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Someone Stole My Siesmograph by Steve Skeewiff
Read the full text below, or download the PDF. Download in multiple ebook formats from Smashwords and Feedbooks.    © Steve Skeewiff 2012 Published by Philistine Press Cover art: Thought Exlosion by Ben Heine
Author’s Note
Someone stole my seismograph Someone found my seismograph Dictionary Skeewiff TV Jokes without punchlines Punchlines without jokes This iPod shuffle don’t shuffle no more Beatles tribute Cunning Bond reference A semi-satirical poem... Limericks Washing up Another poem about how much I enjoy washing up Stories from my life A heartfelt though admittedly inarticulate poem... This poem is an anti-climax A love poem which bears a striking resemblance to the previous one.. Saying all the vowels in order (Beware of) Tragedy (in the workplace) Skeewiff cinem Fascists are people too Love poem Escapism Today
This book is a collection of poetry and comedy. Any resemblance to other art forms, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
I used to perform at very small poetry and comedy venues but, for various reasons which I can’t be bothered to go into, I no longer perform live. Around 50% of the material in this book (including the title piece) was originally written as spoken word, but I’d like to think it transfers nicely onto the page.
If any written or spoken word artists would like to plagiarise any of the following work, please feel free. Seriously. Good luck with it.
Someone stole my seismograph. It cost five thousand Euros. You do the math. It had three previous owners. One was Steffi Graf. I could’ve used my other one but my other one was crap.
Someone stole my seismograph. I launched an appeal in the Daily Telegraph. I employed a search party of full time staff. So cruel to be a have-not as opposed to a have.
Someone stole my seismograph. They left their dirty footprints on the garden path. They had these tiny feet just like a baby giraffe. I could’ve got insurance but I didn’t have the cash.
Moral of the story: Always leave your seismograph in a secure location, or at the very least invest in some comprehensive home contents cover.
Someone found my seismograph (A happy ending)
Someone found my seismograph. They found it in a parking space at Watford Gap. It seems whoever stole it had a slight mishap. It fell out of the car boot with a satisfying slap.
Moral of the story: Luck is a major factor in all of life’s endeavours. They say, “You can make your own luck,” but this is a contradictory statement. Anyone who says “You can make your own luck” needs to look up the word “luck” in the dictionary.
Dictionary
The definition of the word “dictionary” Is in the dictionary. It says, “Dictionary: see irony, Fool.”
Skeewiff TV
I’m working on some ideas for TV shows, which I’ll be pitching to all the major TV companies. See what you think.
1. Working title: Greed and Ruthlessness Are Admirable Qualities, Businesses Always Take the Time to Interview Candidates Who Are Completely Unsuitable For The Job, and Insulting Members of the Public Makes Great TV.
Business-based game show in which a group of over-confident hopefuls compete for a job they’re completely unsuitable for and will probably be made redundant from within two months of signing the contract. Each week the over-confident hopefuls are expected to set up and run their own small business within forty-eight hours, before being ritually humiliated for getting a few minor details wrong.
2. Working title: Karaoke Singers Deserve More Prime-Time TV Exposure Than Genuinely Talented Musicians, Westlife’s “You Raise Me Up” is the Greatest Song Ever Written, and it’s Perfectly Acceptable for Rich Attractive People to Laugh in the Faces of Poor, Ugly People in Front of a Crowd of Jeering Onlookers.
Talent show in which mildly gifted singers are patronised, manipulated and humiliated for the opportunity of signing a one album record deal with lots of small print. The highlight of the series will be the auditions process, in which a panel of rich, attractive judges will laugh in the faces of poor, ugly and vulnerable people, and heap histrionic praise on anyone with a vague sniff of talent. Occasionally an ugly person will appear who can sing in tune, and the judges’ jaws will drop to the floor and everyone will say, “My God, would you believe it?! An ugly person who can sing?! Surely ugly people are supposed to be hidden away in closets and have their meals pushed at them through a hatch!” The ugly person’s audition video will get a billion hits on You Tube, and all the comments below the video will say, “Isn’t it incredible? An ugly person who can sing!” and no one will ever believe such a thing would ever be possible.
