What have I done wrong? Why do you all hate me so? Is it because I’ve been discussing serious things like the way that the oppressive influence of the maleocracy still extends its over the women of today? Don’t you like Katharine Hepburn (for which I pity you, if that sad eventuality is in fact true)? Would you rather I went back to weak jokes about chickens? If so, here goes:
Q: Why did the depressed chicken cross the road?
A: It was the first step on the route to oblivion.
There, maybe a bit dark. Just a bit. But it is about chickens. You like chickens, don’t you? Everybody likes chickens. Except Werner Herzog, that is. But then, he’s a bit, ahem, unusual, albeit a genius with it. Should I talk about other favourite actresses? I can go on at length about Ginger Rogers or Carole Lombard if you like. Thinking of which, I just watched ‘Stage Door’, which had both Ginger Rogers and Hepburn in it. Like wow.
MUST. STOP. WRITING. ABOUT. KATHARINE. HEPBURN.
Excuse me, the Space Monkeys have just appeared, and I think they want to extract my brain again. I’ll just go off with them and come back in a bit, a new, debrained, man.
Twilight’s comin’ around
Well the Space Monkeys called this morning, and apparently my brain is very happy and making lots of friends in the Monkey Planet’s brain repository. And it’s struck up a real friendship with this baboon called Igor who likes to borrow brains or a few days. Apparently if my brain is lucky, Igor might take it for a holiday next!
In my brainless state I am having to take lots of pills to deal with the feelings of depression that arise from being without my closest companion and friend. But I am still active. I am reading about nasty hard algebraic geometry, and I am contemplating a fourth ‘Twilight’ parody. You may recall that in the first Bella discovered that 108 year old virgins don’t necessarily make the best lovers, and in the second she took the stage as vampiredom’s very own answer to Immodesty Blaze, while in the third, Edward decided that making love with Bella wasn’t that much fun really, and found himself married. In this one Bella takes on the Volturi (the guys who rule the vampires, for those lucky souls who aren’t in the know), Edward falls in love, and we learn some interesting facts about Fred Astaire.
I know, let’s have a referendum. Much more interesting than whether or not we should use PR in elections. Which do you prefer: (a) Fred Astaire turns out to have been a vampire, or (b) Edward’s new wife is a 450 year-old aristocrat who is a mean tap-dancer?
Alas, Alack a Day
Terrible news! Igor has run away with my brain, and it is believed he wants to marry it. The Space Monkey police are in hot pursuit, but they believe he is making for a remote district where there is a renegade Orang-Utan who is prepared to sanction such unholy matches, and even carry out a pretence of a wedding ceremony when everyone knows the only true match ‘twixt man and brain involves the latter being emplaced within the cranium of the former.
And while this goes on, what can I do but stay at home and gibber with fear (a very kindly gibbon has come to stay with me, to give me consolation in this time of trouble, and she is teaching me gibbering)? What will I do if my brain becomes a baboon‘s wife? Prosecute him for bigamy? Take his brain by way of revenge? The Space Monkeys have offered me the pick of their best brains, but I liked my old brain: she and I got on well together. Okay, we disagreed on some things, like the preferred form of proportional representation, but in so much we were one. And now we are parted, perhaps for ever.
Woe is me!
I am a teapot,
See my gleaming spout.
When you tilt and pour,
You’ll see tea flowing out.
One spoon for each drinker,
One for the pot,
Stir it all about,
And drink it while it’s hot.
Without a teapot,
You’d be sour and sad,
So when you look upon me,
You should feel quite glad.
(To the tune of ‘Thine be the glory’).
Just in case you were wondering
Some of you may have been making surmises as to how it is that, without benefit of a brain I can carry out simple tasks such as programming computers, whinging about how much I hate C++, and writing copious reams of drivel. You may think that in a debrained state I should just lie, lolling, looking very still, perhaps decomposing gently while I so.
