to point out that that might be because we didn't have 9,150 troops in Afghanistan back in March, when the request was made, and that such request could not therefore possibly have resulted in a total of 11,150. He might also have pointed out that Brown answered a question that he wasn't asked, and could he now please address the one he was asked. To be completely fair, he was sitting with his mouth hanging open in shock and utter amazement at the level of sheer mendaciousness and deceit being offered up for public consumption in so shameless and blatant a manner.

I thought Buster looked... well,..."sweet", in his apprentice overalls, name on and everything. Keep him away from them double-glazing units is my advice.

Verge said...

Dear Mr Ish, don't take this the wrong way but shades of Wm Burroughs' Commissioner of Sewers routine ("my teenage daughters is cunt-deep in shit. Is this the American way of life?" I thought so & I didn't want it changed...)

Traditional & the individual talent...keep you regular so they do.

Dick the Prick said...

Dear Mr Ish

You alright lad? Not getting clever now is ya? Knew just time, knew just is - heart defect 34; sternum ready - mechanics work - good innings, rather an innings. Next day = best day.

Much love

DtP

call me ishmael said...

stanislav has no bowel cancer, thanks, Mr DTP, he was just picked at random to do the sample, part of a strategy, there is no underlying concern, only as to his humiliation in the process, although it seems to stop short of West Country practice, stuffing folk with turnips and filming them.

It would be wrong of stanislav to admit to more than a passing acquaintanceship with William Burroughs and then only with The Naked Lunch, he can't even add a "but I know what you mean" as his recollection is of something very dark, something that one, quite responsibly, would not want one's children or servants to read. Even in these days of SnuffPornoLib, Last Exit to Brooklyn, far superior to Burroughs and entirely worthy, is best kept right on a top shelf, lest it corrupt and deprave; I feel there is nothing of Burroughs in stanislav, conscious or otherwise, more Jerome K Jerome, who, I believe, delighted him some years ago but even that influence is miniscule, stanislav hears his own voices and it is not I, Smith, whom you applaud, Mr TDG, but stanislav himself, a creature apart, who comes and goes, as he pleases. I think he nearly fell off the wire on this one but was saved by the Presbyterians, as, eventually, shall be all men, and possibly women.

I may have mentioned before that I made a conscious decision not to watch the horror that is Brown, on the grounds that it is bad for my mental hygeine, Mr Daisy, I simply can't do it, it is too distressing. Keith Vaz being given the chair of the Home Affairs Committee completely trashed what fragment of faith I had in the Westminster game and watching Glasgow John McFall at the Treasury Committee and on the box during the Meltdown just wrapped it all up. I watch bits of the Parliament channel just for the impudence of it, if you wanted a process to cower and bamboozle the ordinary person you couldn't, as the right honourable member for Luton south has remarked from a sedentary position, design something more mystifying than this bogus, nonsensical horseshit and I'm grateful to my right hounourable and learned gentlemena from Bury, for saying so. The first thing a reforming speaker would do would be to say call the other bastard by his fucking name so people at home know what the fuck you're talking about; this of course, would disempower, as we now say, the gentlemen of the media, who explain all this shit to us from a crib sheet of the names and constituencies of the glorious six-hundred-plus. A parliamentary process which needs, literally, to be translated to the people is just fuckery.
The Jock parliament is very different; cunts, all of them, but at least you have an idea of what they are talking about. Brown, however, I cannae bear. I am always grateful to stouter souls, such as yourself, whose precis and condensation I do read, here and at Swiss Bob's.

"Traditional & the individual talent...keep you regular so they do." Don't understand Mr Verge, do clarify.

caesars wife said...

brings a whole new meaning to brown enevelope !

like the buster pic !

mikey said...

I insist on buying you a beer..sometime, somewhere...you have made me laugh out loud, again... Thank you.

Verge said...

