# 64

Since I'm no longer armed with a personal assistant, here's a brief rundown of what transpired yesterday. As confusing as this may sound, the geese did retreat after much staring.


I: You're watching Good Morning, Heather. My name is Andy Kaufman. And now it's time for the weather forecast. Good Morning, Hank. How's the weather likely to treat us today?

Hank: Well, Andy, it's a testicle solidifying mess out there today and I'm not 100% sure how she'll treat us today, to tell you the truth. Perhaps there'll be the occasional slap and the prolonged tickling you seem to endure with pleasurable facial contortions. Sure, the sun's shining with more venom than a cobra fuelled by angry pills, but that's little more than a red herring in the ointment. You see, the cold front, which has battered the east coast of the Russian federation of former one-eyed Communists and feminine gymnasts with more bench pressing prowess than you, has finally reached these shores. And what are we doing about it? I'll tell you what we're doing about it: Boo-hoo. It's really cold. I want my mommy, that's what we're doing about it. Presently, it's unleashing a batch of the coldest air likely to traverse through those action-packed nostrils you seem to flare without fear of diminishing your standing in the culturally elite. Is that for the black viewers or just a stoic front for the anti-hygiene faction? Either way, Andy, it ain't having the desired effect, you moron. PS the cold front doesn't look like fucking off anytime soon.

I: Bugger.

Hank: My thoughts exactly, Andy. Kudos on the plagiarism front. May your spawn be of inconsequential height to the rest of society's butterball dumplings.

I: What?

Hank: Your unborn children, Andy; may your seed be tall in mischief, long in short sightedness and short in the crotch for you are a man truly lacking original thought. Am I wrong? Well, am I? By the way, are those ankle freezers doing it for you. Well, are they?

I: Get fucked, Hank.

Hank: And the correct answer is... Let me check my pockets. Oh, here it is! 'Fuck off, Hank.' Ladies and gentlemen, it's close enough to the answer we were looking for. Come on down Mr Originality, Andeeeeeeeee Kaufffffffman! Andy, just look at your outstanding prize, you fat fuck.

I: Just do the weather, Hank, all right?

Hank: I don't think so.

I: Why the hell not?

Hank: Because it's your turn.

I: For what?

Hank: To stand in front of a green screen pointing at imaginary shit that the dickheads upstairs will inevitably fuck up because they're incapable of counting the five digits on their overfed hands in sequential order. You come and talk out of your arse for two minutes each day about information you couldn't conceivably ever actually know. You style your hair like a chimp from the '70s, given a day pass for a trip to the city... Oh, you're already doing that, I see.

I: Are you going to do the weather or not, Hank?

Hank: Are you going to blow me?

I: Un-bloody-likely!

Hank: There's your answer then, brainiac. Fuck all you assholes if you blame me for not predicting the snow. And fuck you, Dear Viewer, for being the retarded knuckle-scraping cement headed fucks for planning your day around what I say. Fuck all, y'all!

I: Umm...

Heather: Umm... Good morning, Andy!

I: ...Good morning, Heather. Which wonderful breakfast can we expect from you today?

Heather: Well, seeing as it's a special day, with unprecedented snow falling on the fourteenth day of March, I'll be showing our viewers how to make toast.

I: Sensational!

I swear on the life and times of whichever god you happen to believe in that everything here is true and accurate in every detail. And the geese haven't been back. Yet.

Technorati tags: Andy Kaufman, observation, weather, like snow falling on testicles, boredom, Australian, overseas, global, cooling, Mariah Carey, Celine Dion, Nikki Webster, rock hard cults, geese