Well, it’s simple really. These Space Monkeys are smarter even than the Fungi from Yuggoth. As Lovecraftians will know, the Fungi from Yuggoth debrained people too, but their attitude to the body was cavalier, not to say positively wasteful. While the Space Monkeys are, like all of their kind, thrifty, and don’t like to see anything go unused. So, when they took my brain away for what they assured me was a mere brief trip (and not a horrid pursuit, lest she lose her virginity to a scoundrel), they provided me with a simple clockwork mechanism that carries out the basic functions required to be a me. They forgot only the Katharine Hepburn fixation.
Katharine Hepburn? Did somebody mention Katharine Hepburn? Do you know that to get a DVD of her in ‘Love Among the Ruins’ I had to buy from someone in Spain? And this is often true ― there clearly being a Hepburnian sub-culture in Spain that I knew not of. Anyway, given that we learn from her memoirs that she didn‘t much like Olivier, all I can say from seeing them act together is that you’d never know it. That‘s professionalism. And what I say is . . .
Errrrrrrrkkk! Where was I? Oh yes, no trace of the Katharine Hepburn fixation. So I‘m rather like poor Mister Spock in ‘Spock‘s Brain’, only possibly a little more lifelike. The Space Monkeys have moved on in leaps and bounds since the ’60s.
Buzz Lightyear to the rescue!
Na na na na na na na na MONKEYS!
Na na na na na na na na MONKEYS!
Yes, the Space Monkeys are on the case. Having called on Captain Scarlet and found him wanting, because though he may be indestructible, he knows next to nothing about the affairs of the heart and nothing at all about orang-utans, which meant that in the present circumstances he was pretty useless, the Space Monkeys dismissed him, after, of course, the formality of debraining him and installing the clockwork device, an act that they believe probably doubled his intelligence.
And so it was the work of but a moment for the Space Monkeys to flash against the skies of Monkeyopolis their own version of the Bat-signal (the silhouette of a giant banana) and, once he had finished making out with Robin, the Boy Wonder, Batman was ready for action. He, of course, knew all about love, as Robin and a long string of strangely discontented ex-girlfriends could testify, and what’s more he had his brand new (patent pending) Bat-ape-detector with him. So he set it to ‘Pongo’ (which is foreign for orang-utan, for all you uneducated types what don’t know like how to speak proper) and lo, the renegade ape was captured. He swore blind (not that Batman did blind him, but he certainly did swear a lot when Batman inserted lighted matches between his toes) that he had not yet married a baboon and a brain, and as Batman verified with his (patent pending) Bat-lying-ape-detector, this seemed to be true.
So now it was all a matter of waiting. Batman and the Space Monkeys lay in wait, while the orang (after being patched up at the nearest hospital) tried to look as casual as he could with the (patent pending) Bat-ape-exterminator shoved up his butt. What tension! What an unfair place to break off! Well, sorry, suckers, but this is where I . . .
What happened? Where am I? Why aren’t I watching Katharine Hepburn? I want Katharine Hepburn (read that any way you please). ‘Pat and Mike’, you know, was quite amusing, but it’s no ‘Woman of the Year’, so my need, my desire, my urge for that Hepburnian orgasm is yet to be realised. What I need to do is . . .
Sorry about that. Where was I? Oh yes. That’s all folks. Tune in next week for the next thrilling episode. Will Flash Gordon escape from Ming the Merciless’ devilish death device? Will Doctor Zarkov remember which wire goes where in an electric plug? Will Dale Arden’s top finally come off? All (especially Dale Arden, we hope) will be revealed in the next exciting instalment of
A Fitting Conclusion
So there we were: the Space Monkeys, Batman and me (they’d let me come along as, after all, it was my brain, and though, with only my clockwork device to guide me, I wasn’t the world’s greatest strategic genius, they felt it was only fair I should see the final act, so long as I promised to keep out of the way and not mess things up; in addition, they wanted to get my brain back into my head as fast as possible, for fear that having proved flighty once she may get wandering urges again). So we were all hiding behind a sofa, while in the front of it was the orang-utan, who was enjoying a rectal massage from the barrel of Batman’s (patent pending) Bat-ape-doing-in-device. And so we waited, and waited, and waited, and the orang had just asked Batman if he’d mind shifting the gun, as he was getting a numb patch, when there was a noise at the door, and there entered a baboon. A baboon with a brain.
It was them, they were here. And it was time for action. And that is what Batman gave us. Where the Space Monkeys, true to their wise nature, might have used diplomacy, and I would simply have got down on my knees and used such eloquence as I could muster with only the clockwork device for a friend to plead that I be given back my brain, Batman was a man of action. He leaped from behind the chair, sending the orang flying with a cry of ‘My butt, my precious butt’, pointed the (patent pending) Bat-baboon-annihilator at the baboon and said ‘Give me the brain, or, or . . .’ ‘Or what?’ said the baboon, or Igor, as you may wish to call him if you want to be friendly, though why you would want to be friendly to someone who had stolen my brain I really don’t know. Batman was flummoxed. Villains weren’t meant to talk back. And they certainly weren’t meant to get logical, which Igor proceeded to do, saying ‘Let me get this straight. You want my brain’ His brain, the cheek. ‘you intend to shoot me, which means I’ll drop the brain and then she’ll splat and be useless to everyone, even that moron over there’, by which I assumed he meant me. ‘Well, I’m not gonna. She’s my brain now, and I’m going to marry her, and neither you, nor the monkeys, nor her so-called owner, can stop me. It’d take an act of God to . . .’
There was a crash as of a thousand dinner services meeting their end and a golden light filled the room. As I shielded my eyes, I saw in the centre of the room the figure of a beautiful woman with reddish hair. In a cool, clipped voice she said, ‘The time has come to end this farce. You,’ to Igor, ‘Give this man his brain back. You,’ to Batman, ‘Stop playing with toys and try living in the real world for a change. You,’ to the Space Monkeys, ‘Stop playing God, that’s my job. And you,’ to me, ‘Try using your brain occasionally. If you don’t the poor thing’s bound to get wandersome.’ Igor and the Space Monkeys quailed, while Batman said ‘I’m such a failure,’ and burst into tears. The Goddess had no patience with this. ‘Oh do get over it,’ she said, ‘You’re a perfectly decent man. A bit stupid, perhaps, but no worse than some of the men I’ve played with. She made a complex gesture with her hands and, lo, I could feel my brain nestling once more in my head, where, up to a moment ago there had been nothing but a void filled with cold, cold, clockwork. I thought loving thoughts at her, and I won’t say what she did back, as this is a family story, but it showed that she still loved me. I turned to the Goddess and asked, ‘Who are you that has saved me in this hour of need?’ She looked rather smug and said, ‘It matters not who I am, but if you really must know, my Earthly form was known to you as Katharine Hepburn.’ I stood back astonished. I knew they called her a screen goddess, but . . .
KATHARINE HEPBURN! KATHARINE HEPBURN!! KATHARINE HEPBURN!!!
Not only does the AFI name her as number one in their list of best actresses, not only does she hold the record for number of academy awards won by an actress, but Katharine Hepburn was also noted for her ability to cry more or less on demand. It’s a rare skill and really quite useful, even though she didn’t go in for weepies very much. The most noteworthy crying scene in one of her films must in Adam’s Rib, where . . .
Let me tell this story, if you don’t mind.
So there. I returned home, brain intact, and now I knew that in fact I did owe everything to Katharine Hepburn. It wasn’t just a theory, but a fact.
IN OUR NEXT INSTALMENT
Dale Arden has to choose from a list of sex positions set out in a memo from Ming the Merciless. Meanwhile Ming tries to decide which aftershave will have the most seductive effect on Dale. Simultaneously, Doctor Zarkov, having wired the plug incorrectly, is about to learn what happens when you stick a screwdriver into the power outlet. All while Flash and Prince Barin mutually explore their sexual identities. Only on this channel. You won’t regret reading it, though your brain might.
Disclaimer: we accept no responsibility for readers’ brains attempting to escape their owners, e.g. by making a run for it through their ears. Any intellectual damage sustained while reading this is solely the responsibility of the reader. Come on. You knew this was barking mad before you started it – you can’t complain now.