Suggested Audio Jukebox
 The Police “Message In A Bottle”
 The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster “Team Meat”
 De La Soul “Jenifa (Taught Me)”
 Alan Silvestri “Forrest Gump”
 Jennifer Lopez “Jenny From The Block”
 The Human League “Together in Electric Dreams”
 Cameo “Word Up”
 Fleetwood Mac “Rhiannon”
 Madonna “Holiday”
 The Dead Kennedys “Holiday In Cambodia”
I think it would be fair to say that most of us would feel fairly hard done by to wind up shipwrecked on a desert island. I mean, what are the odds of that happening really? Slim to nada I’d imagine, even if we’re frequent flyers, the chances of this particular likelihood ever playing out are next than nothing. That said, there are rare occasions where this is precisely what happens and I think it would be fair to say that nothing whatsoever can tool us up for such an eventuality. Regardless of how much of a long shot this is, most of us devise a desert island list at some point in our lives, just in case the unthinkable occurs or, more likely, out of vague curiosity. Heaven forbid we ever find ourselves in this desperate position but, if it ever does come to happen, we’d want to be prepared right? You see, once stranded, the simplest task becomes a headache and survival is by no means a given. We have two choices here – either hit the ground running or hide our heads in the sand, in which case, we’ll be washed up before the week is out. I’d like to think that adrenaline would kick in under such circumstances as the latter doesn’t particularly appeal if I’m honest. Thus, in my questionable wisdom, I’ve decided to devise a desert island list of sorts, to ensure that I’m provided a fighting chance if I’m ever left marooned.
Traditionally the kind of inventory one dreams up for such an expedition is pie in the sky at best. It’s all too easy to opt for electronic gizmos, an array of our favorite rainy day movies from past and present, and a stockpile of creature comforts, none of which can boast even the vaguest degree of practicality. However, if I’m going to do this, then I’m doing it properly dagnabbit. What’s the point of compiling a list of items that you will have no opportunity whatsoever to use? This exercise becomes null and void the very moment I go hunting around my coordinates for a mains socket, and besides, who knows what is lurking in the undergrowth biding its time to leap out at any unsuspecting wanderers? My island may seem uninhabited and, chances are, two-way conversation will be at something of a premium. But that is not to say that there won’t be some ancient cannibal tribe loitering beyond yonder thicket with intent and I don’t relish the idea of being spit-roasted over an open fire while they bicker over who gets rump and who has to settle for drumsticks. Exploration will therefore be kept to a bare minimum and my selections will need to reflect this to give me a fighting chance of surviving until a passing ocean liner bails me out.
First things first, we all gotta feed right? So nobody can raise objection to me packing myself a single meal ticket just to keep the wolves from the door. That said, the decision must be painstaking as, once that dries up, it’s left to twigs and berries to fend off those tummy grumbles and I hear this often doesn’t end well as there are likely all sorts of poisonous shrubs to avoid and they all look hospitable when you’re utterly famished. Having pondered all available options, I’ve plumped for a hearty menu option that I’d imagine would keep a family of six alive for a solid week at least. This may not appear the shrewdest choice and I feel obliged to offer my condolences to Kayne West for having his main squeeze snatched beneath his very nose but that’s what you get for texting Taylor Swift when you should have been massaging her shoulders like she asked you. While all too easy to consider Mrs. Kardashian-West something of an irritant, and hardly the most generous serving of chargrilled flesh to the naked eye, where Kim is concerned, it really is all about that rump cut.
I know right? How can the mouth possibly not water just a little? Ordinarily the prospect of being washed up on a desert island with this self-important, socially retarded snark is one too terrifying to entertain as it would end in murder before she could rub in her sun lotion. Therefore I murdered her in advance and, against all odds, managed to squeeze this succulent morsel into my travel luggage to ensure that I don’t go hungry while finding my feet. When I first heard about the legendary badonkadonk, I naturally presumed it to be some kind of bogus flesh-eating hybrid of a farmyard animal and venus fly trap. Tell me your minds don’t conjure up the same kind of ghastly image. It’s the thing of folklore right? “Don’t venture too far off trail as the badonkadonk will get you”. I can almost hear grandpa Joe farting involuntarily as he reads me my bedtime story and unwittingly causes a lifetime of mental scarring in the process. Here, this is the kind of badonkadonk that populated my imagination previously.
