Cork on the Fork

John Cleese did present the following opening speech
at the Chapman tribute, two months after Graham’s death:�

“Graham Chapman, co-author of the ‘Parrot Sketch,’ is no more.

He has ceased to be, bereft of life, he rests
in peace, he has kicked the bucket, hopped the twig, bit the dust, snuffed it,
breathed his last, and gone to meet the Great Head of Light Entertainment in the
sky, and I guess that we’re all thinking how sad it is that a man of such
talent, such capability and kindness, of such intelligence should now be so
suddenly spirited away at the age of only forty-eight, before he’d achieved many
of the things of which he was capable, and before he’d had enough fun.

Well, I feel that I should say, “Nonsense.
�Good riddance to him, the �freeloading bastard! �I hope he fries. ” �

And the reason I think I should say this is,
he would never forgive me if I didn’t, if I threw away this opportunity to shock
you all on his behalf. �Anything for him but mindless good taste. �I could hear
him whispering in my ear last night as I was writing this:

“Alright,
Cleese, you’re very proud of being the first person to ever say ‘shit’ on
television. �If this service is really for me, just for starters, I want you to
be the first person ever at a British memorial service to say ‘fuck’!“

You
see, the trouble is, I can’t. If he were here with me now I would probably have
the courage, because he always emboldened me. But the truth is, I lack his
balls, his splendid defiance. And so I’ll have to content myself instead with
saying ‘Betty Mardsen…’

But Bolder and less inhibited spirits than me
follow today. Jones and Idle, Gilliam and Palin. Heaven knows what the next hour
will bring in Graham’s name. Trousers Dropping, blasphemers on pogo sticks,
spectacular displays of high-speed farting, synchronised incest.


One
of the four is planning to stuff a dead ocelot and a 1922 Remington typewriter
up his own arse to the sound of the second movement of Elgar’s cello concerto.
And that’s in the first half.

Because you see, Gray would have wanted it
this way. Really. Anything for him but mindless good taste. And that’s what I’ll
always remember about him—apart, of course, from his Olympian extravagance. He
was the prince of bad taste. He loved to shock. In fact, Gray, more than anyone
I knew, embodied and symbolised all that was most offensive and juvenile in
Monty Python. And his delight in shocking people led him on to greater and
greater feats. I like to think of him as the pioneering beacon that beat the
path along which fainter spirits could follow.

Some memories. I remember writing the
undertaker speech with him, and him suggesting the punch line, ‘All right, we’ll
eat her, but if you feel bad about it afterwards, we’ll dig a grave and you can
throw up into it.’ I remember discovering in 1969, when we wrote every day at
the flat where Connie Booth and I lived, that he’d recently discovered the game
of printing four-letter words on neat little squares of paper, and then


quietly
placing them at strategic points around our flat, forcing Connie and me into
frantic last minute paper chases whenever we were expecting important guests.

I remember him at BBC parties crawling around
on all fours, rubbing himself affectionately against the legs of gray-suited
executives, and delicately nibbling the more appetizing female calves. Mrs. Eric
Morecambe remembers that too.

I
remember his being invited to speak at the Oxford union, and entering the
chamber dressed as a carrot—a full length orange tapering costume with a
large, bright green sprig as a hat—-and then, when his turn came to speak,
refusing to do so. He just stood there, literally speechless, for twenty
minutes, smiling beatifically. The only time in world history that a totally
silent man has succeeded in inciting a riot.

I remember Graham receiving a
Sun newspaper TV
award from Reggie Maudling. Who else! And taking the trophy falling to
the ground and crawling all the way back to his table, screaming loudly, as
loudly as he could. And if you remember Gray, that was very loud indeed.

It is magnificent, isn’t it? You see, the
thing about shock… is not that it upsets some people, I think; I think that it
gives others a momentary joy of liberation, as we realised in that instant that
the social rules that constrict our lives so terribly are not actually very
important.

Well, Gray can’t do that for us anymore. He’s
gone. He is an ex-Chapman. All we have of him now is our memories. But it will
be some time before they fade.”

I am Ricardo. I am Ricardo Montalban.

You have likely stumbled upon this post in a futile attempt to
discover naked images of "Star Trek: The Next generation"’s Jean-Luc Picard. I
regret to inform you, he and I are not the same. Jean-Luc represents all that I
despise – and nothing else.

