Julie Gentron and the Lady League, Vol. 1, Ep. 3: The Bitches Return to Earth!

20 12 2011

Written by Brandon Arkell and Seth Gordon Little

Last time on Julie Gentron and the Lady League, the ladies faced imminent catastrophe as an asteroid and the dwarf planet Sedna threatened to smash the H.M.S. Vestibule to pieces!

“PAM, what’s happened?!” shouted Julie.

“A fragment of the approaching asteroid has skimmed the hull of the ship. The cold plasma shield has eliminated most of it, but some pieces made it through. All vital life support systems, as well as artificial gravity, are operational, however this will not remain the case if the asteroid collides with the ship. My calculations show such a collision will occur within the next nine and a half minutes.” Lupa stormed around the main deck, flapping his heavy limbs and cooing in agitation, clutching his coconut bra, and leaving a trail of urine in his wake. (Donna had forgotten to put on his diaper.) The poor thing was obviously trying to communicate something important, but his message went unheeded.

“I’ll take care of this”, said Rosalind, leering at Donna. “With my superhuman strength, I should be able to push the ship out of its path! Don’t worry, Julie”, she said, smiling seductively at the captain, “I’ll steer the ship on course and we’ll be back in London in time for a massage.” Julie smiled and nodded at Rosalind, who, beaming with confidence, assumed a hard, bright, metallic shell of skin and exited through the evacuation chamber.

“In order to deflect the asteroid”, said Julie, “we need to combine our ship’s built-in artillery with our own mutant powers. We must use the ship’s most potent weapon—the lady beam! Donna! Power up the ovarian plasma-ray generator, focus its energy through the clitoral conductor-cannon, and deploy the beam at ten o’clock, in the direction of the asteroid.”

“Yes, Julie!” said Donna without a beat. She proceeded to chicken-peck away at the computer console, sounding out each letter as she went.

“Julie”, said PAM.

“What, PAM?”

“I’m scared, Julie.”

“It’s just the ovarian plasma ray generator-powered, clitoral cannon-channelled lady beam, PAM. It’s going to help save us!”

“I understand, Julie. My calculations show that this is the most effective tactic, other than self-annihilation. It’s just that I cannot live without you. Proceed.” Julie contorted her face in bewilderment at PAM’s strange show of emotion. Just then, a thick, bright, white-green beam shot forth from the clitoral cannon and obliterated the asteroid. A stream of space debris assaulted the ship’s cold plasma shield in a spray of light. They had done it. The asteroid was done with. Everybody clapped, cheered, and jumped up and down with joy. Then they stopped.

“We’re veering too close to Sedna now!” cried Julie. “Donna, you said you can move planets, so you must be able to move a space-ship out of Sedna’s gravitational pull. Do it, now!”

“I’ll do my best.” Donna placed her fingers to her temples and closed her eyes. She then made a strained, girlish squeal resembling a pig having an orgasm. Lupa stood erect, placed his fins to his breast like an opera singer, and commenced with a haunting, mournful whale-song which resembled the peal of an adolescent humpback whale. “Lupa!” shouted the others, groaning and covering their ears.

“Anyway”, said Julie, “I’ll take command of the ship’s computer and steer us clear of this thing.” PAM murmered words of vague concern over this action. “Don’t worry, PAM”, she said. “Your consciousness will remain intact and fully operational.”

“I—seem—to be—tilting the ship, but not enough to escape Sedna’s gravity”, said Donna, straining harder. “Julie, help!”

“Hold on!” replied Julie. “I’ll concentrate my technopathic powers on the ship’s engines.” Julie thrust her breasts outward, flexed her strong arms and thighs, and concentrated. “By the great goddess! I’ve taken too sharp a turn toward Sedna!” she said, not knowing her own strength. Lupa, unnoticed by the others, assumed the pose of a sumo wrestler, and his high-pitched peal gradually fell to a deep, barely audible hum which reverberated throughout the ship like a foghorn. The ship began to turn, but only the poor land-whale could see how the powerful sonic reverberations created by his whale-song helped the team escape the clutches of Sedna’s hard, icy surface. Meanwhile, Donna was on the floor, doggy-style, ass in the air, elbows to the ground, fingers still to her temples, focusing all her might on moving the ship with the power of her mind. Soon she had matched Lupa’s efforts, and the ship made another tilt. Still, the captain was needed, and so was her computer.

“PAM, help me out!” cried Julie in desperation.

“I will work in unison with you, Julie”, said the onboard quantum computer. “I will provide you the steering, the thrust, the motion, the strokes—”

“PAM!”

“Yes, Julie?”