Gadzooks I hear you cry and, let me assure you, Gad has nothing whatsoever to do with these zooks. So you can imagine my momentous relief when I discovered that the badonkadonk wasn’t first sighted until the turn of the millennium and brought to the public’s attention courtesy of a sweet, well-mannered young girl by the name of Jenny. Now the first thing you think of when hearing the name Jenny is sweet and well-mannered right? Let’s consider the facts shall we? Word has it that Jenny Agutter is sweet and well-mannered and I wouldn’t second think joining this pretty baby for a walkabout. Plus if I were to consume the wrong berry and fall ill, then Ms. Agutter has already proven herself more than attentive and her bedside manner really is second to none I hear. Jennifer Love Hewitt may grate on the masses but, behind closed doors (and with her top off), I’m sure she’s very sweet and well-mannered. Jenny McCarthy does all that wonderful anti-vaccine work and you can’t say that’s not sweet and well-mannered. Jennifer Connolly made Labyrinth and, while a little rude to Hoggle on occasion, he was a bit of a prick and most of the time she was nothing if not sweet and well-mannered.
It doesn’t stop there either. Jennifer Lawrence may be the highest-paid actress on the planet right now and pretty much Oscar’s golden girl but it hasn’t stopped her from conducting herself in a sweet and well-mannered manner. Jennifer Aniston may be growing more slutty as the years pass (and thank the heavens above for that career choice) but she’s still America’s sweetheart and I seem to remember Brad Pitt remarking that “she was just too sweet and well-mannered for me” after boarding the ill-fated Jolie express. Then we have Jennifer Grey and, although a tad abrasive with her sweet, well-mannered, and really dreadfully unwell baby brother Ferris Bueller, she did come good in the end by sticking it to Ed Rooney. Besides, watching her have the time of her life was proof enough that baby doesn’t deserve to be left in the corner and her prize-winning dance was, you guessed it, pretty sweet and well-mannered if a little…well…dirty. I could go on and on but feel I’ve made my point adequately. That said, there is one more Jenny who we shouldn’t forget in all of this and I can almost hear Forrest Gump reading her eulogy with a tear in his eye as we speak.
This is my Jenny. She died on a Saturday morning and I buried her right here under our tree. Mama always told me she was a dirty whore but to me she was the carrots to my peas. Jenny loved me in her own special way and always came back to me after her travels. She travelled a lot my Jenny. If life is like a box of chocolates like mama said then Jenny was the one that always seems to be picked out before the box gets passed round to you. One time she touched my special purpose. And that’s all I have to say about that.
I want to say thank you Jenny. Thank you for teaching me how to climb. Thank you for polishing up my magic shoes. And thank you for agreeing to cheer Lieutenant Dan up when he was sad. I don’t know what you did to make him so happy but it was the first time I’d ever seen him smile. I miss you Jenny. I miss running all over the United States of America trying to find you every time we played hide and seek. I miss holding back your hair when you got ill. I even miss the smell of your poop water. I’m not a smart man… but I know what love is. Thank you for teaching me Jenny. You were always sweet and well-mannered, like all Jennys are. I’ve got to go now Jenny as this doggy has a special purpose too and I think he’s about to show me how he uses it.
See what I mean? If there’s one thing you can count on in life, then that would be Jennys. Or at least, that was the case until the dreaded J-Lo emerged on the scene with a trunk all backed-up with funk. To some she was simply Jenny from the block but, to me, she posed a massive threat to global security and that may have had something to do with the bubble butt that followed her around wherever she went. At first, it appeared little more than a freakish one-off but, by the late noughties, two other badonkadonks had been sighted too and they were even more potentially explosive. Nicki Minaj had one and our friend Kim Kardashian was proud owner of the other. I couldn’t fit both in my suitcase so elected to pack the latter as it seemed to know more tricks and, anyone who suspects her to be lacking in talent, should listen to her recite the national anthem with her asshole in G-minor. Moreover, volleyball has never really interested me greatly. Sorry Wilson but you just ain’t my type although I do appreciate you making the effort. Alas I much prefer basketball as a team sport.
Meanwhile, I understand that building a campfire is a great way of staving off the cold weather and have never been able to get the hang of starting fires using two pieces of slate and a pile of twigs. My first consideration was a disposable lighter although they have a tendency to stop working the very moment you return home from the store and only work again once you return them to their vendor, seemingly in a bid to make you out as some kind of cheap skate idiot. After careful deliberation, I decided on a couple of defective children’s toys from the eighties as I hear they go up in flames if you so much as look at them funny. Barbie dolls may not travel light but thankfully I managed to procure myself a limited edition Slut Barbie and she only comes packaged with a leather horse whip and three miniature ping-pong balls so I made a space for her in my hand luggage.
Now that I can build a fire and never need go hungry again, my next consideration is entertainment and, without any new-fangled gizmos or portable game consoles to break up the monotony of desert island life, fun will no doubt be at a distinct premium. I almost included my Rubix Cube but then remembered how it made me desire to put my fist through a wall after ten minutes and thought better of it. Not wishing to be a typical guy here but, unless mama was right when telling me that nothing good will ever come from wrestling it, that leaves only masturbation and a lifetime searching for the elusive G-spot that is supposed to be located somewhere in one’s bottom although I’m starting to suspect I may have been had there you know. That’s hardly entertainment sewn up now is it? Wanking used to be a real blast in the eye as a teenager, whereas now, it just seems so damned predictable. Lest we not forget that there is precious little space left for anything not deemed totally indispensable and I’m certain there’s something I haven’t thought of here. Whatever could I play with for days on end without it ever getting the least bit boring? Surely such a thing doesn’t exist?
Bugger off guys, I’m trying to think here and can’t be expected to exercise the grey matter with you lot waving your arms as though there’s something you’re simply dying to tell me. Hold on, could it be that I’m missing a trick here? Perhaps I should hear this admittedly shady-looking bunch out as they’ve never once given me a bum steer previously. Besides, there’s ten of them and I heard those thumb monsters are a real handful after one too many sniffs of apricot nail varnish. Guess I should see what it is that they’re so frantic to tell me. What’s that fellas? Really, ooger booger’s all you’ve got for me? Is that really the best you can come up with? And how, pray tell, is that supposed to help me in my current predicament? Begone from here the lot of you and don’t come back until you have something useful to impart. Anyhoots, with finger monsters now out of the running and inspiration at an all-time low, it looks like I’m just going to have to take a punt on the first pocket-sized play thing that springs to mind. Given that lithium batteries have such a long shelf life, I reckon it has to be a Tamagotchi.
These virtual pets were quite the rage in the nineties and the whole craze passed by me so this could be my one chance to find out what all the fuss was about. Regrettably the instructions appear to be in Japanese so I’m not altogether sure how to pay this particular game by its rules. There appears to be an egg of sorts on the digital display and my guess would be that I simply sit around until it hatches, then learn the rules on the fly. Well would you look at that, it has turned into what appears to be some kind of miniature dinosaur and quite a cute one at that. So what now? Unless I’m mistaken, my little friend is mildly distressed and keeps on pointing towards its mouth for some reason. Perhaps its wisdom tooth is coming through? Or could it be that it needs some balm for its chapped lips? What the bloody hell is it trying to tell me? Any ideas? And you say kids used to go wild for these? Were the nineties that abysmal? Screw it, ain’t my problem anymore as it just keeled over. Well that was a complete sodding waste of $9.95. I knew I should’ve listened to the finger monsters you know.
Things are turning to shit faster than a steak dinner here and I’m feeling dreadfully unprepared for my desert island downtime. What else does one do to pass the time when marooned? We’ve already ascertained that exploration is a no-no as I don’t fancy running into the infamous Ya̧nodanödingdong tribe and winding up tomorrow’s casserole. Food is sorted, fire at the ready, Tamagotchi deceased, I fail to see what else I could possibly do to occupy my time. Given that I have nobody else on hand to chew the fat with, you would be forgiven for expecting my I.Q. points to fritter away over time right? After all, the brain is a muscle too. Talking to myself may offer a slither of vague amusement for a while, but eventually I’m going to end up saying something insensitive or forgetting my own birthday and then all I’m left with is uncomfortable silence. I despise uncomfortable silence. Besides, I’ve heard that I’m a bit of a knob. No there has to be some other way of keeping those pistons firing and not steadily degenerating into a heathen. And wouldn’t you know, I reckon it just came to me. It’s books isn’t it? Reading materials. Brain food.