3. Working Title: Henry VIII Wasn’t Fat, Everyone in Tudor Times Wore Impeccable Clothing (Including the Peasants), Women Enjoy Being Raped, and Inaccurate History is Much More Entertaining Than the Real Thing. AKA The Talking and Dancing Show.
Historical drama offering a sympathetic portrayal of a despotic king and his mass-murdering offspring, who can be pardoned for their acts of genocide on the basis of them wearing very nice clothes. The action mainly focuses on people having conversations while dancing, and mildly explicit scenes of women taking pleasure in being raped. Fun for all the family.
4. Working title: Social and Economic Status are the Most Important Things in the Known Universe and Everyone Should go to Starbucks.
Very funny sitcom which covers up for its brutal political agenda with some great jokes and ingenious comic situations. The series focuses on the lives of six friends in Manhattan who are completely obsessed with social and economic status. Their struggles to gain higher social and economic status ultimately pay off, thus concluding that social and economic status are the most important things in the known universe.
PS – go to Starbucks – they’ve got nice couches.
Comedy panel show featuring six or seven blokes, plus a token bird, laughing continuously at their own jokes. A bit like Mock The Week, but without the part where they pretend to improvise.
Reality show in which vaguely recognisable public figures put a great deal of effort into pretending to give a fuck about cake decorating in a desperate attempt to gain more TV exposure. 0.1% of the public phone vote goes to charity, so it’s all worthwhile.
Winston Churchill sitting on the toilet.
*
Two sandwiches in a bath. One is cheese and pickle, the other is ham and crisps.
*
What do you get if you cross Richard Dawkins with the Pope?
*
David Bowie gets up one morning and decides to have a boiled egg for breakfast. He puts the egg on to boil, and opens his kitchen cupboard, realising as soon as he’s done so that his favourite silver egg cup is missing. His red one is there, his blue one is there, his commemorative World Cup Espana 1982 egg cup is there, but not his favourite silver one. There is a different silver cup in there, but he doesn’t like that one as much.
David Bowie is struck into a sudden panic, until he remembers that his friend Mick Jagger has an identical egg cup in his kitchen. He has Jagger on speed-dial.
“Hello Mick,” he says. “I’ve got a bit of an emergency over at my place. My favourite egg cup is missing. You know, the little shiny one with the picture of David Bowie on it?”
“I’m one step ahead of you, David,” says Mick Jagger. “You’d like to borrow mine – am I right?”
“I’d love that,” says David Bowie. “But you’ll have to get it over here quickly. I’ve already put my egg on to boil, and you know I like them runny.”
“Alright,” says Mick, “keep your wig on, you overrated prick.”
*
A pair of Alsatians are sitting at home in their basket. The girl-dog says, “You know, I can’t help thinking our sex life is a little boring. It’s the same routine every time.”
“Maybe we should try a different position,” says the boy-dog. “There’s this one I’ve seen the humans doing. Maybe we could call it “human style.””
“Sounds good,” says the girl-dog.
They try it, and it works out quite well.
*
How do you tell the difference between one object and another object that is identical to it in every possible way?
*
Are there any conceivable circumstances in which more than one able-bodied person would be required to change a light bulb?
*
Two fire extinguishers hanging on a wall. One says to the other, “I play golf when I’m not doing this.”
*
A bull walks into a china shop. It runs around for a while and then leaves without breaking anything.
Only one person notices this happening. He nudges his friend who is standing next to him and says, “Did you see that? A bull just ran through a china shop without breaking anything.”
“No it didn’t,” says his friend.
He says, “Yes it did – I just saw it.”
“Well, it doesn’t sound very likely to me,” says the friend.
A passer by joins in the conversation. She says, “I saw a bull in HMV once. I thought at the time, they should change that expression from “like a bull in a china shop” to “like a bull in HMV.” Make it more modern.”
“Exactly!” says the friend. “Like a bull in a china shop! It’s a hypothetical scenario!”
Another passer by chips in saying, “It happened to me once.”
“What happened to you?” says the friend. “You weren’t even listening.”
“It happened to me,” the passer by repeats.
“What happened to you? Have you seen a bull in a china shop?”
“I am a bull,” says the passer by, “and it just so happens that I run a successful fine-bone china franchise.”