“Cut the lesbian bullcrap! Er, for now, at least. Help me steer, already!” There was a tense pause, broken only by Lorna’s constipated squeals and the land-whale’s powerful baritone. “Are we clear of Sedna’s gravitational pull yet?”

“Just, Julie.”

“Then, by the breasts of the great goddess, take us back to Earth!”

“Julie, what about Rosalind? If you would like, I will dispose of her with a blast of ion radiation and—”

“—PAM, you will do no such thing! Rosalind will come back aboard the ship unscathed. Afterward, you will direct us on a course to Earth.”

“Yes, Julie.” Almost immediately after, the doors to the evacuation chamber whooshed open, and Rosalind re-entered the deck, panting, yet bobbing confidently and flexing her biceps cockily. Julie embraced her, while Donna gave a half-hearted cheer and a limp clap. Lupa began bounding around the deck with a big, booming, babylike coo of excitement, clapping his limbs uncontrollably and wiping away tears from his big, limpid blue eyes with the tip of a fin. Another trail of urine formed behind him.

“Rosalind, thank the goddess you’re OK”, said Julie, caressing Rosalind’s well-developed shoulders. “I wasn’t sure that your armoured skin would deflect the assault of cosmic rays.”

“Honey”, laughed Rosalind, patting Julie affectionately on the back, “I’ve had worse, like the time I wrestled that giant space-ghoul from the Oort Cloud. I’m not bragging, but I did help steer us clear of a dwarf planet.” Donna mimicked these last words sarcastically under her breath, tossing her feathered Farrah Fawcett tresses to the side. “The atoms in my armour are quite dense, blocking even the most intense radiation”, said Rosalind. “It is almost impossible for cosmic radiation to damage my genes.”

“As I already suspected, since I am a quantum physicist”, said Donna in an argumentative tone. Rosalind lowered at her, and she met her opponent’s gaze with an equally baleful glower. If these girls had claws, they’d be unsheathed.

“Julie”, cooed PAM.

“Yes?” replied Julie.

“I am glad that you are unharmed, Julie.”

“Yes, thank you, PAM”, said Julie, pacing around the deck with a growing wariness of PAM’s human-like qualities.

“Gee whiz”, said Donna quizzically. “What is up with this computer thingy? I mean, I understand when a pole likes a socket and a socket likes a pole, or when a pole likes a pole and a socket likes a socket, but when a socket doesn’t even have a socket to begin with, well, I just don’t get it.”

“Donna! That is uncalled for”, scolded Julie. “For your information, PAM has proved to be a very wise and caring—”

“—It is all right, Julie. I understand. The fact that I do not possess an obvious orifice or appendage for penetration makes Donna uncomfortable.” At this, Donna grinned mischievously.

“PAM”, said Donna.

“Yes, Donna?” bleeped PAM in her computery voice.

“What’s between my thighs?” asked the psychokinetic minx, giggling girlishly and covering her mouth with the tips of her fingers. Rosalind rolled her eyes and slapped her palm to her forehead.

“Your oestrogen-powered utero-blaster?”

“No.”

“Your platinum-lined lady vector ray?”

“No.”

“Your heat-seeking, blood-fuelled, tampon missile rocket?”

“Close, but not quite.”

“Your vagina?”

I can’t believe she actually said it!” cackled Donna ferociously. “She’s just like Siri!” Lupa clapped excitedly, belched, and made one of his famous whale-coos, an action performed by a land-whale when it approves of a jest.

“Of course she did, you dolt”, said Rosalind. “She’s a lesbian space-ship computer.”

“Julie”, said PAM, “I am unable to interpret the rationale behind the dialogue of your companions. I suspect this is due in part to a lack of myelination in areas of higher thinking in the brain.” At this, Donna gave a look of resentment, peering around the deck in search of whatever might constitute PAM’s presence.

“Ladies, ladies!” said Julie. “Donna, you’re being childish. Rosalind, stop being snide. PAM, stay cold and malleable. Lupa, you’re cute, but stop goofing around. OK. Let’s get back to London. If we don’t want to reach home by the time we’re old spinsters, we need to step up the pace and try to move faster than some twentieth century space probe. Donna.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I want you to use your power to warp space-time by creating a miniature black hole in front of the space-ship to get us past Saturn in the next sixty seconds.”

“Yes, ma’am”, said Donna, sighing. “I’ll try.”

“And, Rosalind”, said Julie, “remember to activate the ultra-tamponic cold plasma shield so that we don’t get incinerated by the heat created in the warp bubble. We already faced that threat warping from Alpha Centauri back to the Earth’s solar system.”

“Yes, Julie”, said Rosalind, thumping down at the console.

There was a spacey sound as the H.M.S. Vestibule entered the inner solar system. Earth, Britain, and, finally, the landing pad in the South London borough of Lambeth became visible.

“Well that was a blast!” said Donna. “We’re here! God, I’m dying for a bubble bath. Calgon, take me away!”

“And I’m dying for that massage, Julie”, said Rosalind, posing like a teenage locker-room jock.

“Bubble bath OK”, said Julie to Donna. Give, or receive?” she said to Rosalind.

“Baby, I’m cleverly equipped”, said Rosalind. The scene was suddenly interrupted by an urgent message in a raspy yet venerable RP accent sputtering out of the main deck’s speakers like a principal yacking away at her students through some old-fashioned twentieth century public school intercom.

“Julie Gentron!” said the voice in a reedy, chiding tone.

“Lady Fairfax!” said Julie. She stood as stiff as an unused tampon. She now had to report back to her boss about her excursion abroad—her mission to open diplomatic relations with the peoples of Alpha Centauri—in the cosy confines of a smart, clean office at the MI6 headquarters in dirty Vauxhall. With this in mind, the ladies heaved their bosoms, disembarked from the Vestibule, and pressed on forward across the landing pad. Opposite them, the silhouette of a low, shuffling figure appeared against London’s filthy sky.

“Quite correct, Gentron”, rattled the voice authoritatively, “in your assessment of my identity; not in your punctuality!”

Stay tuned to find out what surprise awaits the Lady League upon their return to Earth in the next instalment of Julie Gentron and the Lady League!

Advertisements




Bad Humour Is Good Humour!

26 03 2011

What is the essence of good comedy? It is levity in the face of tragedy. It is the clown, and it is drag. Too many people mistake sexual, ethnic, and racial humour for a mockery of the victim, when in fact what the comedian is really doing is mocking the victimizer.

Comedy is so complex now that comedians are doing blackface in order to show how absurd and ridiculous blackface really is, and drag queens are impersonating 1960s housewives to lampoon twentieth century feminine norms. Layers of irony are heaped on top of one another until the object of ridicule becomes obscured for the simple-minded, remaining crystal-clear for the more perceptive observer.

Sometimes, the comedian simply wants to make fun of everybody. They do not discriminate—they want to expose the flaws in every person, for every person has them. In fact, they want to celebrate these flaws as part of what makes us human. It is the obligation of the comedian’s target to overcome their pride, acknowledge the wonderfully honest caricatures the comedian paints of them, and laugh at them with a sort of tongue-in-cheek humility.

Shock humour is not malicious; it is expositive. Malice is a concerted effort to inflict harm; shock humour is a concerted effort to expose the foibles of human nature. A person who seeks to hurt the feelings of their target is not a comedian, but a cruel and elaborate misanthrope. Indeed, the comedian practises her art out of an appreciation for humanity and its imperfections.

The most important thing for the audience is to know the intent of the comedian. The burden of understanding lies not just on the shoulders of the comedian, but also on those of the observer. While the comedian is obliged to communicate her jokes in a fairly down-to-earth, sociable, and straightforward way, the observer is obliged to meet her half-way and try to decipher her language, tone, allusions, and body-language in order to uncover her intent. Otherwise it would be a simplistic, and hence boring, act. It’s a two-way street.

Take the ridicule of gay people, for example. I think it’s fucking hilarious. Most gay people I’ve met think it’s fucking hilarious. Gay people know what homophobia is when they see it, and they know that a stand-up comic poking fun at anal sex is not necessarily homophobic. In all likelihood, the comic is poking fun at anal sex because she is comfortable about it and openly acknowledges it as just another part of the puzzle that is humanity. Indeed, she may be a proud and loyal fag-hag attacking the very homophobes who rail against gay sex. Gay people know the difference between a genuine attack, and a lighthearted jest exposing their own foibles.

With that longwinded disclaimer, I would like to present you with a series of random and otherworldly works, or “quirks”, of art that my friend Seth and I created using MS Paint and the Web Site Dragulator, created by drag icon Ru Paul. The goal is to mock assumptions and stereotypes, so hopefully you will see that. I hope that I haven’t killed the effect, because a spontaneous heart is required to enjoy the art.

(You should visit Seth’s blog at http://thelittlereport.blogspot.com)





Dina Martina Time!

23 12 2010

There is a God.

For the first time ever, I attended the Dina Martina Christmas Show, held each December in the divey Rebar, a mixed bar in downtown Seattle. I was not disappointed. What the hell was I waiting for?! Words cannot adequately describe the surreal and carnivalesque experience of peering into the colourfully twisted imagination of what may be the most deliciously bizarre drag comedian of our age. In fact, I would even suggest that Ms. Martina might be Seattle’s most boast-worthy import to the rest of the world.

