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  The Chatter Box : Travel
Messages 1 2 

Charter by Pekkis on 23 October 2011 3:56pm
disappeared beyond the event horizon...
The national emblems of the state of Charter by Pekkis on 24 October 2011 10:19am
disappeared beyond the event horizon
Free citizenship of the state of Charter by Pekkis on 24 October 2011 10:36am
By Jove!

Charter - chapter two by Pekkis on 24 October 2011 12:25pm
disappeared beyond the event horizon
Re: Charter by Pekkis on 14 December 2011 8:24pm

Chapter 1:

Many a tourist group have tried to reach the state of Charter but - alas - disappeared trying to do so. Charter is, as the information we've been managed to collect so far, a state that lies in the armpit between the midget states of Xanadu and Shangri-La. Personally I haven't ever been to Charter - have you? Odd. When you recall noticing that not so few buses or aeroplanes are destined that way.

Finally an english, british, pale caucasian male expedition is being formed.
Five pale caucasian male (functioning), aged, retired former secret agents are called once again on duty. They are at present working as professors at various well-known and not-so-well-known universities, occupied with the usual and casual hum-de-dum activities they're supposed to hum-de-dum with.

Their usual and casual hum-de-dum is abruptly abrupted by a man in a dark suit and a see-through plastic mac on his arm, whispering something in their ear.
This obviously alerting whisper makes them to stop - and drop - every usual and casual hum-de-dum they're fiddling about and make their eyes go: "Bing!".

This dropping of things produced a wristed ankle for a certain not-at-all-married-kind-of-a-woman-fondled-by-a-certain-married-of-a-kind-professor. Droppings from 1 feet and above are not-at-all-healthy; have we heard us told. If not done by your dog...

Disguised as grumpy and ill-behaved old tourists they board a typical, unsuspecting and fairly innocent modern jet (Airbus) on her chartered flight to Charter.

They gather up at the Heathrow airport and buzz about their new, unexpected and exciting mission - expressing ideas of what to take with to an unknown land, which no one has trod before - and come back to show any slideshows of it. Should it be Gumby boots, other necessary Gumby equipment, such as pullover sleeves, handkerchieves and the inevitable spectacles - or something completely indifferent?

The plane, filled up with tourists, a group of chartered accountants and the crack team of our professors leaves at due moment (2 hours late as usual).

While flying above the Bay of Biscay, the main steward(ess) enters the cockpit (crammed with cocks - birds - them with feathers) and approaches the captain with these ill-predicting words: "Captain, we have a problem!"

The following is a flight recorder transcript:

Captain: "What sort of a problem?"
Stew.(ess): "Captain, the tourists have consumed all the beer aboard and the loo, too, is clogged!"
Captain: "O.K.! Man the emergency positions! Crew - make all the preliminary precautions and be ready to pull the emergency lever!"
F/O: "Preliminary precautions made! Ready to pull the emergency lever!"
Captain: "Pulling the emergency lever - - - now!"

The emergency lever pulled, a compartment over every passengers' head is being opened and a barrel of Watneys' Red Barrel is lowered with a plastic tube fixed to be placed in the passengers' mouth.

A crack demand from the Captain: " Now, there's no actual need for panic! Grab the plastic tube fixed to the barrel and take some real deep gulps of fresh Watney! Now, remember! Only after you have helped yourselves will you be able to help the one sitting next to you! The loo, too, is clogged, but there are new, unused diapers to be found beneath your seat! Keep calm and carry on!"

So, the panic settles on and the steward(ess) announces: "That's dunnit! I'll put the kettle on. Free scones for every individual." Uncannily, no hand rises.

The incident soon passes along with the passengers cheering the crew with not-at-all-so-harmonious singing of merry tunes like: "Roll out the barrel!" and the captain - the notorious Czech barnstormer of the glorious 1980's, Pavel S. Tralin - duly does one (barrel - an aerobatical manoeuvre - on an Airbus?!?!?)

So, the crew has handled the grave situation bravely, but little do they know that the diapers have passed the E.C. directive nr 358/AIRSEC 7/para 85b just so and so. So they tend to leak. Not much, but as the leakage dripping from under every passengers seat, it forms a bubbling brook and - after strengthening itself from all the available sources - a creek.

A creek that sears through a weak seam, welded by extro-european workers in Europe, into the well containing the vital electrical wires that attach the control column to the rudder and the elevator.

