BRIT-NAY'S MAMA (APOCALYPSE REDUX)

I'm currently busier than a maggot on a stackburger so, in view of the news of these "shocking" revelations, and instead of buggering about with something new, the time seems apt for a re-presentation of Rebus Flatbush and "The Tale of Brit-Nay's Mama" ...

From “Rebus Flatbush’s Famous Fables & Folk-Tales of the American Mid-West” ...

“Now ... Feetus, Teetus an’ Meetus, you boys git in here and settle yerselves up for bed cause I’m a gunna speak a story at yer ... This here’s a story ‘bout Brit-nay’s momma ...

Once upon a time Brit-nay’s momma done once lived raht here in this ol’ trailer park, an’ afore she done popped out Brit-nay, she useta set in her trailer a’drinkin’ an’ a cussin’ at herself ‘cause she weren’t a fam-ous person. She’d rub her big bumpy belly and take a big swig a’ corn likker and tell herself, “Mah baby’s gonna be someone one day, yessir she is, I’m a gonna show ever’one I ain’t no common piece ‘a trailer trash, no sirree I ain’t! I gots talents! An’ so will mah chil’, dagnabbit!!”

Then she’d let go of a buncha burps and farts so loud they fair stunned all the woodchucks fer miles aroun’ and set the grizzlies a-runnin’ for higher ground and then she’d fall down lahk a dead person an’ set fire to herself agin an’ we’d all haveta come a-runnin’ with buckets ‘a water and put her out. This useta happen, oh ... ‘bout every day or two.

(Feetus ... stop rubbin’ yerself agin yer’ brothers an’ pay attention, boy ... )

Anyhoo, Brit-nay was popped outta her momma’s belly one afternoon in the toilet block while she wuz givin’ Otis the janitor a seein’ to ‘bout sumfin’ (though why they wuz both nekkid at the time ah ain’t ever been able to figger, but ah guess that’s a’ no mind of mine to think upon), an’ she picked her baby up outta the toilet bowl an’ says “I gots myself a ticket to a fortune at last!”

An’ she taught that chil’ how ta dance an’ swivel her liddle hips an’ poke out her chesty bits and sing into a hairbush, all the time tellin’ her, “You gonna be fam-ous, Brit-nay, yes you are, an’ ah don’ wanna hear any arguments about it, you gonna be someone and ahm gonna be someone too! ... Now you gotsta learn how to poke out yer liddle baby pillows sum more and smile when all those nahce men from the talents agency come ‘round ... Oh!, that reminds me ... we gotsta git yer teeth bleached agin! ... You stay raht there now whiles I git the Persil.”

An’ sure e-nuff, Brit-nay got herself fam-ous an’ made a whole buncha money, an’ her momma made a whole buncha money too coz she done went and made herself Brit-nay’s manager person.

An’ then one day, when Brit-nay was a lot older, she started actin’ jes lahk her momma what with the drinkin’ and the smokin’ an’ cussin’ an’ gettin’ herself tattoos an’ havin’ a baby wif some fella who lahked to wear his pants ‘round his knees so as to show off his unnerwear an’ such ... Yessirree, she was actin’ up sumfin’ feerce all the time, an’ she got herself a dee-vorce an’ lost custody a’ her own l’il baby, an’ on top a’ all that, she went an’ tol’ her ol’ momma to go feck herself, ‘cause she was mahty sick of her.

An’ her poor ol’ momma soon found she had no more money left an’ she weren’t fam-ous no more an’ she had to come back an’ live with Otis the janitor in the toilet agin’.

Now, the moral of the story, boys, is this – no matter how many times you change the size an’ shape of yer trailer, the trash’ll always stay the same ...

(Er, Teetus ... take yer thang outta Meetus’s earhole and git yerself off to sleep, son.)”

UNCLE JACK FLATBUSH AND THE STRANGE TALE OF THE RETARDED, BILE-SPURTIN’ IDIOT CHICKEN FROM MORON HELL

From “Rebus Flatbush’s Famous Fables & Folk-Tales from the American Mid-West”

“A cautionary fable for chin-dribblin’, crotch-fiddlin’, one-tooth banjo-playin’ retards, imbeciles, idiots, and egg-suckin’, overall-wearin’, straw-chewin’ dumb-ass inbred cretins and backward halfwit morons everywhere.”

Once upon a time, Rebus Flatbush found 'imself with sum important bizness to attend to at Ol' Mammy Wineshack's House a’ Joy up the Ol’ Baccy Road outside a' Dogpile, so he thought to leave the boys at Uncle Jack's place down at Lickass Town fer a few days ...

