While A is away, the blog still gets to play. Please welcome Helena Hann-Basquiat!
H: So, D, it would seem that A has left me in charge for the day.
D: In charge? In charge of what? I’m 1300 years old — I’ve got bits of popcorn that have been stuck in my back teeth for longer than you’ve been alive!
H: 1300, huh? Well, that explains the crotchety old man routine.
H: (laughing in disbelief) Oh, is that a fact?
D: Yes, yes it is, Miss… I didn’t catch your name
H: Helena Hann-Basquiat
D: Well, that’s a pseudonym if I ever heard one.
H: You have anything nice you’d like to say?
D: Your breasts are like ripe pomegranates, and…
H: Yeah, that’s a creepy comparison, if you think about it, so let’s just move right along to the Q&A portion of this segment, darling.
D: Darling? Who do you think you are? Veronica Lake?
H: Wow, have you watched anything past 1960?
D: I thought you were going to ask me a question.
H: Yes, I was. So, what’s the deal with all the human sacrifices, Druid?
D: Wow, right off the bat, you insult me, and go right for the throat.
H: You’re 1300 years old, darling. I figured you had thicker skin than that.
D: Well, it’s lies, anyway. All lies. There were no human sacrifices.
H: Uh, I’m pretty sure there’s historical evidence…
D: (mocking) I’m pretty sure there’s historical evidence…
H: Yeah, that’s mature. What are you? Twelve?
D: I’m 1300 years old…
H: And you’d think that by now you understood the concept of sarcasm, or a rhetorical question, but yet here we are.
D: You are beginning to irritate me, woman.
H: Ahh, muffin!
D: What is that supposed to mean?
H: It means quit your whinging and answer the fookin’ question. You sound like a whiny little girl.
D: And I told you, there were no human sacrifices — that was a smear campaign by those invading followers of the shepherd god — a few of their women made their way into the woods during some of our more — shall we say — carnal ceremonies, and so those Christians spread all kinds of nasty rumours about us. But the sacrifices were all purely symbolic. I mean, you understand symbolism, don’t you?
H: Of course, but…
D: So, if I were a Catholic priest, you wouldn’t begin an interview with me by asking “Hey, what’s the deal with all that cannibalism I hear about — eating flesh and drinking blood?”
H: Okay, fair enough. So, what was the deal with Stonehenge, and the other standing stones then? Weren’t there sacrificial altars there?
D: Not at all! (Laughs a low, throaty chuckle) No, that was an early form of a game you may know as Dominoes.
H: Dominoes? Yeah, pull the other one, grandpa.
D: No, I’m serious! You have to remember, this was back in the days when men were men and the sheep ran scared. Originally, setting up tiles to be knocked down to form elaborate patterns was something of a team sport, and all the men of the village would get together and drag huge monoliths into position.
H: Uh huh. So why are they still standing, then?
D: Oh, I did that as a practical joke.
H: And just how did you do that, then?
D: Did you even read my character bio?
H: Of course, and that’s why it’s obvious that you…
D: Yes? Do go on…
H: Well, clearly, you did that thing, where you… will you just tell me already, darling?
D: I’m a time traveller. And if you call me ‘darling’ once more, I will grind your bones to make my bread.
H: Isn’t that giants that do that?
D: I’m a giant where it counts, dearie.
H: You’re a disgusting, creepy old liar, and I think this conversation is nearing an end.
D: I may be a creepy old liar, but I don’t think you think I’m disgusting at all. I’ve noticed the way you’ve been looking at me — trying to get a peek under me kilt.
H: (Sighs) Oh, yes, you caught me. I want you. Oh baby, oh baby. Well, let’s see it then. I know you’re just dying to show me. Let’s have a gander at thirteen hundred year old genitalia, shall we?
D: (Shocked and appalled) Well, I never! Have ye no shame, ye faithless tart?
H: (laughing) Been called worse by better, darling.
D: I think it best you take your leave now, strumpet!
H: And on that note…
Helena Tells the Tale
I swear, I thought that I had walked in on him mastur… um, playing with himself. And then his shaking hand opened, and instead of ejaculate, several small bones flew and scattered on to the floor.
“Excuse me?” I asked the robed figure.
“Go away!” He grumbled. “Can’t you see I’m reading the runes?”
“I”m so relieved,” I said, not wanting to admit what I’d thought he’d been doing. “But I thought that we could talk. You see, A asked me to drop in and keep you company, and…”
“Hmmph,” he grunted. “Don’t need a nanny.”
“And I don’t change diapers,” I said. I found the old man instantly irritating.
“Oh, you don’t change…” he started to say, and as he turned and saw me, he suddenly stopped talking and smiled that goofy, lovestruck (or should I say lust-struck) grin that I’d seen on boys since I was fourteen years old and got my boobs.
“Well hello,” he said, trying to be whatever passed for charming for a… god, how old was this geezer? He was 80 if he was a day!
“Yes, hello,” I said. “So, D, it would seem that A has left me in charge for the day…”
Being the Memoirs of Helena Hann-Basquait, Dilettante
A patchwork discourse on pop culture and society from the scattered mind of someone who thinks that being “random” and “unfocused” is perfectly okay.
Helena Hann-Basquiat dabbles in whatever she can get her hands into just to say that she has.
She’s written cookbooks, ten volumes of horrible poetry that she bound herself in leather she tanned poorly from cows she raised herself and then slaughtered because she was bored with farming.
She has an entire portfolio of macaroni art that she’s never shown anyone, because she doesn’t think that the general populous, or, “the great unwashed masses” as she calls them, would understand the statement she was trying to make with them.
Some people attribute her with inventing the Ampersand, but she has never made that claim herself.
She was completely self-educated in a private institute in the Catskills where she majored in Pop Culture and Unpopular Music. She wrote her doctorate thesis on the films of John Hughes, and awarded herself a doctorate, though it’s not generally recognized. . .