The wires corrode out and the inevitable short circuit blows the fuses in both the circuit board and the cockpit and makes the aeroplane to reach the very state she is bound to be very highly out of control.

The plane plunges down. Sudden cries of: "What's all this then?", "We're going down!", "Oh, no! It's the ground coming up!", "We're going' to die!" and "I'm too old to die!".

The captain tries to balance the stricken aeroplane by ordering the passengers to run between the fore and aft of the passenger compartments' narrow corridor until they are all winded out - and pass out.

So, finally, the plane takes her last plunge...



Behold: the state of Charter!

The stricken aeroplane found her way down on a very, very deserted and isolated strip of fine granulated sand and colourful pebbles between the dense jungle and the ferocious sea with her sharp pointy rocks protruding from the ocean like the sharp teeth of an Esox lucius. Oh, s**t! I never wanted to do this for a living - I always wanted to be - a fisherman (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_VKouBHarIo)!!!

Back to the story: The aeroplane landed on her big fat juicy belly safely and gently on her own, despite the fact that the captain had fainted after finishing his latest straw - me thinks it was ergots involved in the incident.

Now, anyway! The plane safely on the ground, the passengers and the brilliant, magnificent, superbly-skilled, overwhelmingly underrated (that's enough!) crew are somewhat coming to their senses.

Sudden cries of: "Hip hip hooray! We're alive!", "Oh, to see another dawn!", "Just call me angel, of the morning, angel!" and "I'm too old to live!" fill the compressed air inside the battered fuselage of the Airbus (three cheers for european aeronautical building skills!!!).

That - is a determinative pronoun - and has got nothing to do with this story. So, get on with it!

The sudden cries are a bit too much of a strain to the old lady Airbus, so she bursts in two halves.

Very much due to this fact, the passengers (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y4hPnZUMBwA) find themselves sitting under the warm, gentle, caressing, sweet (that's enough!) Charterian sun. On the beach. With fair amounts of fine granulated sand up their knickers. And some pebbles.

No-one was hurt - not even suomalaisia was mukana.

Oh, sorry! We have just heard us told that there was a tiny little injury concerning a life-form of a kind: a norwegian head louse (nordlus in Norwegian, Pediculus humanus noruegiensis in science) was involved in an injury: she was stuck under the wheel of a beverage trolley, but the harm was purely unintentional and she escaped with no injury whatsoever (well, we'll hear from her later... ...her name is Inger.).



Inger, the norwegian head louse (nordlus in Norwegian, Pediculus humanus noruegiensis in science) crawled her way from under the very wheel of the beverage trolley.

Thank - if not God - then whothebloodybugger, the trolley was emptied on the way by the greengrocer's association from Luton. So, it was a little bit lighter than usual. So, the task was not too enormous for Inger the norwegian head louse(nordlus in Norwegian, Pediculus humanus noruegiensis in science) to survive.

She recovered and hit the sleeve of the nearest professor. And crawled up. Nasty little thing that Inger...

So, while Inger was nibbling the armpit of the nearest professor - a native man with feathers approaches the survivors of the plane crash.

Eventually, if the plane didn't crash and no-one was hurt - except for Inger of course - how can we talk about plane crash survivors? We can't. And we won't!!!

Native man with feathers: "Hell oth eeno blesil verbir dfl yers! Y oumu stbeve ryti reda ftery ourin cid ent."

A silent buzz and murmur hovers over the puzzled survivors (that's enough) as they're beginning to fathom that they didn't understand a word that the native man just said...

...until a finnish student from the university of Helsinki, Jatta Grühn, steps forward with her blonde hair descending on her black scarf patterned with red roses on her shoulders. She is making a study on Luton greengrocery disguised as a finnish-blonde-haired-stalinist-bimbo. Not much of disguisal expences there...

Jatta: "I know what language that man is speaking! It's foreign! My father learned it overseas and used to teach me while he wasn't at sea. So I learned a little.
It's just so darned hot here that I must pop into the sea and refresh myself up. Whatever that native man has to say I'll translate to you later. I'll be back in jiffy..."

So m-lle Grühn galloped to the sea to be engulfed in it entirely.

Native man with feathers: "Shesho uldno tdoth at! Thesha rkasa rehun gry!!!

Jatta: "Aaaa aaaaa arg h!!!"

So m-lle Grühn had galloped to the sea to be engulfed in it entirely and eternally.

Now, the only expert in foreign gone, how on earth are the rest of the survivors to survive?

