Patrick Alexander's Personal Internet

Insufficient Stories: LIVE at the Butterfly Club

Recorded at the Butterfly Club, Melbourne, October 12th, 2012. Thanks to Adele Scott for organising the event and inviting me, and to Rebecca Clements for doin’ the video.

The Despot

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

The Despot

There was a nation once bountiful and prosperous, with fruit and that, that now groaned and withered under the rule of a ruthless despot, named Billy the Despot.

‘Great Leader Still Great – Wow, What a Guy,’ said the newspaper. In fact, Billy was a turd, but if you ever said so, they’d cut your dick off. If you were a woman, they’d cut your husband’s dick off, then sew it onto you, then cut it off. Billy was fucked in the head.

He would do shit like film himself doing bad and ludicrous dance moves to ‘Around the World’ by Daft Punk in various public locations, but with a straight face, then edit together a kind-of-amateurish, but-actually-kind-of-snappy-and-professional video of it, and upload it to his YouTube channel. Every citizen had to view this tedious crap multiple times, and leave comments like:

ha ha great leader this is fckn rad!!! nice moves bro

and

lol this is funy but actually ur a relly good dancer <3 <3

and then upvote any comments left by Cabinet members.

It was the role of farms and factories in this country to produce props for photographs. At least once a week, the front page of the newspaper would have a big picture of Billy inspecting a row of fine spanners, or an impressive pumpkin. It was important for citizens to see that they had spanners and pumpkins, since they didn’t have spanners or pumpkins. (They all had internet access though. Billy’s YouTube, Twitter and Tumblr pages constituted one hundred percent of the internet.)

One day the newspaper ran a picture of Billy eating a fine, impressive banana. The regime collapsed overnight, and the starving masses fed on the flesh of the privileged. The fact is, no-one can eat a banana without looking a bit silly.

Billy escaped to a neighbouring country, and lived out his days in comfort. But whenever he made a YouTube video, though it still got millions of views, nearly everyone clicked the ‘thumbs down’ button. And for the rest of his life, because Billy was so silly, people all over the world called him, “You fucking cunt.”

Harry Potter and the Monster

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

Harry Potter and the Monster

“Gr,” went the monster. “Monstery goawayo!” Harry commanded magically. “NO!!!” growled the monster, replyingly.

MONSTERY GOAWAYO!!!!!” yelled Harry, his face angry. This time the monster did go away, because Harry was louder.

Harry had saved his friends, but also his enemies too. What a great boy. “That’ll do, pig,” nodded Dumbledore, wisely.

James Bond

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

James Bond

James Bond ordered one of his stupid martinis, and everyone was really impressed. “Shaken, not stirred,” he said. “Add a large thin slice of lemon peel,” he said, and everyone dropped what they were doing to give him a round of applause for being so clever and sophisticated.

He reached for the drink and took a long sip. Satisfied, he gave the bartender an appreciative nod, then turned to his companion, Miss Cunty Vagina-name – a genius physicist and engineer, which explained the gravity-defying breasts.

“Well, my dear,” said Bond, “Why don’t you tell me all about…”

But he was interrupted by the bartender, who suddenly yelled, “I stirred it!”

It took Bond a moment to realise the man was addressing him. “Come again?”

“I stirred it, you stupid cocksucker!” the bartender explained. “You couldn’t tell the fucking difference, could you!? And what’s more,” he continued, his face flushed with mad delight, “I took a big shit in it!”

Bond inspected his martini. There was a long, brown, human turd taking up most of the glass; in fact hanging about three inches over the side, like a limp dick.

The room was silent. Bond couldn’t stand to look at his conspicuously polluted cocktail any longer, yet with all eyes upon him, he found he couldn’t move. Hours later, the lights were out and the building empty, and James Bond was still sitting at the bar, staring grimly at the rank mud-puddle in his glass. He must have left at some point, because the despicable shit-drinker was never seen again.

Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

Sherlock Holmes
and the Adventure

It was a fucking autumn morning. I dropped into 221B Baker Street to borrow a cup of cocaine, and was taken aback at the sight of a gleaming white refrigerator floating around the sitting room.

“Ah, Watson,” came a familiar voice, and I realised the refrigerator was in fact the gargantuan forehead of my esteemed friend Mr Sherlock Holmes. “Come in, will you.”

“I am in, Holmes.”

“So I deduced,” he replied intelligently, “from looking at you and seeing that you are here.” Turning to the fireplace opposite me, he casually played a minuet on his ukulele, drop-kicked it into the fire, and continued: “I see that you came here by hansom cab to-day, and your driver was hard of hearing.”

“That’s right!” I exclaimed, my funny little eyebrows leaping comically.