“You don’t look like a bull to me.”
“That’s because I’m half-human.”
“Well, that’s not the same thing, is it? No one ever says “It’s like a bull-slash-human-hybrid in a china shop, do they? The very fact that you can understand the concept of a half-human, half-bull in a china shop indicates to me that you have more self-control than …”
At this point, the speaker is stopped in mid-sentence after being struck on the head by a meteorite.
*
A man walks into a pub carrying a giant crossbow. The barman decides not to comment on the crossbow and instead asks, “What can I get you to drink, sir?”
The man with the crossbow says, “Your blood. A never-ending, overflowing cup of your blood, Mr Barman.”
The barman assumes this is a bizarre joke and laughs nervously. The man with the crossbow does not laugh. The barman notices that the man has a large supply of arrows strapped to his back. The arrows are silver, and razor-sharp.
“Perhaps you misunderstand me,” says the man. “I would like to drink a never-ending, overflowing cup of your blood, Mr Barman.”
“Will Guinness do?” says the barman.
“No,” says the man. “Guinness will not do. Guinness will not do at all. Prepare, Mr Barman, to meet your end.”
With that the man draws his crossbow and shoots an arrow into the barman’s chest. He turns to the customers sitting at a nearby table, shooting them dead before they have a chance to get to their feet. He steps out into the crowded street and begins indiscriminately shooting passers by. The street erupts into a chorus of screams. People run for cover, but many don’t make it in time.
All the while, the man is laughing and shrieking at the top of his voice: “Today’s horoscope! Aries: you’re going to die! Taurus: you’re going to die! Gemini: you’re going to die! Cancer: you’re going to die! Leo: you’ll be alright. Only joking – you’re going to die!”
When he has used up all of his arrows, the man walks away leaving one pedestrian alive in the street. She has an arrow through her side, and is lying on the pavement, whimpering to herself, “Why? Why? Why?”
… so he said, “Don't worry, love – that's two of your five a day!”
*
… and I never went to Northampton again!
*
… Abraham Link-Cone!
*
... Harrison Fjord!
*
... and the homeless guy turns round and says, “I’ll just have the sausage roll then!”
*
... Two. One to change the bulb and the other to question the existence of light bulbs, and indeed, life itself.
*
... not really, it’s a joke!
This iPod Shuffle don’t shuffle no more, Since I dropped it on the floor. It trots out all the tracks in alphabetical order, Now all I listen to is Aerosmith, And Blue Monday by New Order.
In the town Where I was born Lived a man Who sold acid.
King Midas, He’s the man, The man with the Midas Touch.
There's the church,
Let’s start this section off with one of my own (at least I think it’s one of mine – it sounded kind of familiar when I wrote it):
There was a young poet from Limerick, Who thought it an excellent gimmick, To write poems that rhyme Only part of the time. He wasn’t particularly good.
(Authors note: sorry.)
*
Limericks are, of course, an ancient Japanese form, and they remain a staple of the contemporary Japanese poetry scene. Who ate an awful lot of cheese. *
There is a young lady named Pauline, The following edition of Limericks Bimonthly featured this response from the aforementioned ex-girlfriend: Max Davey's response appeared in the following edition of the magazine:
My girlfriend is watching Eastenders, I need an excuse to get up. There’s a big pile of plates on the sideboard. Thank fuck for the washing up.
Another poem about how much I enjoy washing up
I’m relaxed by the feel of the Fairy, And the gurgling of the plughole, But the reason I’m crazy for washing up, Is that it’s an achievable goal.
Stories from my life
I bought a rubbish bin the other day. Seriously, it's the shittest bin I've ever had. *
* My girlfriend and I joined the mile high club with Easyjet. There was a surcharge. *
*
I've given up cold turkey. It was pretty easy, because I only really have it on Boxing Day.
*
I have a large scar on my scalp having sustained first degree burns as a child. When I was Christened, instead of pouring water over my head, the priest attacked me with a blow torch.
*
My uncle describes himself as a “Renaissance man” because of his wide range of skills and interests. And because he’s from the 15th Century.
*
They say the Mediterranean diet is the best in the world. That’s why I eat shit loads of pizza, drench everything in shit loads of olive oil and drink shit loads of red wine.