-a feeble end of chapter three-

- OH, NO!


The only expert on foreign, Jatta Grühn, has - alas - been eaten by sharks. Well, everythings eat somethings, don't they.

So. The survivors need to establish a lingual connection with the natives in order to survive the next day. And the day after.

A brainstorm is needed.

Captain Tralin: We seem to be needing a brainstorm.

Passenger #1: Well, isn't it about time the company does something for the consumer? Well, I personally spent a huge amount of money to get on this voyage. Well, and where is that five star hotel 'Miramar' and its luxuriously decorated apartments with them luxuriously priced mini-bars. Well, all I have is this endless bloody beach and that endless bloody jungle and that - well - endless bloody ocean - only to be protruded by those bloody rocks. Well, that seems to be real blood from those remains of that late Jatta Grühn. Well, isn't the company going to do something about those visual discomforts before someone gets sick or faints. Well, I'm going to get sick. Well, I'm going to faint as well...

Steward(ess): I think she isn't well at all.

Passenger #2: Suits me fine. Good riddance.

Passenger #3: I beg your pardon sir? How can you possibly wish that kind of a fate to a lady co-sufferer.

Passenger #2: Easily. Good riddance.

Passenger #3: Now, this kind of manner will not do! Why don't the rest of you say something to object this unresponsive man of a kind. You must be from Luton or something!

Passenger #2: A GREENGROCER from Luton to you, madam!

Passenger #3: Miss!

Passenger #2: Sorry! Miss.

Passenger #3: Still, a miss.

Passenger #2: Oh, excuse me, Sir! I was carried away by the bra.

Captain Tralin: Well, I never expected this kind of a brainstorm but I think we shall have to cope with what we got.


Re: Charter by Pekkis on 1 October 2012 8:46pm
(live from the city of Glasgow)
CANCELLED DUE TO ABNORMAL WEATHER CONDITIONS (Cloud coverage: clear, wind: 0 mps at 360 degrees, temperature: 88 Fahrenheit (slight Dave's syndrome possibility there (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1HwyNHX0s6E)) visibility: 50 nautical miles, pressure: 29,92 inHG)
Re: Charter by Pekkis on 8 August 2014 2:27pm
We're extremely sorry to interrupt this silly nonsense of a story due to a revelation from a court room where an inquiry is taken place over the issue whether this whole crap was concocted by a ghost-writer.

Judge Dreadall: Allright, the next victim. Call mr Arbuth-Not!

Bailiff Whiff: Mylord, are you suggesting that we should call mr Arbuth or not?

Judge Dreadall: Not mr Arbuth but mr Arbuth-Not!

Bailiff Whiff: Willco, mylord! Call mr Arbuth-Not!

The jury: Mr Arbuth-No-o-ot!!!

Judge Dreadall: Not you! Oh, just drag him in...

Mr Arbuth-Not is dragged into the court room.

Prosecutor Crown: You are one mr Humphrey Arbuth-Not from Hemel Hempstead?

mr Arbuth-Not: Yes, I am - not.

Judge Dreadall: Yes, you are not? What should that mean?

mr Arbuth-Not: Yes, I am sorry, mylord - not. I have this inconvenience of ending my phrases with the word not - not. Rather silly though it is, it goes well with my name: Arbuth-Not - not.

Judge Dreadall: Oh, I see... ...so, your name is one mr Humphrey Arbuth-Not?

mr Arbuth-Not: Yes, mylord - not.

Bailiff Whiff: Does your name come with a dash?

mr Arbuth-Not: No, my name is really in no need to hurry - not. As my late father always used to say: "There's nothing so important left undone yesterday that should be too hastily attended tomorrow, son." - not. Let alone your zipper - not.

Bailiff Whiff: We're extremely sorry for your late father, but what I merely meant was that is there a tiny little line between the two parts of your name: Arbuth-Not or not?

mr Arbuth-Not: Oh, silly me - not. Yes there is - not. Actually there is no need to feel sorry about my father - he'll be just five minutes late as usual - not. Now, there he comes - not. Hello father - not!

Father-Not: Give 'im the slip'not, your honour! That'll teach 'im!

Judge Dreadall: Silence in court!!!

Prosecutor Crown: Objection, mylord! I have to get on with the case...

Judge Dreadall: Well, allright then... Proceed with the prosecution...

Prosecutor Crown: mr Arbuth-Not, you are hereby charged on the assumption that you have willfully and with ill reason and without a reasonable doubt acted as a ghost-writer and written a fallacious and highly ridiculous story of the state of Charter. How do you plea?

