"aboutiii" - читать интересную книгу автора (starshiptitanic)
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 A completely absurd article by Terry Jones How I Slept With Terry Jones By A. Toad Contrary to popular misconceptions we members of the Bufo family - especially those of the Bufo terrestis americanus branch - enjoy healthy sex-lives and have all read Alex Comfort's excellent books The Joy of Sex and More Joy of Sex several times (although the complete failure to relate any of his techniques to the physique of the average toad is a source of bitter and abiding disappointment amongst my fellow amphibians). Still, Alex has done a wonderful job in ridding the world once and for all of the sort of hang-ups that have bedevilled human sexuality for so many years, and in helping human beings to appreciate their sexual drive with the same maturity and frankness that we toads have enjoyed for the last forty million or so years. It was therefore with a certain amount of interest and excitement that I approached the audition room for the lead role in The Wind in The Willows. I had heard that it was normal in these situations to sleep with or provide sexual services to the Director of any feature film in which one wishes to have a part, and I had learned that Terry Jones was particularly interested in 'tail'. This was, of course, a bit of a blow, being, myself, a rough-skinned, tailless amphibian, however, I reckoned that if I could once get his trousers unbuttoned I might stand a good chance of showing Mr. Jones that we toads can more than make up for the loss of a bit of tail. I have to say here that I am not a complete novice to the audition room or the casting couch. I had already been up for the part of a police officer in Prime Suspect starring Helen Mirren, and had only failed to secure the role through pure genetic prejudice on the part of the director, despite my having delivered my famous impersonation of Al Jonson swallowing a pork sword in an underground car-park in Philadelphia. So I was in no way phased when I was shown into the audition room and found Mr. Jones, reclining on a chaise lounge and drinking from a bottle of green chartreuse. "I'm sorry," he said, "we're not auditioning frogs." Well, as you can imagine, I was furious. "Call yourself a director? You wart-brained piece of tadpole-snot! I no more belong to the Ranidae family than you do! Your lead part is a Toad - well I am a toad!" I yelled at him. This appeared to have no effect on Mr. Jones, who merely rang a little bell at his side and called out "Next!" Realising I had to act fast, if I were to stand any chance of securing this plum role - a chance that would probably never come my way again certainly not before next spawning season - I hurled myself at his fly and managed to get it unbuttoned just as a lady assistant was entering the room. "Argggh! Mr. Jones!" she screamed. "What's that frog doing?" "I'm NOT A FROG!" I managed to yell, but it was difficult because I now had Terry Jones's half erect penis firmly in my toothless gums. As I felt the member stiffen I began to swallow and wrap my tongue around it at the same time. "So far so good," I thought. "Just wait until he finds out what we toads use our 'Bidder's organ'* for!" But at that moment I felt myself grabbed from behind by a pair of hands. Well, I did what any toad has to do in such a situation, I released the poison secretion from my parotoid glands. "Urrrgh!" exclaimed Irene Lamb (I hadn't realised but this was the fabled casting director herself! Wow! If I could just get on the right side of her, I realised, my acting career could really take off in a big way). But at that very moment, Terry Jones, who was struggling to get his penis out of my throat, fell backwards over the chaise lounge and struck his head against a member of Oasis - the number one chart-topping band - who had been asleep there since the last casting session. "Shit!" said the member of Oasis. "Why don't you look where you're falling and for fuck's sake get that frog off your cock!" "I'M NOT A FROG!" I yelled. At the same time Irene Lamb started to scream: "It's poisoned me!" "Shit!" I thought. "There goes my chance of getting a part in the next James Bond film!" Unfortunately in yelling out I had released the former member of the zany Monty Python comedy troupe's penis, and he whipped it out of my gums without so much as a thank you. At the same time, Irene Lamb threw a towel over me and pulled me off the chaise lounge and threw me out of the window. I fell for some moments before landing on the head of the former Director of Social Services for Southwark's grandmother's dog, which started barking. I decided that safety was the most pressing consideration and I crawled off into some bushes. I am writing this several days after my attempt to secure the title role in The Wind in The Willows. I am still stunned by the tight-arsed prudishness of a film director who won the Grand prix de la Meilleure Comedie at Vevey, Switzerland in 1987 with a sleazy film about South London prostitution , and I am horrified that the Sexual Revolution of the Sixties has either passed by the so-called film-makers of Britain, or they have never even bothered to apply it to amphibians. For my part, I shall not give up. I was born to play the role of Toad - it is a travesty of natural justice that the part should have been awarded to a human - who looks about as much like a toad as my arse looks like Michael Howard's brain. What is more the human being who has been awarded the roll turns out to be none other than the director - he's given it to himself! My only consolation is that I suppose he sleeps with himself more than anyone else. Nevertheless I shall be taking my case to the Court of Justice at the Hague. Yours sincerely A. Toad |