While drag comedians such as Shirley Q. Liquor often exploit racist stereotypes to engage and shock their audience, Ms. Martina is able to achieve the same effect without resorting to cheap shots–instead, what we observe is an innocent, almost childlike naiveté characterized by a whirlwind of perfectly-placed malapropisms, random, out-of-the-blue references, horrifyingly unflattering fashion-pieces, and dyslexic lyrical errors. (Yes, she does poke fun at Irish culture, the elderly, and rural, southern Americans, but it’s all done so sweetly and harmlessly, and it’s so silly and over-the-top, that it can’t possibly be taken seriously.) The result is a charmingly old-fashioned self-mockery which is so outrageously pathetic as to make one rupture an intestine from crying with laughter. Imagine Dame Edna on a cocaine bender after inhaling helium from a balloon.

Unfortunately, this is over the head of most Americans, who are so accustomed to humour of the artlessly normal, safe, and straightforward variety. But maybe that’s why she does so well in Seattle–which produced the likes of Almost Live!–a corner of the U.S. which seems to have developed a wackier, more ironic comic tradition than the rest of the country, a tradition that is reminiscent to some extent of British or Australian sensibilities, and which just may be as irreligious as these (Seattle is supposed to be the “least-churched” city in America). This might also be said of the gay subculture, which, I personally believe, is more humorously subsersive, whether this is because they have been motivated to be subversive as a reaction to the mainstream, or because they are deemed subversive for being outside the mainstream in the first place. At any rate, Ms. Martina might be said to embody this much-beloved, off-the-wall buffoonery.

Despite the fact that my cheeks were so sore from laughter that I thought my face would explode, I was able to retain a few tidbits from the show I attended. In the first half of the show, which was a matinee, Dame Martina graced the drunken audience with her rendition of “Angels We Have Heard on High”, which is memorable not only for the fortuitous substitution of “angles” for “angels”, but also for its totally out-of-leftfield allusion to the early ’80s disco classic by Laura Branigan, “Gloria”. This was followed by the teary ballad about Christ’s birth, called “Christmas”, in which she reverently describes Mary’s water breaking, her violent contractions, and a Christmas dinner inside the barn followed by a campfire replete with roasted marshmallows and campfire songs. Then there was an original version of “Edelweiss”, which merged seamlessly into “I’m Every Mountain”, a soulful homage to the Chaka Khan hit “I’m Every Woman”. Then there was the gift-giving–I mean “jift-jivving”–ceremony, in which Ms. Martina bestowed on a random audience member the jifts that keep on jivving–a stick of Cheetos-flavoured lip-balm, an inflated plastic turkey, and, perhaps most generous of all, the world’s largest pair of underpants, which she thoughtfully pressed against her face, leaving an imprint of her caked-on make-up on the crotch, before jivving it away to the lucky fan.

Perhaps the highlight of the show, however, was a story of hope in the midst of tragedy which Ms. Martina related whilst sitting next to a plastic Santa Claus statue. In it, she told about the goiter which cursed the neck of her 11 year-old adopted daughter, and how, one night, while her daughter slept, she tied one end of a string to the goiter, and the other end of the string to the door, and then slammed the door shut, removing the goiter quite effectively. She then told how she dried the goiter and filled it with candy to give to the poor Mexicans who lived on the other side of the railway tracks in the apple maggot quarantine area she calls home. You see, this Mexican family was celebrating a birthday and had no money for a real piñata. It took them several hours to finally break the makeshift piñata open, after which all the candy…and stuff…spilled out onto the gleeful children. The end.

One London reviewer was less than impressed with Ms. Martina’s graceful and elegant performance–the “ironic homophobia” was not to his liking, and, for him, the spoken interludes between songs dragged. This I cannot understand. I couldn’t take my eyes, nor my ears, away from the otherworldly spectacle gracing the stage throughout the entire show, and I couldn’t wait to get back after intermission to see what else the gal might pull out of her plastic shopping-bag of delights, or what other disco tune she would integrate into her deferential commemoration of Christ’s birthday. Could you?

If you get this humour, and you’re in Seattle, you can buy tickets to the Dina Martina Christmas Show at http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/46945. In addition, you can celebrate the holidays with particularly horrifying pathos by purchasing the Dina Martina Holiday Album at either Amazon.com or iTunes. She is also on Facebook, for your enjoyment. I can’t wait to go back next year! Or maybe sometime in the crevasse that begs to be filled between Christmas and New Year’s. Or maybe on St. Patrick’s Day. Or possibly Easter. Perhaps Lammas, the harvest day.

<<News Update: I’m going to another Dina concert tonight (12/27/2010)! With my SIBLINGS. I know. I hope they get the tongue-in-cheek, burlesque humour.>>