This is the Thread Where You Post a Literary Parody

Baldness is a problem brother.

What If...? Jeeves Was Batman's Butler.

>>>haiku? >forwarded email?

>>or roto roster?

The young man was drinking a low mug of the local brew, to whose popularity I have already adverted. He was, I should estimate, about 5'4" in height, blue of eye, with a noticeable scar upon his right eyebrow. I found myself, during what ensued, wondering at intervals how the scar had been attained - perhaps in a motorcycle crash, or a freak shaving incident, or some form of bizarre boating accident. His pale-faced companion, sipping from what was perhaps an espresso, was clad in a black that matched her hair, which was indeed quite raven-like in hue. On my travels I have often stopped to observe the youths of the locale, and now as on many earlier occasions I felt a kind of pleasing aesthetic repose to observe a pair of young travellers so even of feature, so healthy of body, so fair on the eye - my tone will not, I trust, be taken by my reader as lascivious in any respect, but rather as tending towards that 'ideal stasis' described by the intellectualizing hero of a well-known bildungsroman published during the Great War; towards such a 'stasis', I repeat, rather than towards the 'kinetic' response also daringly outlined by the same young *philosophe*. And yet I could not avoid noting at the same moment some qualification of youth in our pair, some world-weariness perhaps, some toll of years which could be heard clanging distantly on closer inspection. Their skin was indeed just a little more pocked and lined, their eyes a little more wry, not to say jaded, than one finds in those in the true bloom of youth; and yet withal this only added, for this observer, to the charm of the pair, who seemed to combine in their very being the wisdom of lives already taken in both hands and lived, and the undying joy of unvanquished youth. It was to these pleasing wayfarers, in any case, that I could not prevent myself from listening, as I nursed a small, dark espresso of my own. (There is a tale to be told, by the by, concerning the geographical and historical variations of the concept, or more simply the term, espresso; a tale, however, to which I do not propose to subject the reader during this chapter, or perhaps indeed during this book itself.)

He: Well, you know, the thing is, I actually applied to join them
She: Who?
H: Belle and Sebastian - you know, they lost their bass player to his other band or something, and I actually wrote to them and told them I could fill in if they were interested
S: You're joking - would you have been able to play the songs?
H: A lot of them are quite easy, aren't they? 'Dylan In The Movies', E, A, E, see-saw sort of stuff, just walking it up and down. I mean, I know a lot of the songs, yeah
S: So what did you tell them - did you say who you were?
H: Well, I said I'd been in a successful band in the early 90s and I felt my style would fit into theirs quite easily
S: I don't think it would. I hope you didn't send a copy of 'Leave Them All Behind'
H: No, I sent them some other stuff - stuff I've been practising on myself recently, plus some of the old tracks, the proper stuff
S: 'Decay'? That had a wicked intro
H: Yeah, that one, and 'Taste', I always liked 'Taste'
S: Me too. We all did. We used to dance to it
H: Did you?
S: Yeah, it's a good thing we didn't say so at the time - you're not meant to dance to your rivals' songs, are you?
H: No, that's your own songs - you're not meant to be seen dancing to your own records, that's the thing
S: So what did they say?
H: Nothing. I never heard back from them

She laughed. Her laugh was like sunshine over the slightly dull Central European plain on which, as I have remarked, we were beached. One or two of our fellow café-dwellers looked round as if in envy at the source of amusement, or indeed, more probable, at the perfection of her laughter itself.