Bailiff Whiff: Er, excuse me, mylord. He hasn't sworn...

Judge Dreadall: Blasted! Now I have, anyway... Mr Arbuth-Not, do you swear that before this court you will tell the truth, the half-truth and nothing of the kind?

mr Arbuth-Not: I do - not.

Judge Dreadall: So, there! Get on with it!

Prosecutor Crown: Objection, mylord! Plagiation...

Judge Dreadall: Sustained! So it was...

Prosecutor Crown: So, mr Arbuth-Not, how do you plea?

mr Arbuth-Not: Not guilty - not.

Judge Dreadall: Not guilty?!? What kind of talk is that?

mr Arbuth-Not: Legalese, mylord - not.

Judge Dreadall: So it is... I recall having heard that phrase years ago. Funny how times fly...

Bailiff Whiff: I've heard tell that the Times are flown by air mail...

Judge Dreadall: Now, don't you start! Prosecutor, get on with the case...

Prosecutor Crown: What do you mean: not guilty? Even the jury can see right through you!

mr Arbuth-Not: Exactly - not. They can see straight through me because I am an imaginative person and not at all in existence - not. In a matter of fact we all are - not. We're merely weird symptoms of perception of the malicious writer that is putting these words in our mouths - namely Pekkis - not.

Judge Dreadall: Well, in that case this case is dismissed...
Re: Charter by Pekkis on 27 January 2015 5:34pm

Back to the story...

Capt. Tralin: Well, in order to maintain order and to proceed with things and everythings I think I must take somewhat an superior approach towards you tourist class passengers.

Passenger #4: 'ow's that?

Capt. Tralin: That's because there were no survivals on the business class and you tourist class passengers are a bit inferior in regard of the captain of the ship.

Passenger #4: No survivals on the business class!?! There was no bloody business class on your bloody ship! And besides, look at your ship, mate - it's a bloody wreck!!!

Capt. Tralin: Oh, no it isn't!

Passengers #all: Oh, yes it is!!

Capt. Tralin: Oh, no it isn't!!! It's been washed away into the sea, see... Besides, I'm a czech, mate!

Passenger #5: No, you're not! You're IN a checkmate, mate! Look! Your bloody blue tit queen of the arctic 's been beheaded.

Capt. Tralin: Alas - she has. But, still - isn't anyone inferior compared with a czech?

The seven chartered accountants: We must stress out the fact that we, chartered accountants - hereafter referred as CA - very much object to that opinion, sir.

Capt. Tralin: Chartered accountants? What sort of a trade is that?

The 7 CA's: Accountancy, sir. Very much so.

Capt. Tralin: Not so very macho, but just what i figured...

The 7 CA's: Now, don't you try to out-smart us with your figuring - we're experts on that. The best you can figure out is a curvy lady.

Capt. Tralin: By now I'm only figuring out how on earth are we going to gain the respect and a contact amongst those natives. They seem hungry - and the only curvy lady around has - alas - been eaten by the sharks. And as far as I have figured, the britonettes can't stand a comparison.

The 7 CA's: Just so. Just leave the case to us, sir. We'll attend to it. (exeunt to meet the native man with feathers).

A distant murmur and waving of hands and the inevitable clickety-click of their Victor Champion Leisure-size portable calculators are the only things that captain Tralin (a czech) and the rest of the passengers notice as they move their feet about in agony. The fear of being eaten alive, or better still - cooked - makes them shuffle about the position of each other in accordance to the center point of their ever narrowing circle.

Finally the 7 CA's arrive from the pow-wow.

The 7 CA's: Well. All is settled now. No one is going to be eaten. We have come to a mutual agreement with the natives.

Capt. Tralin: But? How? What on earth did you do???

The 7 CA's: We bribed them. Each one of us individually.

Capt. Tralin: Bribed them? With what? I really don't think the Victor Champion Leisure-size portable calculators, extro-european currencies - let alone the uro are liquid mediums of exchange in these corners of the good earth (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6vvNxhlP1jA).

The 7 CA's: We bribed them with pebbles.

Capt. Tralin: Pebbles?!? But they've got a trouserful of pebbles here - even more!

The 7 CA's: Aaa, sir. Pebbles. Pebbles are the easiest way to bribe the natives - or your wife. Let alone your citizens. And - better still - we bribed them with their own pebbles.

