Busted
Yes, we have no Wilfred Laurier jokes
Busts are all over the news these days and that’s not even counting sting operations involving Quebec bikers. Sadly, as funny as bikers are (nuthin’ more’n overcompensating mama’s boys, really), "we" won’t mention them again b/c "we" do not wish to incur a "shitkicking." On a safer note: topping our non-biker bust list is the theft of a bust of Sir Wilfred Laurier (1841-1919) from an establishment coinkidinkally named "Wilfred Laurier University." The administration, tickled pink that there was a Canadian prime minister (1896-1911) w/ the same name as their school, proudly displayed the solid bronze bust in the main foyer of the arts building. Until, that is, some doer of dastardly deeds swiped the thing.
And that’s about as far as I’m going to get w/ that partic tale. Laying the device bare for a sec (pulling back the curtain on my personal Oz, if you will), let’s examine the gag possibilities of such a story. The most obvious "angle," as such, is the word "bust." Perhaps you are thinking: "Wow! It’d be high-larious to make pretend like it was Wilfred Laurier’s posthumously preserved boobs that were stolen, as opposed to a head-shoulder statue!" You’d think so, but no.
A popular device in sci-fi circles is the "What if...?" such as "What if Napoleon went into the family drycleaning business?" or "What if the dinosaurs aren’t extinct but hiding?" What follows is a similar speculative premise: "What if that Wilfred Laurier bust gag had been worked like you’ve never seen a gag worked before? I’m talking ridden hard & put away wet, pushed to the max like a rented mule, that sort of thing." Later today, when yer out walking in the sunshine, remember that which could have been. There but for the grease of god...
Here’s a sentence that was mid-to-OK on the quality scale, but will never see the light of day: "The administration plastered the campus w/ flyers pleading ‘You must, you must, you must return our bust.’" Earlier drafts also featured a fanciful historical anecdote in which a generously endowed Wilfred Laurier ("Wil-Lo" to his many friends) made a moving plea for the clemency of the leader of the Métis rebellion, only to have a saucer-eyed rapscallion ask, "Beg pardon, sir, but are those things riel?" (If you love the old-time ha-ha, have I got a doozy about prehistoric supercontinents! But that’ll hafta wait for another day.)
This flimsy "humorous" premise (he-man! she-breasts!) could be further laboured by making comparative mention of other famously preserved body parts, such as Brother Andre’s pickled heart (tourist tip: not to be viewed w/in 72 hrs of eating smoked meat) or Rasputin’s pan-blackened gigglestick. Heart, johnson and now breasts – will the medical spectacles never cease?
(Along the same artifactual lines, but not quite: the famous Shroud of Urine, proof-positive that nobody ever truly lives down bedwetting. Even if it leaves a pretty picture.)
(’Tis off-topic, but since we’ve once again found ourselves in yellow waters: what’s up w/ that Shyam Srivastava guru dude who’s accused of playing hide-the-swami w/ his well-heeled female followers? I cannot freakin’ believe that he actually said, "I have not put my pee-stick into the pee-pots of women." Scout’s honour! Remind me not to drop by the ashram for crumpets: "Oh, you said ‘Pass the tea pot’! Sorry about that, old sport." Dunno what’s more miraculous: that a guy who uses the word "pee-stick" is hailed as a spiritual leader? Or that a guy who says "pee-stick" could score so many rich chicks? Discuss amongst yerselves.)
Where were we? Oh yeah: jokes about Wilfred Laurier busts, and why they’re a bad idea. Umm, they’re a bad idea. Don’t do it.
Next week: Nudity is the only path to true happiness. Free yr pee-stick & yr mind will follow. Pee-pots, too. |
