Script:

Me: Am I a total cow?
Her: Why, of course, but that is why we love you.
Me: I’m not a fat cow though, am I?
Her: No, of course not. You’re a um skinny cow. A decidedly undernourished cow, if you ask me.
Me: Thank you. I can always rely on you to say the right thing

NOTE: If she’d answered in the affirmative I’d have bitch slapped her into the next millennium.

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5 Responses to “Script:”

  1. Louise Mills Says:

    From: noreply-comment@blogger.com
    Subject: [Drowning and Other Fragments] New comment on Script:.
    Date: 19 November 2007 18:32:43 GMT
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    Henry North London has left a new comment on your post “Script:”:

    You may not be fat but your brain certainly is obese as most of it is fat and water.
    So you are a fatuous cow with fatuous thoughts, fatuous comments and fatuous writing.

    Posted by Henry North London to Drowning and Other Fragments at 6:32

    ________________________________________

    Is that the best you can do?

    Like

  2. Henry North London Says:

    Oh no I can be witty and erudite but I deleted the comment because I couldn’t let your readers think that I was being insouciant and ungrateful.

    After all publicity is publicity and you have increased the traffic to my site so I can only thank you.

    Try this for size with apologies to the original author.

    Bella, Bella, typing shite
    Internet cafes of the night,
    What immortal hand or eye
    Could defame thy fearful commentry?

    And what bull and what art
    Where life and truth are far apart?
    And when thy keyboard began to beat,
    What dread hand and stamping feet?

    My compliments for your contribution to my site traffic and I will take your leave with graceful thanks.

    Like

  3. Louise Mills Says:

    Not bad. It’s a pity it is recycled.

    Here the complete version:

    Wombat, wombat, typing shite
    Internet cafes of the night,
    What immortal hand or eye
    Could defame thy fearful commentry?

    In what gibbon swamp or mist
    Lets her write when she’s pissed?
    On what evidence dare she aspire?
    Which solicitor dare seize the ire?

    And what bull and what art
    Where life and truth are far apart?
    And when thy keyboard began to beat,
    What dread hand and stamping feet?

    What the hard drive? what the chain?
    In what furnace of thy brain?
    What the logic? What dread grasp
    Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

    When the stars threw down their spears,
    And water’d heaven with their tears,
    Did Sickert His work to see?
    Did He who made the lamb make thee?

    Wombat, wombat, typing shite
    Internet cafes of the night,
    What immortal hand or eye
    Could defame thy fearful commentry?

    From here:
    http://streamsofutternonsense.blogspot.com/2007/11/culture-corner.html

    So, you are either one of the people behind that blog or you are a plagiarist.

    Which is it?

    Like

  4. Henry North London Says:

    No comment.

    Like

  5. Louise Mills Says:

    *Imagining Blake turning in his grave, having been violated not once but twice*

    Like

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