S: Do you think they dance to their own stuff?
H: B&S? Yeah, I would - I think it's quite danceable actually. But you have to come from the kind of discos we used to go to to think that
S: It'd be nice if they played them and us back to back. Stop people forgetting
H: I used to like dancing to that one you did really early on, it sort of stopped and started - 'Drowner'?
S: 'Downer'
H: But people dance to different kinds of things now - I mean, that's why they've done the new single. It's trying to make people dance
S: I couldn't dance to it
H: I could, it's fun
S: Eugh, no... it's really contrived, it's got that beat that's meant to make people start going like Mike Myers, totally unlike anything they've done before. They should realize that people like dancing to Belle and Sebastian - *I* like dancing to Belle and Sebastian! - cos of the kind of thing they always did - you know, those swinging rhythms like 'She's Losing It'
H: 'Get Me Away From Here'
S: Yeah - but the least dancey thing is when people go all contrived and start adding dance beats that don't sound natural
H: But that's what you did! On 'Lovelife'!
S: Uhhh, no, that's not fair... that album was contrived in a different way - I mean, we may have been trying to catch up with what other people were doing, rather than making them try and do what were doing ourselves, but there aren't any dance rhythms on that record
H: I mean the song, 'Lovelife' - on 'Split'. That was dancey. And there were remixes. I've got it at home, the 'Suga Bullit Remix' or something.
S: Well that's just what I'm talking about - I never really wanted to release remixes like that, because you know they're the one thing that when they come on in a disco everyone's just going to go to the bar or sit down - because it sounds contrived, like it wasn't really our natural thing
H: So why do it?
S: Oh, I don't know - we were all young and foolish, weren't we?

She laughed again. My veins raced a little.

S: So that's the thing about the single, but it's not just that - the 60s thing, the retro - I mean, B&S didn't need to resort to that. We never did
H: Yes, we did.
S: Yeah, I suppose *you* did.

She sang, in a voice which I fancied stilled the birds on the surrounding trees.

S: I don't know where it comes from - I don't know where it comes from... Like, why does everyone have to end up revisiting the same bits of the past?
H: But music is always deriving from the past, innit. I'd like it if people derived from us now
S: And the way the girls sing, it's so prissy - they sound like the school choir - the head girls leading it
H: That's how they've always sounded, though! Like on 'Mary Jo' the pianos and recorders and that are school instruments.
S: But they sound really solemn, really tight-throated
H: Like you and Miki
S: And that Neil Hannon bit in the middle - oh, it's so disappointing - I really thought B&S were the best band since...
H: Since we stopped
S: Since *we* stopped! And they seem to be pissing it away
H: No, I don't think, I think they're still - Excuse me, can we help you?

I rose out of my fascinated reverie to realize that I was bring addressed. My eyes flickered with recognition, but the rest of my body was ill-equipped to respond to the request. For I had leaned over so far towards the pair in the course of their brief exchange that I was, I now realized, perched on the edge of my iron chair, with two fingers stretched in the other direction and still touching the table my only real means of support. I attempted to utter a polite word of greeting. It emerged as a sort of grunt. The pair stared at me with a mixture, I felt to my shame, of distaste and concern, as for an unending moment I sought to steady myself, leaning gradually back towards my own table. When this operation had been achieved with success, I nodded at the young man, grabbed at my collection of short fiction and flapped it open at random. I started reading, frantically, blushing and wheezing with embarrassment and effort, at page 152.

P.G. Wodehouse's Batman:
I was spreading a generous helping of marmalade on my toast when I heard Alfred make a sound that bespoke something like disgust.
"What's wrong now, Alfred?"
"I was merely wondering whether sir was planning to wear those clothes in public, sir."
"Dash it Alfred, what's wrong with my clothes?"
"Might they be intended to amuse some children, of whose visit you have so far neglected to inform me, sir?"
"No they would not, Alfred. Is it the cape?"
"It does seem a touch...extravagant, sir."
"They're all the rage down at the JLA, Alfred. Speccy Kent wears a red one. Baldy J'onn has a green one."
"Indeed, sir."
"Yes. Indeed, Alfred."
"Have they taken to masks also, sir?"
"You know very well they haven't, Alfred, but Hal and Tiny Ray wear masks."
"Very well, sir."
He didn't make any attempt to disguise the distress and disappointment in his voice, but I knew that I held the trump card.
"Do you not think this outfit will strike fear into the hearts of evildoers, Alfred?"
"Not...precisely, sir. I would rather anticipate their approaching hysteria from a quite different direction, sir."
"That's enough, Alfred. Dash it, I will not tolerate your telling me what to wear. Anyway, we have a more pressing matter to deal with. You remember Selina Kyle?"
"Miss Kyle, sir? Indeed. A somewhat...aggressive woman."
"Very aggressive. Well, the thing is..."
"Yes, sir?"
"We seem to be engaged."