But what Rebus di'nt know at the time wuz that fer well over a year now, the strangest lookin' idiot creature any man's a'ever set his peepers on either in this lahf or the next had bin wandrin' in an' out of poor ol' Jack's patch a’ turnips with nary as much as a howdy-do or a may-I-please, an' ol' Jack was gittin' a mite itchy in his brain about it ...

And sure ‘nuff, later that very same day, while's Uncle Jack was tendin' to his pint-sized an’ summat sickly lookin’ melons and the boys were messin' about with the hawgs, that damn stupid thang came a’scuttlin' an' a'cluckin' an' a'spurtin' it's way inta the weed bed agin ... an' ol' Jack let fly a series a’ curses an’ ‘jaculations sumfin' evil at the sight a’ that mangy retard afore he whooped at the boys to come an' have a looksee.

"Hey Feetus, Teetus and Meatus! You boys leave that hawg alone for a minute an’ wipe yerselves off an' come have a gander at this goshdarn funny lookin' moron chicken that keeps a flappin' about mah patch a’ dirt!"

"Eeeee-ewwwwwwww", said Feetus, "Wassat thing there thass a' spurtin’ green stuff all over the turnip patch, Unca Jack?"

"Why Feetus", said Uncle Jack, "thass a bahl duck."

"A bahl dick?"

"No boy, a bahl DUCK. A bahl DUCK. (Damn it boy if you ain't ever had nothin' but wood on the brain since you were jest a little fella) ... This 'ere funny lookin' imbecile chicken looks lahk it's been born with it's bahl duck on the outsahd 'stead a' on the insahd!"

"Thass one goshdarn retarded lookin' chicken, Unca Jack", says Meatus.

"Well, boy, 'pearances ain't ever'thing, y'know ... (An' yer momma's plenny a' proof a' that, thass fer sure, boy)."

Uncle Jack cackled a bit at his own li'l joke, 'gratulatin' hisself on his smarts, an’ so he gave 'hisself an' extra large chunk of Jolly Roger chewin' baccy, and then blew off the last remnants a’ that mornin's meal through the hole in his coveralls he'd had made jes fer that very purpose.

"I'm gonna call that chicken George Jnr, Unca Jack", says Meatus.

"You do that, boy, though if I have any sayin' in the matter, that dumb-lookin’ thang ain't gonna 'ave a name fer much longer."

And then, whiles Uncle Jack wuz a musin' on the various ways an' means that he maht use to rid 'imself a’ the curse a’ this dirty ol' spurtin', stupid chicken, Teetus came a scootin' outta the shack yellin', "Uncle Jack!! Uncle Jack!! You gots to come insahd!! Quick!!"

"Wassup, Teetus?"

"Why, Ol' Woman Moses done gone and got herself stuck on the four-poster again! She got the lockjaw sumfin' feerce!"

"Dagnabbit all to heck! ... Ol' Man Moses's bin dead all year now, an' that ol' gal's brain's so rattled she's got to humpin' an' a’suckin' at those bedknobs as if he were still raht there aside her! ... You boys keep an' eye on that spurtin' chicken an' make sure it don't scare the hawgs none whiles I fetch the denture solvent an' pull her off those things afore she sucks all the varnishin' clean off ..."

Anyhoo, after takin' care a’Ol' Woman Moses an' her oral fixations an’ givin’ her dry ol’ lady bits a dustin’, Uncle Jack wandered back outside ta give some thoughts as ta how ta deal with this vexatious tarnation that were the devil's spurtin' imbecile chicken ...

Which is when he noticed sumfin' he ain't a’ever noticed afore ...

When that thang a' spurted its stuff alls over the turnips, the turnips died. But ... when it spurted its stuff over the melon patch, those things thrived. So Uncle Jack got the boys to lasso it's scrawny neck with a buncha ol’ crusty rubbers tied together (he wuz savin’‘em up to use fer Chris’mas stockin’s fer the boys, but danged if this weren’t a mite more ‘portant) an’ then he tied them rubbers 'round a big steel stick and planted that stick raht there in the melon patch an' that ol' devil chicken ran about that stick spurtin' it's bahl all over where the melons were supposed to grow and, lordy lordy, grow they did! Them things got so big, Uncle Jack won hisself firs’ prize in the annual fair up in Frottage County that very year, a first-class ticket on a steamer to Cleveland.

An’ later on, when that ol’ dumb chicken had run out of green stuff to spurt, Uncle Jack took a mahty big mallet an’ mashed it’s mangy ol’ body flat as could be, stuck a coat-hanger up it’s be-hind and used it fer a weather vane.

Yessiree now, Ol' Uncle Jack might not have known all that much 'bout the ways of stupid, spurtin’, dirty ol’ dumb devil chickens, but danged if he didn’t have a magic way about him when it came to tendin’ hisself a fine patch’a melons.

LI'L TOMOTHY CRUISE & THE CHURCH OF TINCANOLOGY

From “Rebus Flatbush’s Famous Fables & Folk-Tales from the American Mid-West” ...

(Any similarity to actual persons, either living or deceased, or to this item from the Daily Mail is purely coincidental)

ONCE UPON A TAHM, there wuz a li'l feller by the name of Tomothy Cruise an' he wuz a purty li'l feller too, thass fer sure. All the ladies wanted to have their wicked, wicked ways with purty li'l Tomothy (an' sum a' the fellas too by gosh, but ah ain't a’ goin' down that manky ol' tunnel a' confusion raht at this moment, no sirree), but purty l'il Tomothy was a mite more innerested in a funny ol' religion that wuz alls about holdin' tin cans in yer hands so as ta get yerself raht in tha head.

Now ... this funny ol' religion was put tagether a whiles back by a funny ol' sailor fella by the name of Elron Bubba who useta write stories 'bout flyin' saucies and li'l green fellas from outta space ‘til he figgered that that weren't no proper way fer a grown man to make a decent livin’, so he thought he may's well start hisself a religion on account a’ all the other religions din't have no truck with holdin' onta tin cans an' such, an’ they weren’t no li’l green fellas from outta space in ‘em either ... they was all abouts sum fella from way back who git hisself nailed to a cupple a’ chunks of two-be-four, an’ by golly, that weren’t no fun to be readin’ on, Bubba reckoned ... Yep, Ol' Bubba lahked his tin cans and li’l green fellas a whole lot more, thass fer sure, so he set about makin’ hisself a new church ... the Church of Tincanology ... an’ purty li’l Tomothy Cruise found out about it sometahms after Bubba had passed on, and reckoned it sounded lahk a good idea to get hisself raht in the head, so he read up some books on it, an’ joined hisself up ...

Anyhoo ... Li'l Tomothy had bin grabbin' onta those tin cans for about a decade or so an' figgered hisself mostly raht in the head, when a few of the folks in Ol’ Bubba’s Church of Tincanology thought it maht be a good idea that he get hisself a lady to grab onto fer a change ... see, they figgered that purty li’l Tomothy with his purty li’l face could pull ‘em some wimmen folk inta the Church an’ they could ‘pregnate ‘em wif some a’ the frozen spuzz from Ol’ Elron they’d been keepin’ aside so’s they could have ‘emselves some li’l Elron’s to fawn on an’ follow about ... also, they was runnin’ real short a' tin cans at the tahm too ...

Now ... Li’l Tomothy may ‘ave bin a purty fella, but he wuz only about 2 an’ a half feet an’ one inch tall an’ sum a’ those wimmen folk he wuz hangin’ ‘round wif din’t stay fer long on account a’ how he wuz more inclahned to wanna play wif tin cans than take to pokin’ about their lady bits as much as they’d ‘ave lahked ... One a’ these ladies, who went by the name a’ Nikky Pigman, why, she was as tall an’ pale an’ scrawny as Tomothy was short an’ dark an’ stumpy an’ even standin’on a step-ladder that li’l feller couldn’t so much as scratch at her lady bits, an’ dang if those bits a’ hers weren’t just itchin’ fer some scratchin’ action after a whiles, so ‘ventually she tol’ ‘im where he could put his tin cans in no uncertain terms an’ she ran off an’ found herself a gee-tar playin’ feller to get scratched at by ...

But then, one day, Tomothy met a cute li'l gal by the name of Cattie Ohms, an' he tol' her again an' again an' again an' over an' over an' over all about holdin' onta tin cans an’ the Church of Tincanology an’ Ol’ Elron Bubba ‘til her brain fair did rattle with confusion an’ afore she knew it she’d agreed ta marry the li’l feller an’ ‘ave his babies ... But li’l Tomothy had hisself no intention a’ pokin’ ‘bout her private bits, no sir, he an’ the Church had ‘emselves another plan altogether ...

So’s one naht ... he waited ... an’ he waited ... an’ he waited, ‘til poor young Cattie had fallen fast asleep, an’ he went to the icebox an’ got hisself a big ol’ blob of Ol’ Elron Bubba’s frozen spuzz that the Church of Tincanology had given him a whiles back and which he’d bin keepin’ hidden behind the turkey gizzards fer jes’ this very moment, an’ he put that spuzz on a turkey baster an’ crept toward Cattie’s sleepin’ self so’s he could stick that spuzz inta Cattie where it could do what spuzz does when it’s stuck there ...

But ... as li’l Tomothy moved hisself forward, he hadn’t noticed that some a’ that spuzz had melted a bit an’ had dripped onta the floor an’ jest as he’d got hisself real close to Cattie, he slipped on some a’ that melted spuzz and went scootin’ across the floor, bangin’ his head smack inta the wall so hard that he bounced back the other way an’ onta the so-fee with such a mahty force that one a’ the so-fee springs popped raht through the so-fee cover and raht inta his neck where it ripped his neck innerds to stringy red bits a’ spurtin’ flesh an’ killed li’l Tomothy Cruise in a instant.