Capt. Tralin: You must be from the ministry of interior!

The 7 CA's: That's another point you have misjudged your figures, sir.

Capt. Tralin: It is?

The 7 CA's: We are from the ministry of inferior...

Capt. Tralin: Well, I just couldn't have figured that out. Nevertheless, now you can call yourselves Chartered chartered accountants... (hereafter referred as CCA)

The 7 CCA's: Yes. That's the point you have figured out correctly. Amazing - and without a Victor Champion Leisure-size portable calculator too. A masterpiece of thought from a man of your caliber. But - alas - one of us must still have to go...

All: What?!?!?

CCA #3: I have to go for a pee...

Tob econ tinued...
Re: Charter by Pekkis on 10 February 2015 10:21pm

It seems, that we have forgotten all about the professors that took on this fatal flight to Charter.

It seems, but we haven't.

The five professors collected all their necessary equipment they could find from the remains of the late lady Airbus and set their way up the hill and away from all the fuzz on the beach.

As they reached somewhat half-way of their climb one of the professors turned - and said in awe...

Prof #1: Just look at this place! How wonderful! Just think how many wind turbines they could erect on this slope alone!

Prof #2: Wind turbines?

Prof #3: To run what?

Prof #1: What? Freezers for instance.

Prof #4: To freeze what? Those remains of that lady from the institute of going a bit blue in the Arctic?

Prof #5: Or pebbles?

Prof #3: That would be a novel idea: deep-frozen pebbles from Charter!

Prof #2: I'd rather sell genuine hand tarred Tyrnävese swamp-potatoes to the Poles!

Prof #5: To the South Poles or the North Poles?

Prof #2: I've heard tell that the North Poles have the tallest vault.

Prof #3: They'd have to put up a brand new office there: The North Pole vaulting office.

Prof #1: Oh, please go on and nag me! They could run whatever they want with wind turbines. Now, look at the view and feel the breeze! It must be over 15 metres per second. Ideal conditions to erect wind turbines!

Prof #2: What, without state subsidies?

Prof #1: Er... I never thought of that...

Prof #5: So much for wind turbines then!

Prof #1: But, on a second thought...

Prof #2-5: Oh, shut up!

So, the talk about wind turbines winded down and the professors continued to climb yet another fraction of their way to the top of the hill they had already diagnosed to be a volcano - and they hear a grumbling voice.

Prof #2: What was that?

Prof #1: I'm not talking to you...

Prof #3: It sounded like a grumble, so it obviously and most likely was a grumble.

Prof #4: Must be my stomach. It always moans like that after airline catering.

Prof #5: No, I don't think it was. There was no catering aboard apart from Red Watneys'. And I'd recognize that reaction. It was more like an earthquake - or an eruption... Or, wait a minute! Now I know what it was! I recognized it from my zoology courses. It was...

Prof #1-5: A GORILLA!!!

So, this time they got it right. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ydXtCpYimN8)
A giant gorilla looked them straight between the eyes, and said...

Gorilla: Yes, I am a gorilla.

Prof #2: When was the first time you thought you were a gorilla?

Prof #1: You idiot! This isn't the time to try to psychoanalyze a gorilla!

Gorilla: It isn't? And I've waited for ages to meet someone to talk to about my unhappy past...

Prof #5: You have?

Gorilla: Yes, and now this mean biped brute of a gentleman says that I can't have the psychoanalysis I have craved for years...

Prof #1: I'm sorry but I didn't mean to be mean, but just because (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M0Imb-7BpTI) I happen to be in charge of maintaining the exact running of the Greenwich mean time doesn't mean that... Now, wait a minute! You speak too good english to be a gorilla. Are you by any means a chartered accountant just dressed up like a gorilla?

Gorilla: No, chartered accountants are so underpaid. I'd rather be a gorilla.

Prof #2: But how on earth do you speak such fluent english - to be a gorilla?

Gorilla: My great grandfather learned it overseas when he was filming one of his sequels and taught me a little while he was at home. His name was Kong, you may have seen one of his films.

Prof #2: Oh...

Gorilla: Yes, and the grumble you were just speaking about was my stomach and I happen to feel really peckish by now. Hey! What's that little speck on your collar? First starters! Yummy!!!

Well, so much for Inger the norwegian head louse (nordlus in Norwegian, Pediculus humanus noruegiensis in science). We won't be hearing from her any more in this story. But for those in deep grievance for her we can tell that a tall monument was erected on the place of her last resting place a little afterwards.
That monument didn't survive the next monsoon though... What a lousy way to go...