(For anyone who isn't a comics fan and who for some reason read that anyway, Selina Kyle is the Catwoman.)

Ernest Hemingway's Hulk:
"You are the best there is at keeping him calm, old one," I said.
The old one looked at the far, dusty hills.
"That was a long time ago, young one. I had more cojones then," said Rick Jones. He looked at his empty glass of enjarda.
"Are you thinking about the wound, old one?"
"Yes. I am thinking about the wound. It was a bad wound."
"That was long ago, old one."
"Yes. That was long ago. I was great then."
"Yes. You were one of the great ones then, old one."
Over the dusty hills leapt a huge green monster.
"HULK KILL!!!"
"That is the way it is with gamma rays, old one."
"Yes. That is the way it is."

(Note: Rick Jones was the Hulk's companion in his early days. Really if you aren't a comic fan there's little point in reading these at all. Especially the next one, which I can't even begin to explain if you don't know the characters.)

George Orwell's Legion Of Super-Pets
"When was 'but some animals are more equal than others' added to the wall, Streaky?" said Krypto.
"I don't know. It's the first time I've noticed it."
They both stared at the fresh paint on the old stone clubhouse wall.
"Hey!" said Streaky. "Didn't it use to read 'Four legs good, two legs bad'?"
"That's right!" said Proty, who had just joined them. "It has to be Beppo. I saw him here this morning, and he's the only one of the Legion Of Super-Pets who walks on two legs."
"And he's had Comet pulling a cart full of hay all day," barked Krypto.
"Everything's changed," mewed Streaky. "Was it all worth it?"
"I don't know," said Proty sadly. "It's as bad now as before we got rid of Superboy and Supergirl."

William Shakespeare's Captain America:
Act III. Scene I. Avengers Mansion.
Enter Captain America, Thor, Iron Man, Giant Man, Wasp.
Cap: Here had we now our country's honour roof'd
Were the graced person of our Bucky present
Who may I rather pity for mischance
Than challenge for unkindness. The table's full.
Iron Man: Here is a place reserved, Cap.
Cap: Where?
Iron Man: Here, my good Cap.
Thor: What is't that moves thee?
Cap: Which of you have done this?
Wasp: What, my dear Cap?

Cap: Thou canst not say I did it: never shake
Thy gory locks at me.
Giant Man: What ails thee, Cap?
Cap: This is the very painting of my fear.
Blood hath been shed ere now, i' the olden time.
Yet rests evil Zemo now in a grave?
Nay, the perfidious villain liveth still!
Oh Bucky, if only thou were't here in sooth!

(Bucky was Cap's young sidekick, killed by Zemo. You will notice that the last two are less pastiches than copies with some changes. I think the first two are more genuine pastiches, as I recall.)

It draws upon me, this thing, sometimes in the deep darkness of night, its foetid presence reeking of almost tangible, obscene villainy. I can -- although I know this is mere imagination -- literally feel its rank breath upon my cheek as I try in vain to sleep. The stench is beyond description. Its power to grip me in a state of terror knows no bounds.

It has no shape, no real form; it creeps and oozes and flows with a preternatural ease and swiftness that chills the blood.

If only it would set me free, I would tell my story to the world, or at least to anyone who would listen, so they might learn the folly of plunging into such unknowable waters. But it can not be.

I am the Internet's slave.

etc. etc.

That’s You Fucked Noo, Supercunt

Peyed aff, eh? Wisnae ma fault, ah telt thum ah couldnae see through fuckin’ lead, but naw, they made me go intae the room aw the same. Cunts.

