K, Bop or Boppy--take your pick! (bop_radar) wrote,
K, Bop or Boppy--take your pick!


I'm distressed! I can't work out which is funnier--David Tennant on Friday Night Project, the Battlestar Galactica Season 3 gag reel or the oh-so-brainbleach-necessitating wank? Eee!! Too many giggles to choose from!

(Actually I think my favourite is still David Tennant's facial expressions and occasional spontaneous gales of laughter on Friday Night Project, but it was a photo finish...)

So since my f'list has linked me to so many great giggles, I feel I should return the favour. :-) On the weekend I picked up this book in my local bookstore. I laughed so hard I had to buy it so people would stop staring at me. I would best describe it as crack!fic for/by literary geeks. Evidently it's based on a Radio 4 show in the UK--I picked it up because I like Sebastian Faulks (at times--I was pretty disappointed in Human Traces). Anyway, it consists of short parodies of famous writers, including:
- Jane Austen dates an American Psycho
- Geoffrey Chaucer celebrates the appointment of Geri Haliwell to the UN ambassador on AIDS education in Africa
- Franz Kafka tackles Microsoft
- DH Lawrence writes a brochure for 18-30 holidays
- Hemingway writes a family Christmas letter
- the Brontes place personal ads
- Oscar Wilde tries his hand at being an agony aunt
- Shakespeare writes a speech for Basil Faulty

For a taster, here is Martin Amis sends his lad to Hogwarts, with a warning for smut, *g*
Primped and shining in the school's idea of a uniform - to which my success in the risibly straightforward scholarship exam had condemned me - I was presented to 'Professor' McGonagall, a chestless sexagenarian with halitosis that could have downed a wing of Lancasters; then to Dumbledore, the shuffling dotard of a headmaster, whose eyes appraised me with the unhurried insolence of the career pederast.

He entrusted me to Hermione Granger, a smug little number with a row of coloured gel pens in the pocket of her Aertex shirt, an item given pleasing heft by the twin discs of her tumid little breasts. She was, I had already been told, rumoured to give hand jobs of Stakhanovite efficiency to the gods of the Quidditch team as they showered off the stardust of their sporting triumphs, lined up in engorged single file.

The dormitory was a row of iron beds, purchased at some Gulag boot sale; the wanking opportunities, doubtless in breach of numerous human rights, looked about as promising as those at a lock-down facility for convicted Islamic pick-pockets.

Next from that baleful twilight emerged 'Ron' Weasley, a spavined welterweight who reeked of chav, with his fucked-up bathmat of orange frizz and his eyes full of cancelled hope. In the bed next to mine was Harry Potter, a weapons-grade geek with a thunderbolt of acne through his candidly sebaceous forehead, who told me he lived in a cupboard for fuck's sake.

Outside, I waved goodbye to my parents with sinister, noir-ish gestures, the sculpted rhomboids of my fingernails still glistening from the manicure they had received that morning from Renska, the tragically unmagnetic Pole in Hans 'n' Feat on Ken High Streeet, who had more or less begged me to let her go down on my, admittedly, triangulated groin.

'Gosh,' said little Potter, 'I hope you'll be in Gryffindor.'

'I think not', I said, watching as the witch McGonagall embarked on some embarrassing hokum with an oldster's
rug-covering into which she periodically plunged her veiny claw.

I had been given the low-down on the houses by one Malfoy, an enthusiastic sodomite in the second year, whose parentsknew mine through some unspeakable, almost certainly adulterous, connection of tennis and 'pot-luck' suppers, for which Mrs M favoured pleated white skirts of possibly illegal brevity, granting occasional glimpses of white cotton gash that had furnished material for an entire summer of jackhammer fantasy.

And so it was that at the end of my first day, answering wearily to the call of my name, I pulled myself up to my full four feet eleven and sauntered through the porter's lodge to Slytherin, its turbid quadrangles, its simmering ante-rooms...

Bonus snippet from Dan Brown visits the cash dispenser,
The world-renowned author stabbed his dagger-like debit card into the slot. 'Welcome to the NatWest,' barked the blushing grey light of the screen to the forty-two-year-old man. He had only two thoughts.
NatWest is a perfect heptogram.

Will share more on demand. ;-)

ETA: Other authors mocked within are: Kingsley Amis, Samuel Beckett, Alan Bennett, John Betjeman, Enid Blyton, Byron, Lewis Carroll, Raymond Chandler, PG Wodehouse, Agatha Christie, Coleridge, Conan Doyle, Catherine Cookson, Noel Coward, Richmal Crompton, Roald Dahl, Charles Dickens, TS Eliot, Ian Fleming (Bond!), Freud, Graham Greene, Thomas Hardy, Hilaria Holmroyd, Henry James, Dr Johnson, James Joyce, Kafka, Virginia Woolf, Philip Larkin, AA Milne, Johm Milton, Iris Murdoch, George Orwell, Pepys, Harold Pinter, Sylvia Plath, Alexander Pope, Beatrix Potter, Tolkien, Dylan Thomas, Evelyn Waugh, John Updike, Yeats and Wordsworth.
Tags: fandom, giggles, personal

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