on new years eve a dark diabolical comedian, who draws big crowds, ambled casually centre stage in a shiny gun metal grey suit.. he sat on a high chair with elbow leaning on armrest, and with one solid beam of spotlight casting him in putrid blue, looked out into the audience and started talking..
when david bowie popped his clogs he sent out a very clear message to your generation.. which was …..”if i’m not going to get through this, you as sure as hell aren’t either”, and even though you stomp your fungal ridden feet in the name of history and hospitals, you’ve got no real handle on the idea, that since rock and roll arrived in the 1950’s, it’s therefor only natural for a glut of original protagonists to be snuffing out right about now.. yet every time another rancid slab of old show business dies, you wring your withered hands just a little bit too far… why are you all so phoney?
no jokes from him, and no laughs from the audience, all sat around worn out white table cloths with red candles jammed down the necks of empty bottles of mateus rose wine.
look at you all waving bye bye to 2016 as if 2017 wasn’t a natural extension of the beast…. i feel for you, dim enough to herald in january the 1st like it’s a brand new day. all your ducks have been lined up for a terrible time ahead.
after a load more vitriol and paralysing pessimism, he then got up off his boney chair, while the beam of spotlight followed him to the edge of the stage where with one hand holding a fag, undid his fly, took out his sizeable cock and slashed all over the front row, extinguishing a few red candles along the way… he must have deliberately saved up the fluid cause it seemed to flow forever… one woman in his firing line screamed when he aimed his thick jet of piss directly down the centre of her massive cleavage…her uncaring husband quite liked that… it made her long cheap flimsy evening gown transparent. the comedian’s own people, dressed as faux security guards, then pulled him off into the wings in a theatrical fashion, ushering him down through the dank narrow backstage corridors, then outside into a limo for a smooth glide up to his 23rd floor suite in the hilton hotel before the bells of midnight..he ran a bubble bath while drinking brandy out of cut glass crystal, wondering if he’d just secured a new audience on account of his vague experiment.. he didn’t much care either way…he was old, rich and bored, and very very tired of it all.