I underwent Nine-and-a-half hours of spine surgery to regain
use of my lower appendages in 1951, yet I am still at least 300% sexier than
anyone reading this. I can barely summon the strength to critique your faults
and shortcomings, yet I still find myself in the unique position to critique
every individual deficit in your character.

I am Ricardo, I am Ricardo Montalban. You are inferior to me
in every respect, Yet, Enlightenment alludes me.

Does anyone have waders?

I will pay you up to $9 Dollars American. (I used a ‘$’ sign
and the word “dollar”)

As recently as 2001 I could still read sheet music at what I would classify
as an “advanced” level, in that I could sight read nearly anything put in front
of me. I’m not saying I could play it, but I could read it.

My teacher used to say things like, “how did you know there were 32 trills
there in that measure?” and “how is it possible you haven’t seen this before?”

These worlds were closely followed by, “dammit, do you ever practice?” and
“if you could play for more than 20 minutes you’d be better than Christ as a
trumpeter.”

..

I usually responded with the, “sorry, my endurance is down…It’s the
weather” choice.

……………

In homage to the great Bruce Campbell..

I present the greatest TV Partnership of the 1990’s.

Amanda Wickwire: What’s your name?
Brisco County Jr.: Brisco County.
Amanda Wickwire: Is that where you’re from?
Brisco County Jr.: No, that’s who I am.

You, my friend, have been blacklisted.

Prepare to suffer the economic consequences.

That is how I felt this morning. I think I ate some bad Easter
Candy.

“Freddy, as a younger man, I was a sculptor, a painter, and a musician. There was just one problem: I wasn’t very good. As a matter of fact, I was dreadful. I finally came to the frustrating conclusion that I had taste and style, but not talent. I knew my limitations. We all have our limitations, Freddy. Fortunately, I discovered that taste and style were commodities that people desired. Freddy, what I am saying is: know your limitations. You are a moron. ”

– Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, the Greatest 2 Hours evers put to film.

I don’t know what the edge of death feels like, but I imagine it’s akin to
the feeling one senses right before they fall asleep at night. Tremendous
fatigue and wonderful satisfaction at the same time. This only applies to
natural death (blood loss, heart failure etc) and the slowest forms of Cancer
and other Terminal diseases

One of my grandparents once told me that the last 5 years of your life were
the ones you accumulated the most fast food condiments. I believe it.

Sean Connery: “Church, some things don’t react well to bullets.”

Myself: “Indeed sir, my fleshy body is incapable of deflecting metallic
objects.”

Sean Connery: “Truly, you are wise beyond your years.”

Myself: “Indeed, I have studied at the foot of Marcus Brody. He once got lost
in his own museum.”

————–

Anyway, Frisbee team is here tonight. I thoroughly enjoyed.

Matt let me enjoy the privilege of a rusty nail

.

Bon Voyage.

I miss days of our grandfathers, back when men were real men.

Back then the game of dodgeball was played with rocks and the game of dodgerock
was played with knives. I miss the days when everyone was a badass.

….

It hurts me to think that for years society stands idly painting its fingernails
while icons like Clint Eastwood are replaced by wieners like Ryan Seacrest. If
these generations of manly men were still alive they would spit tobacco juice in
Ryan Seacrest�s face and then make him wash and wax their Trans Am.

Back in the good old days things were much simpler. Back then you could walk
into a caf� and not be totally confused. This is because back then it didn�t
matter if you were trying to order, cappuccino, mocha latte or espresso they
were all called the same thing � scotch.

Back then four out of five doctors recommended smoking. This isn�t because of
doctors� ignorance to the dangers of smoking. This is because lungs used to be
much more manly. Lungs used to be a manly shade of black instead of a girly
shade of pink. But these days our lungs have devolved into an advanced state of
weenie-ism making us incapable of enjoying rich tobacco goodness.

When manly men aren�t eating pieces of s*** like you for breakfast they�re
eating sausage wrapped in bacon, wrapped in more bacon and topped with a fried
egg, and they wash it down with a glass of bacon grease, topped off with a
doctor recommended cigarette.

….

Wimps, weenies and vegetarians are ruining our great nation. America is on a
downward spiral, we�ve got a fever and the only prescription is scotch, red meat
and lumberjacks.

—- Courtesy Zach Parks —-