“Furthermore,” said Holmes, “I observe that you left your own residence in haste, following a marital spat regarding which side you ought to part your hair on.”

“Gadzooks, Holmes!” I sputtered oafishly, my saliva spraying forth in astonishment. “Correct again!”

“Recently, you purchased as a pet a pomeranian puppy with peach-yellow patches, naming it Archibald – only to then discover that the animal is female.”

My eyeballs bulged impossibly from their sockets, so startling my lips that they tried to escape my face: leaping forth from the stupidly gawping mouth, and sticking there, protruding and fishlike. Moved by amazement at the precise accuracy of my friend’s deductions, I made tiny hops from one fat leg to the other, back and forth like a performing pig. My polka-dot necktie came untucked from my trousers and rolled itself up, like a cut piano string. I was dumb with excitement, and although Holmes was still facing the mantle, it was all I could do to jiggle my blobby round head about and hope this resembled an enthusiastic nod. But the master detective had not finished yet.

“For luncheon yesterday,” he declared, “you ate steak and kidney pie, but the overpowering scent of a new lavender potpourri diminished your enjoyment of the meal. Two Thursdays ago, you trod on a cat. When you were eight years old, you suffered a sprain of the right elbow upon falling eleven feet from a bonsai tree. You trim your nose hairs with scissors properly intended for your wife’s toenails, and your favourite colour is green.”

The force of my own surprise lifted my entire egg-shaped body into the air, and I fell backwards into a wheelbarrow full of mulberries. Then my head fell off.

“Good gracious, Holmes!” I spurted. “Great flapping bottoms!” I blurted. My rudimentary legs wiggled in the air, as I struggled to regain verticality. “Jehovah’s jolly green genitals, Mary’s memorable mammaries, and the consecrated cunt of Christ! Your every inference is correct to the last detail. Having barely glanced at me since I entered the room, you have nonetheless extrapolated my biography. How did you do it, Holmes, and how, unfailingly and unerringly, do you do it?”

At last my companion turned to face me, and fixed his steel grey eyes upon my own. “My dear Watson, it could not be simpler. You see, I am a wizard.” And he painted rainbows in the air with his finger.

The Ending Story

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

The Ending Story

Bastian’s mother had died, leaving him a feeble demi-orphan, with eyes full of dreams and a body full of candy bars. He was only happy with his head in a book. Bastian loved books as much as he hated physical activity, his dad, and being chased by bullies down an alley, then thrown into a dumpster inexplicably full of straw.

He took refuge in a dusty old bookshop, with wooden shelves and knick-knacks, all coated in layers of accumulated whimsy. As quietly as he could, Bastian closed the door behind him, and was immediately set upon by a grumpy old potato, twinkles firing like laser beams from his every eye. Bastian might have been blinded, had the old potato not urgently thrust a large, leatherbound, conspicuously mysterious book into his face. “Don’t read this book!!” the potato yelled. “It’s too wonderful!!”

“All right,” said Bastian. “What book would you recommend?”

“Have you read,” shrieked the potato, “Treasure Island??! AAAAAAA!!!”

And so, Bastian read Treasure Island. It was longer than the books he was used to, and the archaic language was a little difficult. He wished he was allowed to have a Nintendo.

Boop

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

Boop

No-one could believe the man went “Boop.” But there it was, all over the news: “Boopity boop boop.” We were all pretty angry at first, but his childlike innocence won our hearts, and then he taught us to hope again. One day he just disappeared – I think he went back to Heaven.

The Man Who Hated

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

The Man Who Hated

The man hated everyone. He crouched behind a rock and hated them. “Grrr,” he went. “Bah!” he thought. He hated them so much, it gave him a headache, which made him hate them even more.

One day the rock fell on him, and he bled to death in the sun.

Oliver Twist

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

Oliver Twist

Oliver and a hundred other orphans lived in misery. To pass the time, they made Oliver ask Harry Secombe for a second helping of gruel.

“Please sir,” Oliver stammered, meekly proffering his bowl, “can I have some more?”

“More?!” bellowed Harry Secombe, his eyeballs inflated with passion. “Of course you may have more, you poor, weak child! I didn’t realise you were so hungry. Who else would like some more?”

Soon every boy was enjoying a fresh bowl of piping hot gruel. Then there were fat sausages, and creamy mashed potato, and trifle for dessert. Merriment filled the hall, and Harry Secombe’s cheeks were so rosy, and his laughter so jolly, it seemed to the orphans that Father Christmas was among them.

Harry Secombe threw his arms wide. “Parents for everybody!” he cried.

The Old Dog

Insufficient Stories by Patrick Alexander

The Old Dog

Boy, that dog was old. Then it died.