Chic Dickie, Diary Entry 6,001: A True Record and Account of What Transpired This Day: Still desperately needing magazine materials, Kyiv-based publishing Englishman Chic Dickie hosts Bodkin MacFlatus (otherwise and earlier aka The Highlander Slob – a guid Scot’s freend o’ Sweaty Tank Top, tho’ no i’ th’ same loin o’ beezness wi’ ‘im – th’ very soime…)
Ich Oyve coom ta talk ta ya ‘bout ar blooody a-newal Rabbie Buirns Nicht in the great Scotsman’s burg o’ Kyiv jubilee.
Robert Burns?
Aye.
The Ploughman Poet?
Tha’ be roight.
Scotland’s Favourite Son [with the incorrect insertion of the letter “u” into the word “favorite” – KU Note, Secret Editorial Board], narrowly beating out Mel Gibson for the title – or should I say ‘toit’l’?
Aye, th’ vere soime. Eets th’ yar noomb’r’d twenny, an’ Ich Oye as th’ founder o’ th’ epeec event ‘d loike a blooody inner view wi’ yar magazine ta cam memorate th’o’casion.
From behind his big dark mahogany writing desk – all very English – and the depthless blank eyes too close together crossing each other inside his fat large tottering King Henry VIII head, Chic Dickie looks Bodkin MacFlatus up and down. He notes, like a slab of raw meat, the glistening whisky-soaked face, the chin having melded into one with the fat-shaking neck, the alcoholic’s arched brows as though drawn in by the rust-colored crayon of a hyper and distracted-hurrying child’s hand over narrow-slit eyes, the lids falling slantwise at different sag rates over either, the gel-greased curls of slob hair styled to fall, as though oh-so carefree and ever-so random across the line-cracked red-booze-burned forehead in the affected spirit of a still brawny, rugged, laddish man coursing through crowds in his natural state of swashbuckling lionhearted highland wild – his kilt flapping up behind his ass as he cuts through the still-cold spring-striving air; the tremendous and irrepressible arrogance and vanity of a quickly aging man who still sees himself as the picture and at the height of youthful sexual vigor, that face, or what’s left of it, melting into the dark decaying curtains at the back of a crumbling stage while still trying to push the waxen features forward through the proscenium arch’s fourth wall, forcing it, that… that… fucking face, into our minds. And Chic Dickie sees that silly red jacket, that black bowtie, and that kilt, which make this MacFlatus look like some failed whisky-bottle mascot or a hotel bellhop in a skirt temporarily tending the lobby bar.
Chic Dickie says:
So, let me get this straight, Bodkin. You want me to interview you regarding a genetically defective prematurely aging alcoholic manic depressive with a heart condition lucky enough to get laid a lot before dying at the ripe old age of 37?
Wha’ th’ fook be sayin’ ye? Byron wasna no fookin’ auld lang toime –
Don’t you DARE speak Byron’s name in the same breath with Burns! It’s not enough, MacFlatus, that every blessed year you shove that fake Romantic Scots shit down everyone’s throats in this great and ancient Rus capital with that fucking Burns Night of yours, year after year after year, and now this will make twenty. No. That’s just not enough ‘far ye’. Because this year you want to use my tremendously popular and immensely successful zine to highlight that very and extremely pathetic fact, ‘ta cam memorate eet wi’ a blooody inner view’.
Dunna ye na gang –
Dunna Ich Oye na gang what? No one’s ever pulled anything on me, or got one over on me, or used me, or made me a fool, or some kind of sucker, and no one ever will – you get me?! I win every time! Always have, do now, always will. Burns Night, Burns Night… I’m sick at the talk of it! Fuck you and ‘yar fookin’ blooody Rabbie Buirns’. Instead of fighting the man for destroying his house with the plough, the mouse runs! What kind of message is that to send the people in this tragically stricken and war-torn Ukraine? It’s the poetry of cowards, I tell you! Cowards! Why can’t I have a night here in Kyiv dedicated to real English Romantic poets who absolutely tower over and dwarf your middling measly ‘wee li’l’ coward puny Robert Burns, the truly great bards of the English word, who died much more youngly and far more intensely than that stupid fucking red red rose, like Shelley’s wind or Keats’s bird?! Why can’t I have my Shakespeare festivals?! Where are they?! Why can’t I have MY nights?!? WHHHYYYYY…???!!!
But now there is no more Bodkin MacFlatus, no more so-called Highlander Slob…
Now, Outrage Reggie gets up from his small desk at the back of the room under the dark window.
Outrage Reggie moves toward someone sitting in a highbacked leather chair on wheels behind a large mahogany desk in the middle of the room whom we think is Chic Dickie.
The little pot-bellied clown follows the man with quick, desperate, concerned steps.
I’m really sick and tired of this Chic Dickie, Outrage Reggie says, both to his audience he knows is somewhere out there somehow listening, and to his little servant clown – Binky.
What do you say we do with him, Binky?
In the corner to the left, as we look past Chic Dickie, in a giant crib, in fits of unrestrained ecstasy, with flashes of maniacal teeth-bared hooting and whooping to the ceiling, a big loveable White Trash is groping the private parts of a forlorn and despondent Black Welsh Losser, the raisons d’etre for whom please refer to the end of The Clown Chronicles, No. 1.
Filed March 15, 2015