*
I set my DVD player to display non-English subtitles so I can discover new words. I watch a lot of Jim Davidson. So far, I’ve learnt how to be racist in seventeen languages, which is kind of ironic.
*
I played Russian Roulette with a Super Soaker. It took fifteen cotton buds to get that damn water out.
(There’s a lesson, kids. Do whatever you want, but don’t shoot yourself in the ear with a water pistol.)
*
I went to a theme restaurant. The theme was “themes,” as in TV themes. The food was disappointing, but I got away without paying due to a misunderstanding when I asked for the bill.
*
I invited the Grim Reader round for dinner. I figured he was the kind of guy I needed to get on my side. We made pizza together. I cut the mozzarella up into cubes while he sliced the peppers into square shapes with his scythe.
I said, “Hey! I’m dicing with Death!”
Honestly, if looks could kill...
*
I stayed with a friend in Edinburgh. When I was leaving, he said, “Give me a call when you get home.”
I said, “Why?”
He said, “So I know you got home safely.”
I thought, “OK, bit weird,” but obliged with a phone call on my return.
The next day, I phoned my friend up and said, “I’m in Tesco.”
“Why are you telling me?” he said.
“Just wanted to let you know I got there safely.”
“OK,” he said.
I said, “I’d better go. I’ll call you when I get home.”
*
I attended a series of seminars entitled “Interpretations of the Torah from an Orthodox Perspective.” I was approached by a representative from a legal firm where I’d applied for an admin job when I was 17. He said, “Sorry, but on this occasion we’re not going to take this application further.”
To be fair, they did say they’d get back to me in Jew course.
Fucking racists, This place is crawling with ‘em.
Fucking racists, Why don’t they fuck off home?
Fucking racists, Living off the state.
How many racists does it take to change a light bulb? Fifteen, because they’re all lazy and thick as pigshit.
Fucking racists, They don’t understand our culture, or our way of life.
This poem is an anti-climax. Like fireworks while it’s still light, Like a psychic without second sight, Like a Marmite sandwich without the Marmite. Like The Godfather Part 3, like the Pistols comebacks, This poem is an anti-climax.
Like the New Labour landslide, Like a deflated balloon, Like 22 when you’re playing Pontoon, Like Lawrence Oliveir’s performance in Transformers the cartoon. Like a pay rise that hits you with a higher rate of tax, This poem is an anti-climax.
And that’s not just me being unjustifiably self-deprecating, You see, it seems this poem really is progressing onto something, A crescendo of word, meaning, simile and sound, Like I’m on the verge of saying something truly profound, And then at the end it just stops.
As embarrassing as an unreturned high five, Enquiring after an acquaintance who’s no longer alive, Like asking an unpregnant woman when it’s due, You are an embarrassment, But I still love you.
Like a patch of mould in a bacon sandwich, Like the sliver of a scar sticking out of a bandage, Like a kangaroo’s penis on a plastic platter, You are a repulsive creature, But that doesn’t matter.
As insincere as a Facebook friendship, As shallow as a puddle that can’t hold a toy ship, As fake as a millionaire’s marriage to a model, You are so superficial, But you’re still worth the trouble.
Like my own liberal use of Anglo-Saxon, Like the musical works of Michael Jackson, Like walking in torrential hail and thunder, I love you, Although sometimes I wonder.
There are a number of ways in which you can say all the vowels in order. You could use the word “facetious,” but that’s not particularly pleasant.
I have a friend called Edward who I call “E” for short. He lent me a tenner recently. I caught sight of him passing my window the other day, so I stuck my head out and called, “Ey! E! I owe you!”
He didn’t turn round.
(Beware of) Tragedy (in the workplace)
I performed a risk assessment, moved the boxes off the stairs, Turned off the unused wall sockets and tucked in all the chairs, I scanned the floor for hazards that might catch you unawares, But my love for you is dangerous. You just can’t legislate for this.
I think about your face as I tick boxes on my sheet, And during boring meetings, I’ll play footsie with your feet. I need to turn this thermostat to an acceptable level of heat, But my love for you is dangerous. You just can’t legislate for this.