Soas if ah couldnae see intae the place, how the fuck could ah huv known aboot thur fuckin’ kryptonite the Luthor gadge hud pit inside? The cunts in charge know that fuckin’ stuff pure takes aw ma powers away, so nae wonder ah couldnae stop that busload ay orphans crashin’ intae the Scott Monument… mind you, the wee cunts were fae Wester Hailes, eh, soas it wis probably a blessin’ in disguise for the puir wee bastards when they all goat kilt, saved thum fae a life ay misery oan the scheme wi some daft fuckin’ burd they’s knocked up jist soas they could produce even mair wee fuckin’ schemies for an already overburdened Welfare fuckin’ State.

Of which ah wis also a burden. That wis it eftir that, they gave us the heave. Fuck off Supercunt, that wanker McConnell sais tae us, we’ve goat fuckin’ Aquaman noo. He fits in better wi oor new trendy waterfront image here in Leith as well, ye’ll no see him scared ay fuckin’ kryptonite. Ah thoat ah wid try hard tae make a go ay ma writin’ gig at the Scotsman eftir that, but tae tell yis the truth ah wis nevir really ony guid at thon. Ah eywis made sure ah hud tae nip oot as Superman jist before a deadline or something, so ah dinnae think ah actually ever wrote owt for the cunts. Thur big gadge White kent all along ah wis Supes ah reckon, but he nevir let oan tae us. Ah’m pretty sure he was yasin’ it as prestige doon the old Jackies, no? Thur aw in each others poackits doon thayre, lookin’ fur something tae yase against each other, scratch ma back an’ aw that. Shame, wis a guid ticket that wan, let me spend aw day in the pub – when ah wisnae bein’ Supes, likes.

Ah’m fuckin’ Hank Marvin. Ah wonder if there’s anything tae eat in the kitchen? A wee use ay ma x-ray vision there… magic, a bit ay cauld kebab. Joys ay heat vision that, they get better when you reheat the fuckers.

Oh aye, so then thur Lois bitch fucked oaf tae once she’d found us oot. Ah’m no wastin’ ma time wi a dead end fuckin’ ex-hero, she sais, ah’m oaf tae get a real fuckin’ hero. Last ah heard she wis shacked up wi Palmer, The Atom, ken? Whit kind ay fuckin’ power is that, tae be able tae make yersel wee’er? Make yersel’ bigger ah could understand, a wee bit advantage whin yir oan the joab nevir does ony hairm, eh? Ah think she still hus a grudge against us fur that one time she let us dae her up the erchie. Ah said ah wis sorry, and the doctors made a barry joab ay the stiches, bit as ah says tae her at the time ah cannae ayways tell when ma super-speed’s gonnae kick in. She should be fuckin’ thankful ah wisnae the fuckin’ Flash, that cunt’s as quick it’s aw over before ye’ve even noticed he’s fuckin’ in, or at least that’s what ah’ve heard. How could she no have started tae play fur the other side and gone aff wi Wonder Woman? Wid’ve been a tidy wee wank fantasy that wan, let alone the fact ah could have watched them from a distance wi ma supervision.

Fuckin’ handy thing that vision, ah caught the Batman shaggin’ that Catwoman burd the other night. Eh’d jist yased a batarang tae make a wee hole in her costume and fuckin’ done her through that man! Nae fuckin’ joke! The costumes must be big thing fur him, eh? Must help him get wid. Funny thing that though, ah eywis thought the cunt wis a buftie, whit wi that wee cunt that yased tae follay him aboot dressed up like a wee fuckin’ lassie, and ah wisnae the only wan. That fuckin’ Joker gadge fur starters, ah yased tae think when he cried the cunt Batty Boy he wis jist tryin’ tae sound like yin ay they ragga cunts, ken.

Mibbes ah’ll try mah hand at a wee scam next, eh, see whit it’s like oan the other side. Ah kin take that cunt Aquaman, ah ken that, mibbes hook up wi wee Mixxy and gie McConnell whit’s comin’ tae um. He’s a tasty wee bastard, but a bit stupit, ken? Ivry cunt kens aw yis huv tae dae is get um tae say his name backwards and the cunt faws fur it ivry fuckin’ time.