What shall happen to the five professors? Shall they live another day or do they follow the way lead by Inger through the intestines of the gorilla?

Read the next chapter as it arrives.

This is the end of chapter H-ball...


Gorilla: Well, that [Inger] was just starters. Let's go to my place for the real grub!

(exeunt to the Gorilla's cave)

Gorilla: Well, well, welcome to my homely castle. Isn't it just lovely damp and chill here.
Oh, and look at my lovely pet spider, Angus. Spinning your web for the unwary fly, are you... Now, let me see. Where was I?

Prof #1: On your pet spider Angus, I presume?

Gorilla: Oh, yes! Angus. My dear pet Angus... Where a-a-re y-o-o-u-u...

Prof #1: Under your gluteus maximus, presumably... Well, er... no. The sinister one I think...

Gorilla: Oh! He's slain! Well, second starters are as good as the first... Yummy!

Prof #2: Do you always treat your inferiors the same way?

Gorilla: Why, naturally! Just look at those peasants down the slope! They think they've got a nice all-worked-out-no-questions-asked anarcho-syndicalist commune down there!
All they do is that they watch the campfire day-in, day-out hoping it would someday turn up to be a television set.
It's fiddlesticks! Jolki-Polki!
But me! Up here I've got a real banana-republic.
I'll be re-elected for as long as I decide to live.
I know, because I have learned all the necessary skills to do so by listening to the Finnish Broadcasting Company in Kekkoslovakia.

You know, knowledge is power, but ultimate knowledge - that's violence...

Kekkoslovakia! North of the North Poles and south of the North Pole Pole - his name is Zbigniew and he stands there en garde for all the people's democracies.
But Kekkoslovakia! There's a people's democracy for you!
Just think! The biggest ape sits on the tallest... well - swamp - in the middle of nowhere and gets himself re-elected again and again. And guess what?

Prof #1-5: ?

Gorilla: With no elections! But - alas - down must all the good emperors fall. That's dead, I mean.

Prof #5: Astonishing! Luckily none of that could happen in Dear Old Blighty...

Prof #1-4: Absolutely!!!

Prof #2: Now, to get back to your psychoanalysis... Let me hear about your unhappy past.

Gorilla: Well, er... Now, that I've found a real psychologist, I don't know where to start!

Prof #1: Thank god you weren't a gynecologist Prof#2! Ha! Paid you back there!!!

Gorilla: A gynecologist? Ha - ha - ha! Funny, Lord! Haw-haw!
Couldn't your zoologian friend tell you that I'm a male gorilla. Even the name "KONG" should have rung his bells even if he had 'em. Or does it make me effeminate just because I happen to talk english.

Prof #2: Well, that obviously is a topic we can revert to later.

Gorilla: But to revert to the topic at hand, your first question was that when was the first time that I first tought I was a gorilla.
Well, the first time that I first thought I was a gorilla was - the day I was born.
On that lovely morning at 6 pm the world was pouring with monsoon rain and the breeze that caressed me on my mother's clumsy arms smelled of lavendel and was at least at 30 metres per second. Then I was baptised to the Charthusian order by dipping me into a bowl of banana juice.
Then, these three questions pierced my brain like the scream of my beloved father ("Oh, no! Not another one?"):

a) am I a sperm whale

b) am I an 100 gram lump of some unorganic element, or

c) am I a chartered accountant.

All these three - otherwise bearable - options ruled out, I was convinced that I was a gorilla. QED!
And a very potent gorilla. As far as I can remember, all my relatives have been very potent.
I already mentioned my great grandfather Kong, the one they coronated King.
Of Norway, was it? No. It was Sweden. In Norway reigned my one-eighteenth of a cousin Kong Sberg. Not related to I Sberg in any way, though.
And then there was my father. Now, he truly was an egoist and a landscapist: bare handed and bare footed he dug this enormous waterway all the way from Tibet and through China, Myanmar, Thailand, Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam to the South China Sea.
You may have heard his name before too. He was called: Me.

Prof #1-5: Me???

Gorilla: Yep, Me Kong...

Prof # 1-5: Oh...

Gorilla: Yes. And what with my Big Brother (sorry, no link - have to draw the line somewhere)? He was born when my dad had finished digging himself through South East Asia and settled down in Indo China. My Big Brother grew so big and strong on that fertile and productive land that my father had no option but to call him Viet.

