===
=== Mike's Madness #12
===
=== Season Premier
===

In Memory of Graham Chapman

     Good day. 
     I would like to talk about a subject that not all people feel comfortable
     with.
     I would like to talk about:
     Australia.
     The meer mention of our mates down under raises a chill in the spines of
     many.
     Especially when they think of all those sheep. 
     Thousands of them.
     An ocean of sheep.
     (Well there's a lot, anyway.)
     Then there's that dream.
     That dream where you're on an island. 
     An island of . . . sheep.
     Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
     So innocently they flick their tails to reveal that tight, pink...
     [C R A C K ! !]
     "OI! TAKE THAT YA REVOLTIN' PERVERT!"
     You hit me! You hit me in the mouf!

     Yes! Where'ver sheep are threatened by (check one) . . .
                                               \/    
                                     [ ] filthy perverts,
                                     [ ] Marxist/Leninist ideology,
                                     [ ] great 'unks of Spam,
                                     [ ] Apple products,
                                     [x] sheep fondlers,
 
     . . . 'arry Butler  will be there!

(Editor's note: This is in no way, shape or form meant to suggest that the
Patron  Saint of Australia,  Harry Butler,  would EVER engage in any of the 
said sheep fondling activities. Not much, anyway.)

                                     ---
                           
     I'm sure the people down in Austrailia readin' this are a tad irked
because I portrayed their favorite naturalist (which is almost the Australian
equivalent of a saint) as a bit . . . hmmmm . . . "earthy". Well cheer up! I
truly do love Harry and the whole of Australia. Great country. 'Specially that
lovely collection o' venomous creatures y'all got yourselves there. They was
talkin' to some dude down there in Austrailia on National Geographic Explorer
(okay, yeah . . . I do actually watch and enjoy Explorer. Closest I'll ever
come to actually traveling anywhere neat) and they asked this dude:

     "How many venomous species of wildlife does Australia posses?"

     "200," that dude answered in a snap and with a note of pride.

     But the thing that amazed me was that he answered the question at all. If 
some dude asked you "How many poisonous species are there in the US?",  you'd 
answer  "huh?",  because the number of vemomous species residing in  the  U.S. 
isn't a point of common knowledge.  Not so in Australia.  It's like a point of 
national pride there. You can go to any bar in Australia (and there is quite a 
number  of  them)  and  there'll be some dude who just  killed  his  twentieth 
Foster's  in   many minutes,  keeping atop his barstool with the grace of  a 
spastic  trying  to balance on one hand,  and belching with  such  force  that 
you're  surprised he  doesn't  just  shoot off his  barstool  and  fly  around 
backwards like some demented NASA project,  mouthing off about the potentially 
lethal wildlife of Balmyland.

     "OI!" he'll yell to whoever's sober enough to hear him,  "Oi! Wot a great 
country Australia is, 'specially all the deadly fauna stalkin' around! Blimey! 
Quite  a bit of it then,  ain't there?  You can keep your  black  widows,  and 
rattle-snakes  and  Putorican  kids with green teeth.  Give me  a  Blue-Ringed 
Octopus anyday.  [BUUUUUURRP!]. BLIMEY! One o' them octo-puses wiped me entire 
family  out!  The vicious little basta'd crossed the 1,000 miles of  sun-baked 
desert between Alice Springs and the ocean, at high noon when the temperature
was 300c in the shade, in under 1 hour. Then it ripped the side off the house
and proceeded to bite us to death . . ."

[THUD!]

     And then someone'll yell:

     "OI! The Prime Minister fell offa 'is bleedin' barstool again!"


                           ENJOYIN' THE ART GALLERY
                           ------------------------

     I  went to the Legion of Honor in San Francisco (it's an art gallery) and
I noticed how many people are wholly unequipped to take even the most basic
pleasure from Art. They mill about, keeping silent, and never express their
honest feelings about the paintings.

     Not me.