Dear Mr Ish, agree to differ on the Uncle Bill v Hubert Selby match-up (WSB would have won in a fight, usually armed as he was, and poor old Selby was always rather frail) - I suppose I just mean Stanislav makes me laugh like the best of Burroughs, no mean feat, and that there's a rusty thread linking hilarious, angry scatterlogs from Swift through Burroughs to Stanislav (this would be the "tradition and the individual talent" bit, thinly remembered from college, Eliot appropriately enough considering the near-anagram of his name there) and whether any of this is deliberate or not really doesn't matter - Intentional Fallacy anyone? Thought not - Anima Mundi, collective unconscious, whataver you wanna call it.

Naked Lunch probably should be kept away from children, but it's pretty mild compared to something like Samuel Delaney's "Hogg", which should be kept away from grown-ups even if it is just about justifiable as serious writing. I won't presume upon your hospitality to launch here a defence of Burroughs, but he wrote a lot of stuff that's surprisingly accessible and doesn't always feature spurting corpses. The Commissioner of Sewers thing is from "When did I stop wanting to be President". "Cities of the Red Night" is probably his masterpiece, though it is one of the top shelf issues. Did you know Scotland played a part in launching his career?

call me ishmael said...

Thanks Mr Verge, you are, by the sound of it, absolutely right about Burroughs v Selby, it's just that, maybe, as these things go, one caught me in a right frame of mind, the other in a wrong 'un; another factor was that Burroughs, or the idea of Burroughs, seemed to become a fashionable wasteland, colonised by utterly worthless dandies and degenerates, degenerate just for the sake of it and not from any true junkie outlaw vocation, a night in the cells of conformity would have them screeching for their agents,their managers, for any therapy at all, just as long as it was expensive. In the light of your comments, however, I will Google Burroughs' ass, once more with feeling, I have a coupla books but none of those which you commend.

The thing about young Mr stanislav is that the more he is deconstructed, the less frequent his visits; unlike many in cyberspace he has no interest in becoming a movement; that he makes others - and himself - laugh aloud, Mr Mikey, is, thank you kindly, in these dark Brown days, libation enough.

Rightwinggit said...

I laughed so hard I shit myself.

Verge said...

Dear Mr Ish, next time the plumber drops in lend him a copy of "Roosevelt after Inauguration" originally a Fuck You Press production but probably from less confrontational-sounding presses by now. Pamphlet-sized, very funny, & spot-on.

I know what you mean about the junkie-chic crowd. Twats. WSB did the business as much in spite of his appetites as because of them. The American Way of Words was a help, too - that is, once they get to a certain level of achievement/longevity, yank scribes often seem to accrete a kind of helpful microclimate of admirers & amanuenses (amanuensissies? Quite possibly). In the UK you get cut adrift, I think this happened with Angus Wilson for example.

Also recommended are Junky (matter of fact, Chandlerish), The Adding Machine (essays & reviews, "Bugger the Queen" omitted from the UK edition by cowardly Calder) & The Western Lands (another fleet Boschian dreamscape, companion-piece to CRN.) He even wrote a robustly ecomythological short called "Ghost of Chance."

You & he would have been in complete agreement on the "War on Drugs", btw.

call me ishmael said...

PUBLISHER'S NOTE:

THE BRAHAN SEER is a sort of MacNostradamus, a 17th c HighJocklands prophet who saw all sorts of shit coming and foretold it. I do believe they killed him, like they do. He is on WIKI, which he failed to foresee but his acquaintance is best made in the cod-Victorian wrought-iron Oh Fuck Me, aren't we soooooo chic splendour of the hamlet of StrathPeffer; you will find him in the heritage woods, best avoid the grey-haired, motorcycling German lesbians, soaking-up whatever it is they soak up. And don't start me about the coachloads of fat Americans, doing Scotland.

Verge said...

"...motorcycling German lesbians, soaking-up whatever it is they soak up" - KY cut with schnapps, presumably. (Don't forget to pack the fisting mittens, Gretchen.)

Nah, sorry, the campaign starts here - I'm formally starting you about those fat Americans...

(They don't have coaches any more down here - Passenger Transport Units, I shit you not.)

spark up said...

that's the ticket stan, cut the transfatty politicians out of your diet, take in some universal metaphors, surreo-sexuo symbolism and billowing barleyfields and you'll live forever - well your words will anyway.