Because It’s Nailed There

Christopher never really got Monty Python.

He had been repeatedly assured, by people whom he otherwise trusted, that the troupe had no peers when it came to sketch comedy.

And yet…

He couldn’t quite grasp what made it funny. Time and time again he was invited to gatherings dedicated to not just watching the films, but participating whole hog in impromptu, simulcast reenactments. Tommy and Barry and Nick, dressed up in poorly made costumes that, nevertheless, clearly had more production value than those on the screen, would prance around waving wood swords in the air and shrieking in their best falsetto.

They would shriek things like;

“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!”

or

“I’m not dead yet! I’m getting better!”

or worse yet

“We are the Knights who say Ni!”

Today was an occasion of the latter sort and Christopher’s mates were stomping around the livingroom shrieking, “Ni! Ni! Ni!” over and over again. To avoid the utter destruction of his eardrums, Christopher retreated to the relative quiet of his den, ostensibly to check on his sleeping parrot, a pet he’d bought two hours previous.

The cage still had a sheet over it, the shopkeep had suggested it would be better if it were allowed to sleep during transport to his flat, and Christopher had bought the animal in that state, sight unseen. (Why is a story for another day.) He decided to wake up the snoozing bird and try to feed it something.

When Christopher lifted the sheet however and gazed upon the dormant beast, he put the food back down promptyly and merely said, “Ah.”

It really was his fault, he supposed. One, he should have checked the condition of the animal before taking it home and two, he should have heeded his father’s advice.

“Christopher,” his father had once famously said, “never trust a shopkeep who sounds from North London. It will only end in tears.” (his father sadly was a politician and uttered that quote during a live telecast.)

SIghing at his own stupidity, Christopher covered the cage and crept out of his flat, his friends not noticing the huge package in his arms as they were too busy prancing around his dining room clicking coconut shells together.

Upon entering the pet shop for the second time that day, Christoper was greeted by the same shop clerk who’d sold him the recalcitrant fowl.

” ‘allo,” the clerk said, his North London accent flowing out through the store, the stench of mildly smokey evil following it to our hero’s nose.

“This parrot,” Christopher announced, full of righteous indignation, “which I bought at this very establishment, not two hours ago, is dead.

The words “is” and “dead” were uttered with such forcible, separate punctuation that Christopher’s teeth impacted with force upon each other with each one.

The shopkeep pulled the sheet covering the bird cage back and peered inside, even going so far as to examine the poor creature’s feet, which were very clearly nailed to the swing. Then, glancing blearily through ancient spectacles at both Christopher and the cage, he pronounced;

“No ‘es not. ‘Es resting.”

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Comments
  1. julia says:

    well this is just plain plagiarism – and poorly written plagiarism at that.

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