Aztec Fundamentalists? Atomic saxophones? Curb crawling in the 22nd century? The Horrible Cave? "I hate dreams, they're silly" said in a bitter scientific voice? (Speakers 3: Space).
Where the halo are we? Guess again. Nope. Wrong. Try harder. Think. Be psychic. Pump it up. Negative. Give up? I knew you would.
See that photo of Christopher Locke above? We're in his kind of gloom: the psychoanalytic dysfunctional effrontery scene. We have become violently effeminate and shyly boisterous.
Resonance FM, man. It's the height of bizarrely disappointing and trend unsettling Podcast Miracle Explosion Revolution comedic genius with assorted elves.
Introducing my secret joy, my hidden source of inspurr-ation, these cats are dangerously mad. They've lost not only their own minds, but everybody elses! It will takes years, centuries even, to sort it all out.
"Is this my mind?"
"NO, that's Susan Webster's mind. Mary Wentworth ran off with yours."
We shall now deal only with dreams and other sober subjects of business academics.
We're at Resonance FM Comedy. But be careful. It's avant British, along the lines of Monty Python, but more subdued, quieter, almost feeble, a ghastly gasping gloaming.
Much immodest masochism and grandiose self-loathing going on around here.
"Today's show will test the limits of your tolerance. Not so much in terms of harshness necessarily, but more through misery and murmuring, or fatiguing sonics with grinding mediocrity that simply turn you off. You really shouldn't listen to this show really..."
--The Exciting Hellebore Show: Unlistenable Special (Meadow House)
Mr. Legge, The Hooting Yard, Bing Selfish, self-interruptive poetry lessons, it's all here. All at Resonance FM Comedy Podcast download page, powered by FeedBurner, a service I also use. I disclaim any need for a disclaimer, since, if I claim something, then attempt to dis- or re- or de- claim it, you know what? That makes me a word withdrawer. Sorry to use such strong language around potential childish audiences, but seriously.
In spite of many guns pointed at and touching my head, the ends of the barrels pushing sharply but dully against my skull, encirling me with tubes of death projectile transport system acuity, I stated my case.
"I shall not allow this mickey mouse hypnotic marketing gimmick to influence me. I shall continue to balance glum reporting with fair snooping around. I shall badger people onstantly and offstantly, in rain or shine, with happy or forlorn factual expressions." I chortled beatifically.
"Meaning, you won't quit?" the charperson asked through the soot of the chutney chimney chute.
"I shall continue to seek entertaining nonsense fabricated by today's outstanding new dreamers. I shall shun and abhore any reliance or coverage of celebrities, politicians, or plastic surgeons in Beverly Hills. No photos of actresses or models. No ads for Vilagra or Veritol. No cute or sexy anchors. Just the pure and horrible truth. That's what everyone wants today. The ugly reality of everything everywhere, and baby, I got it. I got it down cold." I stammered shyly and reluctant to toot my own horn section in my otherwise sedate symphony.
Then I remembered how much I enjoy arguing about Resonance FM.
I looked at the podcast mp3 titles I had downloaded from Resonance FM Comedy. "Overdose Pie", "Pilfering through the voices...", "Fork Flicking Special", "Curd", "Insulting Strangers on the Street", "The Exciting Hellebore Shew: Robot Shew", and my favorite CD burn of all so far...
w/ "Speakers 3: Space"
...since it's the one that's stuck in my CD player, playing endlesly, due to some British IT trick, and I cannot stop it, turn the volume down, nor unplug the unit (sparks fly if I try, and I feel a shock flash through my body that almost kills me).
When I tried to silence it by punching the mode button to switch to radio or tape, a foul smelling black smoke emanated from the speakers and the power cord started shaking violently.
But this style of humor of Dan Wilson, The Hooting Yard, Harmon e. Phraisyar, Meadow House, Bing Selfish, and whoever else is sick and insane enough to haunt their mysterious hallways underground, through myriads of mindless tunnels going nowhere and everywhere all at once, this kind of comedy rocks.
Such brilliant auto-animosity, as hedonistically exhibited at Resonance FM Comedy, is breath-taking to behold. Relaxing in it, your skin and face begin to crawl, your smile slides across the linoleum with a squeaky, strained squelching. You feel sick, you want to hurt the world, the whole thing, for making this kind of comatose comedy necessary for survival and silly sanity.
You begin to bounce the world, the whole thing, against the sidewalk like it, the planet and its peoples, were a brightly burning rubber ball.
It's Dan Wilson and Harmon e. Phraisyar (ex-Black Noise, It's War Boys recording star) and maybe some other cretinous creeps.
Spine chilling and bone tingling suspsense, in a delicately deranged sort of way, I suppose. That's what their machine, who flew in through my window last night, is commanding me to say. While that flying robot thing goes searching for more human food, let me just say this reall