Whereupon, poor liddle Cattie Ohms woked herself up of a sudden an’ looked over to see the tiny li’l body of li’l Tomothy Cruise layin’ dead on the floor, a big ol’ turkey baster with meltin’ sailor spuzz on it still in his hands, an’ she realised then what he’d a’ bin goin’ to do to her all this tahm an’ thanked her lucky stars that she had escaped his foul intentions ...

Now, even though she survahved, from there on in, from that day to this, purty liddle Cattie Ohms still can’t hold on to so much as a tin o’ beans without a shiver a’ creepin’ up her spine, whiles at Christmastime, no matter how loud an’ how long her mama hollers at her, there ain’t no way in this world or the next one that she’s a’ gonna help out stuffin’ no turkey.

No, sir. Uh-uh.

REBUS FLATBUSH & THE TALE OF BRIT-NAY'S MOMMA (AGAIN)

I posted this piece on the new Jack Marx blog recently and it elicited a really nice response from a number of people. So, here it is again ...

From “Rebus Flatbush’s Famous Fables & Folk-Tales from the American Mid-West” ...

“Now ... Feetus, Teetus an’ Meetus, you boys git in here and settle yerselves up for bed cause I’m a gunna speak a story at yer ... This here’s a story ‘bout Brit-nay’s momma ...

Once upon a time Brit-nay’s momma done once lived raht here in this ol’ trailer park, an’ afore she done popped out Brit-nay, she useta set in her trailer a’drinkin’ an’ a cussin’ at herself ‘cause she weren’t a fam-ous person. She’d rub her big bumpy belly and take a big swig a’ corn likker and tell herself, “Mah baby’s gonna be someone one day, yessir she is, I’m a gonna show ever’one I ain’t no common piece ‘a trailer trash, no sirree I ain’t! I gots talents! An’ so will mah chil’, dagnabbit!!”

Then she’d let go of a buncha burps and farts so loud they fair stunned all the woodchucks fer miles aroun’ and set the grizzlies a-runnin’ for higher ground and then she’d fall down lahk a dead person an’ set fire to herself agin an’ we’d all haveta come a-runnin’ with buckets ‘a water and put her out. This useta happen, oh ... ‘bout every day or two.

(Feetus ... stop rubbin’ yerself agin yer’ brothers an’ pay attention, boy ... )

Anyhoo, Brit-nay was popped outta her momma’s belly one afternoon in the toilet block while she wuz givin’ Otis the janitor a seein’ to ‘bout sumfin’ (though why they wuz both nekkid at the time ah ain’t ever been able to figger, but ah guess that’s a’ no mind of mine to think upon), an’ she picked her baby up outta the toilet bowl an’ says “I gots myself a ticket to a fortune at last!”

An’ she taught that chil’ how ta dance an’ swivel her liddle hips an’ poke out her chesty bits and sing into a hairbush, all the time tellin’ her, “You gonna be fam-ous, Brit-nay, yes you are, an’ ah don’ wanna hear any arguments about it, you gonna be someone and ahm gonna be someone too! ... Now you gotsta learn how to poke out yer liddle baby pillows sum more and smile when all those nahce men from the talents agency come ‘round ... Oh!, that reminds me ... we gotsta git yer teeth bleached agin! ... You stay raht there now whiles I git the Persil.”

An’ sure e-nuff, Brit-nay got herself fam-ous an’ made a whole buncha money, an’ her momma made a whole buncha money too coz she done went and made herself Brit-nay’s manager person.

An’ then one day, when Brit-nay was a lot older, she started actin’ jes lahk her momma what with the drinkin’ and the smokin’ an’ cussin’ an’ gettin’ herself tattoos an’ havin’ a baby wif some fella who lahked to wear his pants ‘round his knees so as to show off his unnerwear an’ such ... Yessirree, she was actin’ up sumfin’ feerce all the time, an’ she got herself a dee-vorce an’ lost custody a’ her own l’il baby, an’ on top a’ all that, she went an’ tol’ her ol’ momma to go feck herself, ‘cause she was mahty sick of her.

An’ her poor ol’ momma soon found she had no more money left an’ she weren’t fam-ous no more an’ she had to come back an’ live with Otis the janitor in the toilet agin’.

Now, the moral of the story, boys, is this – no matter how many times you change the size an’ shape of yer trailer, the trash’ll always stay the same ...

(Er, Teetus ... take yer thang outta Meetus’s earhole and git yerself off to sleep, son.)”



From 2007, Seth Green "Leave Chris Crocker Alone"