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Towering Genius

I did not put the ‘F” in the bloody heading. It was that cow, Ermintrude; and now I can’t get it out! [Yes; your last girlfriend said that. Ermintrude] Beat it! This piece is about my creative genius. (So it won’t be very long then, will it? EdZilla). Bah! At least Mac thinks I’m wonderful. ‘Locked away in a padded cell.’ Close enough. Edzilla tells him that no-one will believe the blogs because nobody could be that stupid. But if they could meet me… Oh Really? You know what she can do with her split infinitives! Oh. And I’ve met ‘Autocrat’ or ‘Autotwat’; or whatever. [‘Autocrit’, dickhead. Ermintrude] Anyway. It’s some jumped up machine programme thingy that thinks it can tell Me how to write. Puleeze! It says I tend to repeat myself, and not only after eating too many onions. Izzat right? Well listen, pal. As and when Mac buggers off somewhere, you an me are gonna have one of these short yet strangely meaningful chats which will end up with your tragic demise. Maybe curry in its cathodes? [God! ‘Thick’ flatters you! Ermintrude]

Onwards and Upwards

(So now your into Proctology? EdZ) Silence! EdZilla really is Phyllis de Stine come to life – Phillistine – geddit? (No. And you’ve spelt it wrongly. EdZilla) Shush! Meanwhile the work continues. Page 343 if you please; although thanks to the stupid dictation machine here in the computer, it still fails to recognise half the pearls of wisdom that fall from my mouth, or y-fronts according to some people. She thinks the machine is making these mistakes deliberately so as to avoid all the sex and violence from frying its electrodes. [From offending its self-respect. Ermintrude] But it had better start behaving or else. I sometimes think it might actually have a mind of its own. (Unlike yours, which is clearly rented from Lobotomy Garage. EdZ) I happen to be a sensitive aesthete, you utter tithead! As such, the question one has to ask oneself is not if it is pornography, but is it Art? [Like your collection of old Playboys? Ermintrude] It’s all lies! Well; apart from Miss July…

True artists must suffer for their work

[At last. Lemme at him! Ermintrude] EdZilla says that as and when Mac is insane enough to publish ‘The Final Arbiter’ a) he wants to have police protection; and b) he wants to find out what hymns I’d like at my funeral. She thought, ‘Burn Baby Burn’ would be a good opener. Ha bloody ha. I told her that most people would see it for what it was; a cry for help. She replied that no doubt it would be as and when they got their hands on me. Cow! Mac thinks maybe a nom de plume (as against Nom de Knobhead? EdZ) How about ‘Adolph Blyton’? Or ‘Ghengis Pankhurst?’ Or, ‘The Man in the Iron Scrotum?’. Very funnee; not. Besides, as the work draws to a close, I need to consider an appropriate cover. (Like brown paper? EdZ) No! Something tasteful. How about a burning oil-rig, with barrels of oil leaking blood, in the background, with a gorgeous tanned bird, enormous hooters, and long legs, clad only in a torn T-shirt? Soaking wet? [Can we cremate him while he’s still alive? Ermintrude] (Good idea. I’ve already sold the film rights to Germaine Greer. EdZ) Who?

John J McCabe. Copyright

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