Ah’ll jist watch ‘Inside Scottish Football’ then gie the wee cunt a bell…

FRAGMENT OF A GREEK TRAGEDY
by A. E. Housman

CHORUS: O suitably-attired-in-leather-boots
Head of a traveler, wherefore seeking whom
Whence by what way how purposed art thou come
To this well-nightingaled vicinity?
My object in inquiring is to know.
But if you happen to be deaf and dumb
And do not understand a word I say,
Then wave your hand, to signify as much.

ALCMAEON: I journeyed hither a Boetian road.
CHORUS: Sailing on horseback, or with feet for oars?
ALCMAEON: Plying with speed my partnership of legs.
CHORUS: Beneath a shining or a rainy Zeus?
ALCMAEON: Mud's sister, not himself, adorns my shoes.
CHORUS: To learn your name would not displease me much.
ALCMAEON: Not all that men desire do they obtain.
CHORUS: Might I then hear at what thy presence shoots.
ALCMAEON: A shepherd's questioned mouth informed me that--
CHORUS: What? for I know not yet what you will say.
ALCMAEON: Nor will you ever, if you interrupt.
CHORUS: Proceed, and I will hold my speechless tongue.
ALCMAEON: This house was Eriphyle's, no one else's.
CHORUS: Nor did he shame his throat with shameful lies.
ALCMAEON: May I then enter, passing through the door?
CHORUS: Go chase into the house a lucky foot.
And, O my son, be, on the one hand, good,
And do not, on the other hand, be bad;
For that is very much the safest plan.
ALCMAEON: I go into the house with heels and speed.

CHORUS

Strophe

In speculation
I would not willingly acquire a name
For ill-digested thought;
But after pondering much
To this conclusion I at last have come:
LIFE IS UNCERTAIN.
This truth I have written deep
In my reflective midriff
On tablets not of wax,
Nor with a pen did I inscribe it there,
For many reasons: LIFE, I say, IS NOT
A STRANGER TO UNCERTAINTY.
Not from the flight of omen-yelling fowls
This fact did I discover,
Nor did the Delphine tripod bark it out,
Nor yet Dodona.
Its native ingenuity sufficed
My self-taught diaphragm.

Antistrophe

Why should I mention
The Inachean daughter, loved of Zeus?
Her whom of old the gods,
More provident than kind,
Provided with four hoofs, two horns, one tail,
A gift not asked for,
And sent her forth to learn
The unfamiliar science
Of how to chew the cud.
She therefore, all about the Argive fields,
Went cropping pale green grass and nettle-tops,
Nor did they disagree with her.
But yet, howe'er nutritious, such repasts
I do not hanker after:
Never may Cypris for her seat select
My dappled liver!
Why should I mention Io? Why indeed?
I have no notion why.

Epode

But now does my boding heart,
Unhired, unaccompanied, sing
A strain not meet for the dance.
Yes even the palace appears
To my yoke of circular eyes
(The right, nor omit I the left)
Like a slaughterhouse, so to speak,
Garnished with woolly deaths
And many sphipwrecks of cows.
I therefore in a Cissian strain lament:
And to the rapid
Loud, linen-tattering thumps upon my chest
Resounds in concert
The battering of my unlucky head.

ERIPHYLE (within): O, I am smitten with a hatchet's jaw;
And that in deed and not in word alone.
CHORUS: I thought I heard a sound within the house
Unlike the voice of one that jumps for joy.
ERIPHYLE: He splits my skull, not in a friendly way,
Once more: he purposes to kill me dead.
CHORUS: I would not be reputed rash, but yet
I doubt if all be gay within the house.
ERIPHYLE: O! O! another stroke! that makes the third.
He stabs me to the heart against my wish.
CHORUS: If that be so, thy state of health is poor;
But thine arithmetic is quite correct.