Couldn’t help myself one morning and I threw you on the table. I lifted up your shirt and sank my lips into your navel. I really should’ve realised our position was unstable, But my love for you is dangerous, You just can’t legislate for this.
The MD wagged his finger as he was giving me the sack. “What kind of health and safety officer breaks a colleague’s back?” It must’ve been the stress that triggered off this heart attack.
My love for you is dangerous. You just can’t legislate for this. My love for you is dangerous. You just can’t legislate for this.
But it was worth it. All of it. All of it was bliss. I must close my eyes and leave you now, With a kiss.
Here are the plots of some film scripts I'm working on with a view to forging a highly successful Hollywood career...
Genre: Lighthearted high school movie.
Remake of every high school movie since Grease. An attractive girl who wears glasses and unfashionable clothes joins a new school attended exclusively by attractive young people in fashionable clothes. She is mercilessly bullied on the grounds that she wears glasses and unfashionable clothes. She strikes up an unlikely friendship with a boy who wears fashionable clothes, but their relationship appears to be doomed when the boy's friends make fun of him for expressing an interest a girl who wears glasses and unfashionable clothes.
At the end of the film, the girl makes the decision to wear contact lenses and fashionable clothes and accompanies the boy to the school prom. Her classmates decide that they like her, and – displaying an astonishing capacity for forgiveness – the girl who had previously worn unfashionable clothes becomes best friends with the girls who had mercilessly bullied her, and they all live happily for an indefinite period.
Genre: Entertaining action movie.
An American cop engages in a series of gun battles with various groups of Mexican, Serbian and Russian gangsters, all of whom turn out to be working for a powerful gangland boss with an English accent. Against all odds, the cop and his mismatched partner (also American) manage to kill every single non-American in sight.
At the end of the film they have a brief conversation with the gangland boss with the English accent before shooting him in the fucking face, and they all live happily for an indefinite period.
Genre: Hilarious comedy cop buddy action comedy.
A black cop is paired up with a white cop to investigate a series of terrorist cells run by Muslims (who can immediately be identified as Muslims and terrorists by virtue of them having brown skin). Like all black people, the black cop is streetwise, anti-intellectual, and only ever listens to music by black musicians. Like all white people, the white cop is a bit geeky, a bit square, and only ever listens to music by white musicians. There’s a hilarious scene in which the two cops have an argument about which song to play on the car stereo – 99 Problems by Jay-Z or Karma Chameleon by Culture Club.
The white cop suggests that they arrest the terrorist using minimal force and take them into custody. The black cop suggests shooting them all in the fucking face. After several violent gunfights with the Muslim terrorists (who are remarkably bad at handling firearms), the white cop realises that violence is the only answer, and shoots the terrorist leader in the face in order to save the life of his black partner. It’s very touching.
There is an amusing twist at the end in which the black cop plays Karma Chameleon by Culture Club on the car stereo and sings along to it. They all live happily for an indefinite period.
Genre: Lighthearted romantic comedy.
A film about the relationship between a sad pathetic and desperate single woman whose sole purpose in life is to have sex with men in the hope that they will fall in love and marry her, and a single man whose sole purpose in life is to have sex with as many women as possible.
At first they seem like a mismatched couple, but after some encouragement by her best friend (a flamboyant homosexual), the woman convinces the man that he should stop trying to have sex with every woman he meets and just have sex with her instead, and they both live happily for an indefinite period.
Genre: Another lighthearted romantic comedy.
Genre: Heartwarming family drama.
An attractive but scruffy man working in a shoe shop in a small town becomes increasingly dissatisfied with his lowly status, and is bored with his dull job selling footwear to brain-dead morons. He struggles to support his attractive but scruffy wife and equally scruffy and attractive children.
One day the man is told that he has inherited several million dollars from a distant relative. Overjoyed, he buys his family some smart clothes and they move to the city. He buys them many expensive presents. However, his wife and children become unhappy with the luxuries he showers upon them, and long to return to their old life. The man doesn’t listen to them, as he has become a successful businessman and has been sucked into a world of greed and corruption. An attractive, smartly-dressed slut-whore shows an interest in him and he almost has an affair with her but then realises he’s lost sight of everything that’s important to him. Luckily, he accidentally loses all of his money as a result of a foolish investment.
The family return to their old home and resume wearing scruffy clothes. The man realises his job in the shoe shop was in fact satisfying and fun, and his customers weren’t brain-dead morons after all but loveable small town stereotypes. He vows that he will never again aspire to be wealthy and successful, and they all live happily for an indefinite period.
Genre: Lighthearted war epic.
An affectionate remake of every World War Two movie since the late nineteen forties, shot in a studio in Los Angeles, starring a group of famous American actors, alongside a group of unknown American actors who have adopted German accents after an afternoon of elementary voice coaching.
A platoon of American soldiers single-handedly takes on the entire German army in a series of explosive battles. A couple of the minor characters are killed early on, and one of the supporting characters is killed towards the end. The war is won when the leader of the platoon apprehends Adolf Hitler in his underground bunker and shoots him several times in the chest before ripping his head off and parading it through the streets to a chorus of cheers from German civilians, who turn out not to have been so bad after all. The remaining characters live happily for an indefinite period.
Remake of the above film substituting German soldiers for Japanese (played by a group of American actors of Chinese origin).
Based on the TV show of the same name.
Genre: Lighthearted gross-out.
Hilarious comedy following the exploits of a group of white male heterosexual students whose favourite pastimes are drinking Budweiser, lighting their own farts, mercilessly bullying students who wear glasses, hilariously initiating each other into their fraternity by forcing each other to drink glasses of their own semen and vomit, playfully accusing each other of being homosexual, and attempting to have sex with attractive female students, who – like all women – are desperate slut-whores.
In the most hilarious scene of all, one accident-prone character is admitted to hospital having suffered a painful “back draft” after lighting one of his own farts. He desperately tries to convince the attractive female nurse that he is not a homosexual – and she remains unconvinced because setting fire to your own arsehole is exactly the sort of thing a homosexual would do. On the way out of the hospital he accidentally knocks a paraplegic man out of his wheelchair in a style reminiscent of Buster Keaton. (The paraplegic man is, of course, played by a non-disabled actor.)
At the end of the film the characters fulfil their dream of having sex with some attractive female students, and they all live happily for an indefinite period.
Genre: Oscar-nominated drama.
The fictionalised true-life story of a disabled German musician in 1940s Berlin, played by a non-disabled American. He dies in the end.
(For my good friend Robert Zimmerman, who I’ve never met.)
They’re ignorant, they’re hypocrites, They haven’t got a clue, But remember, Fascists are people too.
They believe in made up history, And in bogus science too, But remember, Fascists are people too.
They hate all non-white people, But they love a vindaloo, But remember, Fascists are people too.
So don’t burn them out of their homes, Or spit on them in the street, Or shove shit through their letterboxes, Or invent insulting and belittling names for them implying they’re a different species, Or suggest that they ought to be deported (although that would be quite funny).
They’re still human beings. They’re just wankers, that’s all.
OK, I’d like to finish off with some proper love poems just to demonstrate that I’m not a heartless, cynical fuck...
What I love about coffee, And honey, And cheese on toast, Is that they’re always the same, They never ask why they are there, Or why I’m consuming them.
I love you For the opposite Of all the above.
Escapism
In the kitchen, Listening to a musician singing a song about some place I’ve never been. I’m taken away to wherever it is. I remember someone told me the songwriter’s never been there either. Some people might feel short-changed by this fact, But I like it. It’s escapism for him as well as for me. I’m a Houdini of the mind, I can escape from anywhere without leaving.
You come over, I turn the music off, You tell me about your day, I tell you about mine. We watch a film, The film is bad, But that doesn’t matter because you’re here, And when you’re here, I don’t have anything to escape from.
I wrote a poem today. It was brilliant. It was all about the pointlessness of life.
While it didn’t solve the problem, It was still a fucking great poem. And it had a point.
It’s the sort of thing that other people will read And see the pointlessness of life, But still be uplifted by it. As I was today.
Now, as I lie listening to your breathing, I know that even though today was a pointless day, Full of inconsequential things, You’ll still be there tomorrow, And so will the poem.
You could say I’m making Some kind of progress.
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