     That's  why  I've  written this article.  To help you get  the  most  for
whatever exhorbitant fee they charge you to get in the museum.

FIRST, KNOW THE RULES!
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

And at the last check, those rules were:

  NO!:
   -
Spittin'
Fightin'
Barfin'
Touchin' yerself (or others!)
Stealin' things
Makin' noises like Curley.

  For comparison, here are the rules at the Sydney's Kitch-O-Rama Gallery.

  NO!:
   -
Abbos

EXPRESSING YOUR ADMIRATION
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= 
     
     Don't  just  regard  beautiful works of art with a  simple  nod.  Tell 
people  about 'em!  Share your experience with anyone inside hearing range! 
Let 'em know how much you like the paintings!

Example:

(after viewing a Barouque painting):

     "Oi! OI! 'ERE'S A GOOD 'UN, THEN! ROIT NOICE! PLENTY OF TITS!"

(after viewing a Dutch Master):

     "I LOIKE THIS 'UN VERY VERY MUCH! ESPECIALLY THE TITS!"

(after viewing a piece of Modern Art):

     "PISS ARTIST! PISS ARTIST! AND THERE'S NO TITS!"

after viewing various 17'th century Venus paintings):

     "OI! SHE GOT A BIG BUM! NOICE TITS, THO!"

(after viewing French ceramics from the age of Louis the XIV):

     "'ERE'S A NOICE BIT OF KITCH, THEN!"

(After viewing Impressionist art):

     "THIS 'ERE'S A PAINTIN' WIT' A MESSAGE -- AN' THE MESSAGE IS THE FROGGY
WOT PAINED THIS SWILLED TOO MUCH CHEAP WINE 'FORE HE STARTED!"

     Should someone disagree with your views, and suggests you keep them to
yourself by uttering some curt comment like "Shut your fucking mouth, ya
bastard!," you should hit them very, very hard. Fuckin' art critics. 

Use your senses! (wot ya got of 'em)
-++-++-=+-$+#-_=_++-;..++-/+.=_=--/=

     Paintings are pleasing to the eyes, but they are equally enjoyable to the 
nose, fingers or palette. Use ALL your senses when enjoying expensive works of 
art. Get right up in there and take a great whiff! Ahhh. Or a few licks should 
really give you the "taste of history" inherent in so many paintings that cost 
more than $100,000. 

Farting
-------
     It's right out.

Masturbating
------------
     Also frowned upon (usually).

Gettin' the boot
----------------
     Too  often,  a fine day at the gallery is cut short by some little facist 
in a rent-a-cop outfit bootin' ya out because YOU know how to enjoy art and he 
doesn't.  When this happens,  you should yell obcenities at the creep until he 
threatens to call the police.  You should then stagger off and urinate on some 
expensive statue or fountain the museum has foolishly left outside.
     That'll show 'em.

Coming soon![K
------------
Enjoyin' the Symphony
Enjoyin' the Ballet
Enjoyin' the Theater
Enjoyin' the Zoo
REALLY enjoyin' the Zoo (12 p. Plain brown wrapper)
How to Hire a Defense Attorney
Bolero: Music to Masturbate by
Having one off while listening to Wagner (personally endorsed by A. Hitler)
Caress your Carrot to Rimsky-Korsakov
Modest Moussorgsky and the Naughty Girls of Minsk.


There will now be a reading from a selected work of classical literature . . .


(from Modest Moussorgsky and the Naughty Girls of Minsk):

     "Please show us your organ, Mr. Moussorgsky," Vannessa pleaded.
     "Yes! Yes! Show us all your big organ!" the rest joined in.
     "Well, it's not that big . . ." Modest stammered modestly.
     "I heard it's the biggest in all pre-communist Russia!" Catherine said. 
     "Even the Czar himself admires it!" Vannessa added.
     "Yes, and Rasputin has oft commented on its size!" Catherine also added.
     "It's quite a big organ!" Vannessa also also added.
     "Bigger than Lenin's?" Catherine asked.
     "Oh much bigger!" Modest blurted.
     "Bigger than Marx's?" Vannessa asked in amazement.
     "Much  bigger  than any belonging to the founders of  modern  Communism!"
      Modest admitted.
     "Even bigger than Mr.  Ed's?" the rest asked with lust dripping in great,
     oozing drops from their words.

     "Well . . . let's not get silly."


     Mr. Ed and Wilbur (3 bob. Over 21 only, please)
     ----------------- 

     Willllllllburrrrr! That's not a carrot, Willlllburrrrrr! You're not gonna
play Vet again, are ya?  Oh Willllllburrrrrrrrr,  you wait an awful long time
before ya ask me t' cough!  OWWWWW WILLLLLBURRRRRRRRRRR!

Wilbur: Come on, Ed -- let's hear ya whinny!


     Dear Sirs,

          I wish to to complain, quite a bit, but no one listens to me.


                                            Who fancies a sailor, then?

                                             Maggie Thatcher, P.M., P.M.S.,
                                                             B.F.D.
     

     Dear Sirs,

          Why can't we have a gross bit?!

                                             I do Maggie!

                                             H.R.M. Queen Elizabeth


     And now for two nice ladies in the spotlight of world politics . . .

# 43: A gross bit
      A gross bit

(sung [preferable not aloud or in the hearing range of children] to the
theme of the Beverly Hillbillies. I do wholly apologize for this now,
because don't think you're gonna be reading this later.)

[A-HEM!]

Lemme tell ya all a story about a man named Ned
Wasn't very bright, but he sure loved givin' head
Then one day he was suckin' on some dude,
And up from the head comes a bubblin' spooge!
Jizz, that is.
Cum.
African toothpaste.

Next thang y'know Ned's got it in his ha'r.
Ned got upset an' said 'How'll I gettit outta thar?!'
The dude gettin' sucked on said "Leave it up t' me!"
Pulled outta Ned and washed it out with pee.
Whizz, that is.
Piss.
Golden showers . . .

 C R A C K  ! !

     'E SHOT ME! 'E shot me in the leg!


     So anyway, the other day I bought a package called FoxBase. I'd hoped
from the namesae there'd be a fox inside.

     Well . . .

     Not only was there no fox enclosed, but in the alleged fox's place was
30  disks  and the Encylopedia Brittanica (which I later found was  the 
Pocket Edition of the instructions).

     So . . . .

     I wrote them a letter to voice my great displeasure.

     And . . .

     It looked like this . . .

     Dear Foxbase People,

     I would like to complain loudly and in person, but the cost of airfare 
deprives me of this right and privilege.  So I'll complain instead in  this 
letter. 

     I  recently purchased an edition of your so-called "fox" base  program 
from  a  software  vendor near my house (Egghead Software on  Howe,  to  be 
exact.  Best prices in town).  And when I got it home,  I discovered no fox 
was  enclosed.  Nor  was there a voucher for a vulpine.  Or a receipt for  a 
reynard.  In fact, apart from tromping down to your office with a loaded M-
16, taking you all hostage and demanding one for your release, I see no way 
of obtaining a fox via your package.

     Why is this so?

                                       Yours with total lack of malice,

                                       Mike Beebe

P.S. I sent you something that should give you a laugh and your competition 
a  shudder:  a picture of a fox eating a dead racoon  I flattened  out  on 
Hiway 99 on the way back from Elk Grove the other night.  That should  give 
cause  for  thought  to the folks back in Hamsheer next time  they  try  to 
compare themselves to Foxbase!

     The nice folks at Foxbase have yet to reply,  but I'm expecting a 
Fox-Gram any day now.

     Welp, the Thorazine is starting to take effect now. See ya!


Wholly caustic humour written by:

Mike "Drugs? Me? Never!" Beebe

(C) 1989 Yucks for You!