Would it be a bad time to mention that I can’t actually read? Let’s not bend the bookmark, it’s not that I can’t read, more that I have no real inclination to do so. I’ve tried, heaven knows I’ve tried, almost a dozen times to my recollection. But I’ve always been more of a visual creature. It didn’t help that I started with a horribly dense piece of literature that left me stone cold. War and Peace was one helluva slog for one with such a fleeting attention span and I distinctly remember asking my teacher for Lord of The Flies as well. The title alone didn’t exactly inspire hope as I’d heard on two separate occasions that war is good for absolutely nothing and, as for peace, well they suggest it’s unrealistic. Reading soon became a chore and the result is that I cannot seem to make it through a solitary stanza without falling between the lines like a daddy longlegs on a George Foreman grill. In my entire life, I have read a grand total of three novels from cover to cover and hadn’t intended on adding to that tally I’m honest. Would it not be too much to ask for them to throw in the odd pictorial just to spice things up? Must it really be that dry? This sounds suspiciously like I’m endorsing myself a chore and I thought that beach vacations were supposed to help you unwind, not burst blood vessels in your forehead.
Tell you what, I’ll meet you in the middle, how’s that? Your suggestion may not fill me with childlike anticipation but Dr. Kawashima did mention something about training one’s neurons being good for their development and I’d hate to grow any dumberer. Thus I shall select literature that I’m more au fait with, something that speaks to me personally and also isn’t afraid to paint me a mental picture or two. It just so happens that there’s a story behind this one as I’ve rubbed shoulders with the two main protagonists before and found them most congenial companions. Actually they did hang out with a shady-looking night owl if memory serves and I found him a bit of a worthless tag along but fingers crossed they’ll have cut him loose by now. I guess the only way to find out for sure is to do a little light reading and find out how the grass lays after a good thirty years in the literary wilderness. Let’s stop off and say hello shall we?
There she is, looking just as radiant (and mildly bedraggled) as always. Don’t be put off by the whole witch deal as Meg is a real fun-loving gal and you wait until you meet her significant other Mog, he’s a banana of the uppermost quality. I guess it’s about time we wake our sleeping beauty from her eternal slumber. I wonder if she sleeps in the nude. We could be about to cop an eyeful here if things pan out right.
Dagnabbit! Where’s the seduction? The gradual build up? At least in Pretty In Pink we got to watch Andie rolling up her stockings. What am I five again? While bitterly disappointed, there’s no sign of that wretched owl so I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt for the time being and see what she rustles up for breakfast.
Mog! How the devil are you old bean? Sleeping again huh? That’s quite alright, you’re fully entitled to that lay in and, besides, Meg is a whizz in the kitchen and is already hard at work preparing a nice fixer-upper to get the day off to the best possible start. You stay there, I’ll check out how things are coming along.
Not looking to be pernickety but a slice of toast done on one side would have sufficed love. That said, I have faith in Meg’s culinary skills and this saves me from being forced to carve myself a slice of Kardashian rump. Anyhoots, she’ll come up with something extraordinary, of that I have absolutely no doubt. As a matter of fact, I just heard the egg timer chime. Is it too late for brunch?
Okay so I’m a little peeved if I’m honest. Firstly, both strawberries and fish appear to be identical and neither of you look like you’re enjoying it. Secondly, and this one really gropes my ghoulies, where the hell is my dinner? Do I not need to eat? The whole thing reeks of selfish if you ask me and I can’t see how anything could get any worse right now. Hold on, was that a “twittawoo” I just discerned? It better bloody not be as this would be the last straw after such an appalling snub.
I knew it. You just had to invite him didn’t you Meg? Look at the mischief he’s getting up to with his rowdy entourage. And that’s Meg’s favorite mouse toy getting dragged about like a rodent-themed tampon. Five minutes and the whole place will be obliterated. I reckon you need to rein it in and discuss today’s plans before things get any more FUBAR. An emergency conference should do it and will give me chance to steal your porridge while your back’s turned. I’ll have to be quick as I know how crabby you get without your morning muesli and don’t fancy you placing a hex on me on top of all the other bitter disappointment I’m feeling presently.