Prof #1-5: ---



Back at the cave where the psychoanalizing takes place...

Prof #2: Well, now that I've heard your story of your past, I really can't figure out what makes you think your past was so unhappy. You are potent, full of spirits - a fact we can't really be boasting about...

Gorilla: Spirits? I knew something was missing! Servants! Bring these good fellow-bipeds what they deserve. Give them the works!

Prof #1: Oh, thank you! Mmm-m! This smells a bit of... No! You tell prof #3, you're the botanist.

Prof #3: Well... it smells sweet. A bit like... Maybe we should get an unbiased opinion. My dear prof #5. You're the philosophist. Tell me what it is that comes to your mind of it!

Prof #5: A banana.

Gorilla: A banana? Of course it's banana! It's a banana split! To get a real banana split you get:

1 shot banana liqueur, 1 shot Charter banana liqueur so and so, fill with banana juice, bananas.

That, folks, is a real banana split.

Prof #1: But, your Highness, isn't there a bit a lot of bananas in there?

Gorilla: Right...You're absolutely right. Servants! Reduce the number of the banana juice ice cubes on the next setting!

Prof #1: And the next setting is?

Gorilla: The little birdie banani!

Prof #2: Does it sing? What's in it?

Gorilla: Aged Banana of Chartreuse type, banana brandy, banana juice, banana juice, banana liqueur, Germaniano and banana.

Prof #3: Germaniano? Can we have some of that? What is it made of?

Gorilla: Bananas! What else did you think? This is a banana republic. All we have is banana this and banana that. I never wanted to do this for a living anyway. I should have followed the way my merchant sister Hong paved me. I always wanted to be...

Prof #2: Even God bless your highness! Er, what... ...exactly did you want to be?

Gorilla: A poet... A people's poet...

Prof #2: A poet? Well, er... well, that's a good start. I think this time we are getting somewhere your highness. Do you think we might be able to hear one of your... ...poems?

Gorilla: I thought you'd never ask! Here comes the novelest one. Now, listen carefully so you don't have to applaud me in for a second round:

Gorilla, the people's poet: Les sanglots longs de violence de l'autonomie, maudirant mon cur d'un langeur monophonie.

Prof #4: I'd better put the kettle on and inform la résistance... ...I'll be back in a jiffy.

Prof #2: That's what she said. But exactly, how long is a jiffy?

Gorilla: Ha! I know that. It's four quarter jiffies...

Prof #3: How on earth could you possibly know that?

Gorilla: Elementary! My legal advisory is one Flywheel, Shyster, Flywheel, Haurel and Lardy attornies unlimited...


Gorilla: I wonder, why you professors are called crack professors?

Prof #1: Shall we show him?

Prof #2-5: Oh, yes!

Prof #1: Make the preliminary actions and conceal your inhibited unvoluntary reactions!

Prof #2-5: Done!

Prof #1: Ready?

Prof #2-5: Ready!

Prof #1: Sure?

Prof #2-5: We told you once...

Prof #1: Okey-dokey... Crack five!!!


Prof #1-5: This is a can, the herald of our land, and as soon as we can, this empty shell of Watney's, is disposed off of our hand! Hip, hip, hooray!

Gorilla: Oh, now I see why you five are called crack professors - and not the famous five.

Prof #2: Exactly! We're the infamous five. Would you like to crack one of your own?

Gorilla: Oh, one would be onederful. [--CRACK--!] A little deviation from the usual menu...

Prof #3: Consisting mainly of bananas?

Gorilla: Quite!

Prof #5: I myself find bananary diet quite chic...

Gorilla: Quite chic?!? Quite sick, you mean?

Prof #4: Your highness, I think he means it the other way around...

Gorilla: The other way around? You mean chic quite? Yecchh...

Prof #1: What do you mean: Yecchh... , your highness?

Gorilla: Chic quite makes me bananas! It is bananas! It even sounds like bananas!!! Ever heard of C-[censored]-a TM?

Prof #4: So it does... Have you ever tried Bisto?

Gorilla: Quiet!!! Quit this nonsense of quipping about bananas this instant or I'll go...

Prof #3: Bananas?

Gorilla: No! Berserk!!!

Prof #4: All right, all right. We'll quit quipping about bananas. We quintuplets shall be as quiet as a quilt without a quibble as quick as quicksilver under a quickbeam...

Gorilla: I'm beginning to quiver...