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A completely absurd article by Terry Jones How I Slept With Terry Jones By A. Toad Contrary to popular misconceptions we members of the Bufo family - especially those of the Bufo terrestis americanus branch - enjoy healthy sex-lives and have all read Alex Comfort's excellent books The Joy of Sex and More Joy of Sex several times (although the complete failure to relate any of his techniques to the physique of the average toad is a source of bitter and abiding disappointment amongst my fellow amphibians). Still, Alex has done a wonderful job in ridding the world once and for all of the sort of hang-ups that have bedevilled human sexuality for so many years, and in helping human beings to appreciate their sexual drive with the same maturity and frankness that we toads have enjoyed for the last forty million or so years. It was therefore with a certain amount of interest and excitement that I approached the audition room for the lead role in The Wind in The Willows. I had heard that it was normal in these situations to sleep with or provide sexual services to the Director of any feature film in which one wishes to have a part, and I had learned that Terry Jones was particularly interested in 'tail'. This was, of course, a bit of a blow, being, myself, a rough-skinned, tailless amphibian, however, I reckoned that if I could once get his trousers unbuttoned I might stand a good chance of showing Mr. Jones that we toads can more than make up for the loss of a bit of tail. I have to say here that I am not a complete novice to the audition room or the casting couch. I had already been up for the part of a police officer in Prime Suspect starring Helen Mirren, and had only failed to secure the role through pure genetic prejudice on the part of the director, despite my having delivered my famous impersonation of Al Jonson swallowing a pork sword in an underground car-park in Philadelphia. So I was in no way phased when I was shown into the audition room and found Mr. Jones, reclining on a chaise lounge and drinking from a bottle of green chartreuse. "I'm sorry," he said, "we're not auditioning frogs." Well, as you can imagine, I was furious. "Call yourself a director? You wart-brained piece of tadpole-snot! I no more belong to the Ranidae family than you do! Your lead part is a Toad - well I am a toad!" I yelled at him. This appeared to have no effect on Mr. Jones, who merely rang a little bell at his side and called out "Next!" Realising I had to act fast, if I were to stand any chance of securing this plum role - a chance that would probably never come my way again certainly not before next spawning season - I hurled myself at his fly and managed to get it unbuttoned just as a lady assistant was entering the room. "Argggh! Mr. Jones!" she screamed. "What's that frog doing?" "I'm NOT A FROG!" I managed to yell, but it was difficult because I now had Terry Jones's half erect penis firmly in my toothless gums. As I felt the member stiffen I began to swallow and wrap my tongue around it at the same time. "So far so good," I thought. "Just wait until he finds out what we toads use our 'Bidder's organ'* for!" But at that moment I felt myself grabbed from behind by a pair of hands. Well, I did what any toad has to do in such a situation, I released the poison secretion from my parotoid glands. "Urrrgh!" exclaimed Irene Lamb (I hadn't realised but this was the fabled casting director herself! Wow! If I could just get on the right side of her, I realised, my acting career could really take off in a big way). But at that very moment, Terry Jones, who was struggling to get his penis out of my throat, fell backwards over the chaise lounge and struck his head against a member of Oasis - the number one chart-topping band - who had been asleep there since the last casting session. "Shit!" said the member of Oasis. "Why don't you look where you're falling and for fuck's sake get that frog off your cock!" "I'M NOT A FROG!" I yelled. At the same time Irene Lamb started to scream: "It's poisoned me!" "Shit!" I thought. "There goes my chance of getting a part in the next James Bond film!" Unfortunately in yelling out I had released the former member of the zany Monty Python comedy troupe's penis, and he whipped it out of my gums without so much as a thank you. At the same time, Irene Lamb threw a towel over me and pulled me off the chaise lounge and threw me out of the window. I fell for some moments before landing on the head of the former Director of Social Services for Southwark's grandmother's dog, which started barking. I decided that safety was the most pressing consideration and I crawled off into some bushes. I am writing this several days after my attempt to secure the title role in The Wind in The Willows. I am still stunned by the tight-arsed prudishness of a film director who won the Grand prix de la Meilleure Comedie at Vevey, Switzerland in 1987 with a sleazy film about South London prostitution , and I am horrified that the Sexual Revolution of the Sixties has either passed by the so-called film-makers of Britain, or they have never even bothered to apply it to amphibians. For my part, I shall not give up. I was born to play the role of Toad - it is a travesty of natural justice that the part should have been awarded to a human - who looks about as much like a toad as my arse looks like Michael Howard's brain. What is more the human being who has been awarded the roll turns out to be none other than the director - he's given it to himself! My only consolation is that I suppose he sleeps with himself more than anyone else. Nevertheless I shall be taking my case to the Court of Justice at the Hague. Yours sincerely A. Toad |
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