Sounds like a stellar idea Meg, don’t listen to Owl as he couldn’t orchestrate a fart in a sphincter. Mog will take it from here and, should you be searching for hidden agenda, then how do you like these coconuts? You see, Mog happens to share my loathing for Owl and has just conjured up a cunning master plan for cutting him loose so we can get down to the real fun stuff. Let’s head to the jetty and find out what he’s proposing.
Yeah fuck off Owl. Right then me hearties, shall we venture off and get ourselves shipwrecked together? I have to come clean, I’m not convinced that submarine is the best way to travel as I watched The Abyss and didn’t much care for the house guests. Tell you what, hop off onto the first passing boat that appears and we’ll keep things topside.
This is working out marvellously. As you can see, the beach stretches for miles, and it’s a great place to top up our tans. So what do you say Meg? Fancy slipping into something a little more comfortable? When in The Blue Lagoon and all that. Alright look, are you gonna get your tits out or what? One tit? Actually do you even have breasts under there or is that just a kickass sports bra?
Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a shameless tease Meg? How else do you propose raising morale or do you plan to leave that up to Mog too? Well I’ve got news for you Frigid Freda, it gets mighty cold and wet once nightfall draws in and I’m not letting you share my wigwam as I don’t have one.
Tell me that’s not Owl lurking in the palm tree like a Cosby. It only bloody is you know. Well that’s just fan-fucking-tastic, the whole thing’s a write-off now, and I hold you personally responsible. Don’t try shifting the blame onto Mog either as he looks just as disheartened as me. That’s it, you’re barred from my desert island and can make your own way home to think about your thoughtless actions further. Well go on, scram. Don’t bother giving me the sad eyes either as it won’t wash with me.
And you lot wonder why I’m not an avid reader. That whole exercise was a complete waste of both time and energy that I don’t have at my disposal currently and things are starting to look decidedly grim for my desert island break. It’s all too easy to remember what you should’ve packed once you’ve arrived at your destination but that’s not going to help me once I’m ravaged by frisky crustaceans at the dead of night. The last thing I need is a lecherous langoustine tickling my urethra with its antennae because I failed to add my anti-shrimp net to the inventory but I guess I’m just going to have to take my chances as land is now ahoy and I’ll be left to my own devices in just a matter of moments. I’d like to thank you for all your wonderful suggestions (even though I don’t recall you throwing a solitary one into the hat) and ask that you don’t forget me as I may be here for some time and there’s no guarantee I’m ever getting off this island.
Before you depart, just a quick reminder that you’re more than welcome to pay me a visit anytime you wish as there are more than enough Kardashian cutlets to go around and I’ll likely need the company to stop me going completely doolally. I may be self-sufficient but it’s one thing refraining from logging into Facebook because you’re afraid what you’ll find there and entirely another being brought gently to the boil in an oversized cauldron by the Ya̧nodanödingdong tribe. Indeed, I’m struggling to conjure up any positives whatsoever right now and the only thing I can come up with is the FedEx parcel that just mysteriously washed up amongst the cockle shells. I do hope it’s something exciting, perhaps some roller blades with built in socks or a consignment of Marx brothers disguises complete with solar-powered jazz hands. You know, something I can actually put to some decent use. Guess there’s only one way to know for sure. Looks like Christmas has come early this year folks. Wish me luck or anything but ill-fortune will do.
Well gee to the whizz and back again. My very own life-sized blow-up Lindsay Lohan doll complete with adjustable orifices and flashing L.A.P.D. ankle bracelet. Things may be starting to look up after all. While hardly what you would call saved, I reckon I could have done a lot worse you know given my recent run of misfortune. At least now I’ll have someone to tell all my witty anecdotes, spot me as I perform all three of my A.M. stomach crunches, and spoon during those long, restless nights beneath the red moon. Speaking of which, I don’t suppose any of you have a spare foot pump knocking about do you? Don’t wish to come across as a wuss but just blowing up a party balloon makes my cheeks crackle and I fear I won’t possess the available puff to inflate this baby. Guys?.. Guys?