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Prefab Sprout “The King of Rock and Roll”

Let’s kick things off with a little factoid shall we? Laughter keeps you from aging. Yes, siree. Official studies confirm this to be the case and one’s five-a-day should always comprise of at least one part laughter apparently. We use the nutrients in fruit, vegetables, and plain old water to keep our skin supple while raising a smile keeps our faces from appearing weather-beaten. Thus I wear mine everywhere I travel and search for the jovial in the most unexpected of locales (you know, the usual – beneath rocks, up petticoats, the Waka Waka Islands). I have to say, the results have been more than encouraging. Eventually, repeat views of John Carpenter’s The Thing revealed the hilarity in the faces of Childs and Garry as Palmer commenced to transform and Windows became little more than a light snack as they remained tied to that fucking couch screaming like banshees. Yet the first umpteen times I watched it my sphincter slackened to such a degree that it resembled my very own rectal yo-yo. Never could get the hang of the thing.

I like my comedy black mainly but will never shun an opportunity for pratfall and regularly surround myself with banana skins as a way of paying testament to this fact. Whether crass vulgarity or well-observed subtlety are exercised, chances are, my ribs will be soundly tickled. Being fully fledged man-child helps in assuming this position as part of me will never grow old and it’s the same part which finds tempo in flatulence. I’m not suggesting that the way to a man’s heart is through his ass hoop, but it is one of two ways to access this organ. Comedy is, of course, subjective and many would consider the act of farting as puerile. It is and I am, you got a problem with that? If you have then I will point you towards my clown shoes and keep probing until your funny bone quivers. I’ll get you in the end, dare yourselves not to at least smirk and I shall pull out every stop wearing you down.

As I throw down the laughter gauntlet I am prepared to throw in the big guns. Big Bird, come now, we all get a kick out of him right? Never destined to soar our skies and incapable of wearing stockings without laddering them on his multitude of leg hoops, he is charged with being besties with a depressive mammoth and that’s no reason to be cheerful. An absence of genitalia leaves him with precious little to occupy his time other than singing about letters and numbers. For the record, anyone who doesn’t find Big Bird even the vaguest bit amusing, shame on you. You’ve either got selective memory or a heart of stone dagnabbit.

Glumness is such a wearying trait to possess, especially when a little laughter courts love so effortlessly. The proverbial long face, the Donald Sutherland, the old Lee Marvin, is far too elongated for my liking. Also useless is the head so tiny it appears it should be part if a cluster. For starters, nobody trusts a man whose eyes are too close together and there’s damn good reason why humans can’t lick their own foreheads. If I close one peeper then I can instantly discern the tip of my beak which is more than we can say of Big Bird. His only hope lays in a less grounded bird perching on the end to reach through his cataracts with its full-stretch salute. His eyes, ironically, sit side-by-side. It’s all making sense now right? Guys? Guys?

My verbal diarrhea is unmistakably dense but reach within the vocal feces and there are plentiful fun nuggets to be gathered. Invariably you will find humor the deeper you dig as I like to warm up and dare myself not to crack as I always lose come the end. Laughter is just too irresistible and, having a fairly astute idea of what turns my cogs, I know all of my weaknesses. It’s a good job I don’t possess the bladder of the elderly as It would, no doubt, burst daily and leave one hell of a clean-up operation to avoid smelling like Sugar Puffs come the day’s end.

Of course, there is nothing amusing about anyone unable to laugh at their own idiocy. We all know the type, quick to point the finger of fun in your general direction but not so ready for their just desserts. It is a two-way deal or, at least, should be. I can often be found in my banana skin slip-ons, sliding around a rink of my own expense and, should I fall to my face in a public place, then it is I who laugh first, and often last. I’m not proud, not above a little gentle banter, all I ask is that you allow me to return the favor from time to time. No real reason, these shoes were two for one and I only have a single set of hooves.

Being utterly ridiculous is utterly refreshing and actually rather liberating once you learn the art form. I bask in the dim-witted rays, waving gormlessly like Forrest Gump at a bus stop and openly displaying my full rack of pearly whites. If I catch a few wayward flies then consider me an exterminator of sorts. Should it all go Shelley Long and my trousers fall to my ankles then I’m already one step ahead and have painted my pecker paisley just to catch you unaware. Look it dead in its eye and it will pull a stupid face, tickle my bag balls and it ain’t just my flower that will give you a squirt.

I hope soon that somebody gets me the medical help I clearly need. Until such time at the white-coated charlatans come and take me away I shall continue to search for those funny bones. Let me have a quick tickle will you, just a few caresses with my finger monsters. If you don’t manage to at least break a smile then back to the yellow brick road and begone with you. If, like Keeper, you are currently envisaging Big Bird laying a yellowish egg in a bucket whilst arming Snuffleupagus’ sub-fur flesh trunk until his eyelids flutter then welcome and please, if you would be so kind, pass me a mug of that delicious laughter tonic as I’m parched.

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