Suggested Audio Candy:
The Persuaders “Some Guys Have All The Luck”
There’s a gentleman I know, a kindly fellow, around my age and similarly proportioned. His name? Well it’s Sven I concur. Not nostalgic nordsman or sinful swede, Sven arrived not on a longboat and prefers crude canned lager to mead any day of the month. No beard to plat, no cut-down denim shorts which seep out the rippling underbelly of his buttocks. He does have blonde hair however, but not in bunches like Pippi Longstocking. He’s much more conventional looking a fellow is Sven. We have history, The Impaler and I, long scriptures of old sea shanties crooned and cockles scoffed. This gentleman, and he is such, has shared moments of sheer hilarity with Keeper. We’ve chuckled ourselves blind and disagreed many times but always with jovial glee and never relentless cruelty. We actually have names for each other. To Sven I am Dick-Starr Wesley Jobe Grasshopper and to me he is the Mouse Murderer. That’s right he has impaled many a shrew over the years but not one of them intentional.
You see, Sven is cursed as is Keeper. We share a cup of disparagement on occasion and both see the world through peepers of misfortune. For Keeper my blight is of utter jester-like ridiculousness and self-fulfilling prophecy whereas Sven…well let’s just say he fashions the most ludicrously ill of fortunes and wears them as a shroud of undesirable bad luck. Rotten more like, to its pulpy core, if a grand piano is being hoisted then this is the chap who it would invariably drop upon, breaking all 206 of his marrow sticks in the process.
When he purchases new moccasins he asks for the skins of bananas as outer insoles and has two black cats spreading their omen to each of his endeavors. Actually, they’re hounds but not just any Muttleys. These nonchalant numpties are Staffordshire Bull Terriers and the finest wee canines this side of Tibet. Beans and Mini-Beans are their mantras, too more gentile chums you could not wish for. They roam naked around his domicile, teasing the Sill Pigeons with their stumpy pins and lustrous inky pelt.
Whether they are the root of his woes is unclear but allow me to offer a cupful of enlightenment as to Sven’s unwitting plight. He operates a fork-lift truck in a heaving warehouse day-to-day and once ingested a speck of malignant fallout which lodged in his larynx, rendering him mute for several weeks. He also played host to a benign tumor, hernia to use the proper Norwegian tongue, which he carried around in his abdominal hammock like a ho’s hand-baggage for nearly a month before it threatened to consume his gut.
This bastard lesion was akin to a balloon overfilled with pustule slapping his kidneys like they were rotten stepchildren. It even received correspondence from numerous organizations wishing to use it as their company mascot and slept alongside Sven in his old mobile home. Swinging a catfish would have been troublesome, nay nigh on improbable, within the confines of his poky chamber. Which leads me to the rodent homicide, Mouse Party as I affectionately recall it.
Mouse me this and mouse me that
A set of whiskers and an old top hat
The rodent in question came for the kicks
It fashioned some mouse-skis from old twig-like sticks
Downhill it descended and into the trap
Humane it was plain and benign as it snapped
Claustrophobic Mouserama shuffled in its cramp space
With a wall on its rectum and another its face
As it slid like a flid nearly breaking the seal
The Impaler grasped its cage and shook with some zeal
He’s alive, let me check, hear some movement in there
He was wrong mouse extinct and it just wasn’t fair
Shook with thrift, vigor shown mouse’s fuse swiftly blown
What good is a mouse party if attended alone
The little fella would’ve made a most beautiful bride
Now he’s dead stale white bread so he flung it outside
Took its fortunes stole its curse unclaimed coinage from its purse
strapped it to a roller boot inky black like a hearse
Mouse not pleased or appeased by the cruelty in which seized
All it came for was a slither of that old cottage cheese
What it got, was a cot as he rocked it to slumber
Gentle foxtrot was replaced with the gnarliest rumba
Rabbit’s toe as it goes is a charm not to duck
Kill a shrew shame on you take away mouse’s luck
In his defense three cans of Stella Artois were largely responsible for the untimely gargled squeak but we remember fondly with mouse-colored spectacles Mr. Jingles and his death-throe jangles. Of course, bad luck streams flow with passion and Sven’s gushed with sour conviction until recently when he spotted an iklwabbit bounding around the dew-strewn turf of the Fields of Avalon. Instantaneously it was love, first degree, burns of affection. This wascally wabbit held the key to snuffing out his woe-string and his hernia swiftly popped like a womb of sorrow.
His luck began to turn, keys where he left them, the Beans sisters respecting his shit and not chewing the upholstery as a wry bi-daily dig at their master. Rabbit toe is a charm, she had ten I recall and he was no longer the victim of callous circumstance. Now when I visit he greets with a warm smile of contentment. He bagged his iklwabbit and the curse was lifted. He still fondly recalls mouse-gate and each time it evokes a grin, the Henry Rollins of God’s kingdom, four-legged goose teaser, cheddar partisan. They shared moments of brevity which could never be extinguished and a fitting end was furnished. Now Sven is at peace with his iklwabbit from the Wascally Warren of Withersdale. I’m really fucking happy for them.
To you Sven, the three leafed clover of ill-fortune now has its fourth tier and it couldn’t have happened to a nicer fellow. Of mice and men, you’ve outgrown your mouse and have your wabbit. Forget any Elmer Thuddery and look towards the bright eyes that burn with such fire. Be happy, share, care and love freely. Your brother Keeper is glad to buffoon alongside you. Remember these words Sven.
Pick a Sven, any Sven
Interactive heads on Grueheads. We shall together choose a Buscemi for Sven to use as his Image. He is blue-eyed with flaxen locks so it had to be Buscemi. I have loved Stevie B and saw him at a live one-off Coen Brothers/Charlie Kaufman collaborative radio-styled masterpiece alongside greats like Philip Seymour-Hoffman and Meryl Streep to name but two. Sven looks nothing like Buscemi, which is a delightful reason for us to choose his new identity from six available Buscemis.