Prof #1: And after that?

Gorilla: Grrr-r-r...

Prof #3: Now, there wasn't enough Q in that line...

Prof #1: Yeah! Where's the cue???

Gorilla: The que?

Prof #1: The que for the punch line...

Gorilla: I still don't get it. You must talk some strange dialect apart from my classical english...
RAF banter, is it...


Prof #3: My, is it hot in here...

Prof #4: I beg your pardon?

Prof #3: My last words were: My, is it hot in here...

Prof #1: Was that a promise?

Prof #3: No. I merely meant that it was hot...

Gorilla: Hot?!? Great Scott!!! I completely forgot all about him!!!

Prof #2: Er, excuse me your highness. I don't think I can really follow you...

Gorilla: You don't have to. You are not one of my humble citizens. I meant THE Great Scott!

Prof #5: The Who? (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aOUqRZkR8dE)

Gorilla: No!!! The Great Scott of the Arctic!

Prof #2: Great Scott of the Arctic?

Prof #4: The one that had to fight the sea lion?

Gorilla: The very same. He's hibernating here.

Prof #3: Here? Where?

Gorilla: Down in the dungeons. I don't have so many prisoners to accomodate them, so he has all the available space he needs in those cold, damp dungeons.

Prof #1: Not so many prisoners? What should that mean?

Gorilla: Try to find enough prisoners to fill your dungeons in a one-biped Banana republic and you'll find out. I really couldn't lock my personal staff behind bars, could I.

Prof #4: That's humane. I mean bipedane, your highness. In our civilization there's a proverb: homo homini homo. There's no actual need to drag the wolves in it. They're innocent... Except for the Saigon Wolves, of course...

Gorilla: That's where you're absolutely right.

Prof #3: But you could, right?

Gorilla: Outright, no! I would run out of servants... But - alas - the Great Scott of the Arctic doesn't want to prolong his stay in my unanimous Banana republic for much longer...

Prof #2: He doesn't? Why's that?

Gorilla: It's too warm for him.

Prof #1: Have you tried to freeze him?

Gorilla: Yes. We built this giant freezer for him but it didn't work.

Prof #2: May I ask you why, your highness?

Gorilla: We haven't yet invented electricity. Do you, by some unfathomable stroke of luck happen to know how we could have some electricity up here.

Prof #1: Ha! Was I right, or was I right? Your highness,how much money can you assign on your annual budget for state subsidies to build... ...let's say about exactly nine wind turbines?

Gorilla: Well, I must consider this question a bit...

[a bit]

...now, that I've considered this question a bit, these three main questions rose to my mind:

a) what is a wind turbine?
b) why nine?
c) what is money?

Prof #1: Yes guv'nor, let me tell you:

a) a wind turbine is a H-U-G-E windmill protruding himself way up to the sky like a techno-industrial-pseudo-green-state-subsidied phallus that produces electricity. That's if it isn't still, still...
b) if you build only nine wind turbines you can skip the EIA
c) oh, never mind...


Prof #2: What's this lever then?
Gorilla: Don't touch it!!!
Servants: Please, sir! Don't touch it!!!
Prof #2: And may I ask you why?
Servants: You'd make us all unemployed...
Gorilla: ...and dead.
Prof #2: How do you mean dead. Surely, pulling this lever - what harm could it to to your existence?
Gorilla: You just try - and find out.
Prof #2: Well, I think I could. But I won't...
Prof #1: Oh, you namby-pamby! Let me show you! Thus!
Gorilla & servants: Nooooo!!!

Thus! meant that pulling the lever of the banana juice tank (all the 4 billion gallons of it) opened the valve to release the very contents of the 4 billion gallon banana juice tank on top of the lava dome lurching under the deep crevasses of the volcano.

The inevitable explosion that tore the whole island and a few neighboring atolls into smithereens, witnessed some wild expressions in a tune like:

Gorilla: You b------s!

Prof #2: Hey, I didn't even touch the lever.

Prof #1: Oh! And all the subsidies...

The 7 CCAs: How on earth didn't we figure this out?

The native man with feathers: Som eoneh aspu lledth ele ver!


The Great Scott of the Arctic: Aaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!

So, the state of Charter was no more.

And more importantly: no-one has come to show any slide-shows of it forever after.


Re: Charter by Ken Dunn on 11 February 2015 6:45pm
Are you writing the script for a movie or a play or a Monty Python sketch Pekkis?
Messages 1 2 

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