I had the strangest dream last night.
Why the long, white, poker face, Buster???
Buster Keaton is propping up a bar downtown, toying with the glace cherry on a stick from his umpteenth vermouth and soda. He's beating himself up over the events of last year. How could he have been so dumb? How could he have let her go like that, without even so much as a 'come back honey - maybe we can give it one last try, huh?' What a jerk.
Of course, on the other side of the world, as she reclines in her Olympic-size jacusi with bronzed slabs of beefcake attending to her every whim, Victoria Coren reflects that leaving that dumbass slapstick comedian was the best damn thing she ever did.
Semi professional poker and one guy gal, Victoria Coren. Sorry, that should read 'semi-professional poker player'...
Oh sure, it was fun at first. A laugh a minute. Those sad quizical eyes looking up at her as he picked himself up and dusted himself down from yet another comic pratfall. Oh, the thrills we had too - all those highspeed capers whilst being pursued at a hundred miles an hour by a monstrous great steam engine certainly got the old adrenalin pumping and all that testosterone certainly helped spice things up in the bedroom, that's for sure. But after a while, even the greatest poker-faced funnyman can get a little tiresome, Vicky reflects. And when I came home to find him standing in the window frame with the whole house front collapsed around him well, that was just the final straw. Still, it was fun while it lasted, she smiles. And talk about falling on your feet! How weird that John Travolta would have such a passionate interest in the etymology of the English language and get on so well with the old man! Hours the two would spend, howling with laughter, swapping Idi Amin stories and knock-knock-jokes. I sometimes wonder, she thinks, if Dad doesn't get on better with him than I do....Still, I can't wait for the wedding. Do they just have the one wife, Scientologists....?
John "Eight wives" Travolta...
Back in Beverley Hills and oblivious to his former squeeze's impending nuptials, Buster knocks back one last vermouth and spills some change on to the bar. He's just about to wobble onto the street when he spots Alan Titchmarsh coming towards him with arms open wide. Unable to avoid eye contact, Buster realises it's too late to escape, and that Titchmarsh has him cornered. "Get you a drink, Buster?" B. can hardly refuse, can he? - especially as Alan was kind enough to de-creosote those rhodedendrons for him the other week... "Sure Al, thanks." "There we are Buster, get that down yer. Now, about this time of year, I like to have a really good weed to make way for the planting in the spring...."
Love on y'all,
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises