… and Gary. Allah and Gary are the two gods, and they are quite a pair, a real Crosby and Kaye, a genuine Marx Brothers (minus Groucho and shitty Zeppo), they’ll kick around some Sartre and can probably replace a ballast if you supply the ladder, but if you invite them to a house party you better hide the fine china, because these two rapscallions will stop at nothing till everyone’s rolling in the aisle (ask Allah about his Mae West impersonation) but Gary is a jealous god, and when Allah got the Tom Jones box set from Aunt Saggy, Gary nearly blew his top, but that’s friendship you know, giving sass, a bit of verbal fisticuffs, but their forte is impeccable comedic timing, for which Allah is typically lauded but if you catch the subtleties of a strong Gary performance you will notice he’s really the one driving home the punchline and bringing out the hilarity particularly in their classic “Jitterbug Barbershop” sketch (“Just a trim, dag nabbit!” Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!) where you will see that the whole middle bit about trying to oil the squeaky scissors is actually an ad-lib led by Gary but that’s not to say Allah can’t hold his own, recall if you will the episode of Mike Douglas where Allah pretended to be mad at Mike’s Bacon of the Month gift and the whole audience thought it was a real argument and it was all over the tabloids and I’ll tell ya with a mason jar of coffee and a gunnysack of seeds, botanist Allah will turn three acres of dead marsh into a dreamland, just don’t ask Gary to help out unless you want a sidesplitting dose of funny that Gene Shalit calls “Divine comedy at its best. Savior every moment of these Abrahamic hams!”
Monthly Archives: June 2010
When I was at the art museum last year, I could pretty much just hang out all night, eat pretzels, and add mustard to the more avant-garde pieces.
Sometimes there would be another woman there who found all the blind spots in the building. She would have me sit in the monitoring room, staring at one of the screens, then she would run across the camera as fast as she could and I had to guess what silly thing she was doing.
Sometimes she would have Groucho glasses on, sometimes she would be impersonating a salmon or making an obscene gesture, but mostly she would just be naked, letting her mounds of blubber flop around as she scampered across the waxy floor at astonishing speed.
She didn’t know that the monitors had a slow motion playback, and when she was out I would analyze the movement of her fat with a prolonged sneer and write conga music to it.
Gabby had a bum leg that popped into place every 2 to 5 steps, so the compositions didn’t fall into any actual time signature. Her jiggle had no pattern to it, but it was fluid and definitely held a theme.
I liked these songs a lot because it was like each one was just one thing. Instead of being a few repetitions of 1-2-3-4 or whatever, it was just this one long thing, then the end.
Writing these things wasn’t really fun for me, but it had to be done. I become very frustrated if I don’t accomplish a bit of hard work now and then, which is probably that drive in our brains that was developed for hunting. I don’t eat Buffalo wings without the bones in them, either.
Sometimes Gabby would make out with a statue or painting or something, and I’d say, “Hahaha! Stop it! You’ll break it! Haha!” and she’d say something like, “Hot damn, this is some fine-ass art!” and then break something, but we were pretty good at fixing stuff.
I’m at the anthropology museum across the street now, and it’s a smaller place so I’m usually alone here at nights, so a couple hours ago I called Gabby and asked if she could come over.
She just left, but we were making these two mummies dance with each other and it was hilarious. They were ornery and crunchlike, but she said she needed my help manipulating them if they were to do any kind of half-decent samba.
I don’t know how to dance, so I felt awkward, but she taught me everything in a pretty short time, and by 2 a.m. you wouldn’t know these mummies from a couple of pros.
Then Gabby said the dance made them hungry for lovin’ and placed them in all sorts of fantastic positions and cracked up and snorted like a pig, and then got the vacuum cleaner.
Terminal Illness was the stage name of Terrence Grundle, a now reclusive ex-rapper who probably lives somewhere in Georgia.
Many of his music videos featured wild airborne parties and parties at airports, with Grundle dressed as a pimp/pilot.
This theme would prove extremely successful, producing hit singles such as “Grundle Gonna Get U High” and “Cockpit Booty (Freakin’ on The Runway).”
Grundle, who has had no formal flying instruction, once landed a damaged Boeing 737 while the pilot was incapacitated, saving the lives of everyone onboard.
I need a roommate to take over starting July 14th. Comfortable place, good neighborhood, 2 min. walk to the subway.
Just so you know I am a nudist, so you have to be alright with that. Open minded ppl only plz!
I’m a laidback kinda guy, musician (toad the wet sprocket B sides anyone?), poet who loves animals (I have a chimp named Assaulty).
Fav food: …pickle. And ketchup. (obviously not together tho!)
Things that make me smile: Parsnips, newts, the word “meal,” clipping my toenails even if they really really don’t need it.
Main hobby: Staring
First thing I notice in a person: Flaws
Astrological sign: I don’t believe in that stuff. Just don’t be an Aries.
If I could meet anyone it would be: Mr. T (I forget his full last name… he’s the guy I’m hiring to fix the bubble machine that I don’t ever turn off).
Hit me up if you want to see the place. And remember, I’m a nudist. You better be alright with that.