So. Bob Dylan, Beethoven and the Pope are on a bus. A pink one. With red swirls. Oh, and there’s God, but he’s more omnipresent, obviously. Anyway, that’s not important. So Bob’s droning on about man against the world, words as power, the usual garbage, Beet’s got some bee in his ear-piece over the expressive power of music over words, or some such hippy crap, and while they’re arguing every so often the Pope chips in his ten cents on abortion and the afterlife, and they both turn and stare at him and roll their eyes. So he skulks off to the front seat, grumpily counting his rosary beads and contemplating the finer things in life, like how to commit suicide without committing an original sin, ‘cos if he’s honest, being the Pope, it’s damned dull, and he’s hoping death and heaven (or even hell) would liven it up a bit. So, all is normal.
Then the bus stops, and who should get on but good ol’ me. Me and Bob are old mates, so Bob’s like “alright Allen?” while Beethoven’s like “Vas ist dis?” while the Pope slips out the door past me to “fall” in front of the bus wheels at an opportune moment. He fails, incidentally, ‘cos God’s not a retard and sticks a donkey in front of the bus before the Pope can get there, and who the hell can fall over a donkey? So the Pope stomps back on the bus ‘cos he’s got no better place to go, and God was pleased with what he saw, ‘cos if the Pope commits original sin then Catholicism is screwed, and He’d grown quite fond of those guys over the years, in the kind of way an uncle is fond of a devoted but not-so-bright nephew.
So anyway, with the sound of surprised and agonised braying ringing in my ears as the bus bumpily drives off, I strut up the back to say “hi” to Bob and Beet, while the Pope counts his rosary beads faster and louder to demonstrate how disinterested he is. So the three of us get into this big debate about television, materialism, and all that good stuff, ‘cos we’re damn-well post-modern, we are. We’re pretty much in agreement that it’s all sick, wrong, diseased, and just generally not cool man, until Bob chips in with “Yeah, but I quite enjoyed doing ‘Top Of The Pops’ that time, man, that was some good times” and it sets us off again. Eventually, once we’ve agreed that all television is soul destroying except ‘Top Of The Pops,’ and possibly ‘The Classical Channel’ (Beethoven’s contribution), we run out of conversation, so me and Bob drop some acid, and Beet smokes himself off to sleep.
So there we are. Me staring out of the windows, at the rolling elephants and pink hills; Beet snoring; the Pope trying to “accidentally” fall out emergency exit by “accidentally” pulling the handle; God having none of it, so tying the deceased donkey to the outside of the bus, blocking said door; Bob getting all psychedelic/philosophical as he tends to when he’s high, moaning on about being on his own and shit. Then the Rolling Stones pass by in their tour bus – man, Keith looked whacked – and Bob’s like “hey man, this could like, make a song or something…how does it feeeeel? To be on your owwwwwn? Like, like, like a big…blue…beetle?” but then gives up and packs the thought away for later, when he’s smoking crack instead and feels fully functional. Oh, and during all this the bus stops again and Eddie Allen Poe gets on. Then, inspiration hits me like a donkey hits a bus…
“AMERICA!” I scream, pissing off the Pope who nearly had a heart attack and thought for a glorious second he’d got off easy. Bob just sorta blankly stares, with big blue beetles still in his eyes, Eddie’s rolling up so focused on greater things, while Beet just goes on snoring ‘cos he’s pretty goddamn deaf without his listening horn, which fell out when he dozed off. Now Bob is well aware of what happens when I get on big rants, so he’s all like “no, man” but it’s too late.
“Yeah, America man, it’s like, big, man, and it’s got, like, issues, with like, multiculturalism and homelessness and stuff, and the Russians, Jesus Christ, don’t even get me started on the Russians man, ‘cos they ‘re like, just as bad man, just as bad, it’s deep, it’s like…a concept or something, I’m telling you, this is some deep crap…” Meanwhile Bob’s wondering what sort of deep crap I’ve been taking and whether he can get some, and the Pope is huddled in a small ball, rocking and crying, lamenting over blasphemy in the modern age, while sneakily trying and failing to choke on his rosary beads.
“I like to look at the moon from the sun man, and graveyards man, that’s heavy too. And werewolves – damn it, man.”
“Eddie, d’you mind? I’m like, having a vision here man.” Nice guy Eddie, but weird, y’know? Morbid. Anyway, so he says sorry and goes back to rolling spliffs, and I carry on, except I’ve kind of lost my thread so I just fake it and hope their all too stoned/suicidal to notice:
“Yeah man, so there’s like movies, in an overpopulated Imperium of biocide, genocide is like, so wrong and fratricide, well man, I don’t know what that is but it’s heavy man” Bob’s nodding, so I carry on “And look at the Holocaust, starvation, big bruises man, bruises, I blame computers, that’s where it’s all at”
“Right on brother,” Ed chips in, so I take that as a good sign and continue:
“Yeah, science, man, science, atoms and bombs and atomic bombs, radiation, eradication, erection, masturbation, for real,”- by this point Bob’s got his guitar out and has started strumming “We Shall Overcome “- “and religion man, religion – ugh.”
“Amen!” shrieks the Pope, grappling with the wrath of God while trying to squeeze himself out a horizontal slit-window.
“And television – except ‘Top of the Pops’ and ‘The Classical Channel’ – and fricking radio and movies and the media, the media, man. I mean I’m like, from Earth, and the Universe is from the Universe, and maybe I’m not even from Earth, maybe I’m like, from Mars, man”
“Or the sun!” screams Eddie “looking at the moon from the sun!”
“Right on man!” I say, not caring anymore.
“What was that about masturbation?” says Bob, looking interested.
“Hell, I dunno, it was like, sex, man, sex and drugs and rock and roll and the audience having sex with rock and roll and the listeners having sex with like, salvation, man.”
“Yeah!” says Bob.
“And Hitler-Stalin-Roosevelt-Churchill-math-chemsitry-physics-chaos! Are we people anymore, y’know, with like, ten eyes and two fingers? Well are we?! Who’s with me man?”
“Me!” says Eddie,
“Me!” says Bob,
“Amen!” says the Pope,
“Vas ist dis?” says Beethoven, who’s woken up at last.
Man that was a good night. I felt rough next morning. Bob was all throwing up, and the Pope, well, turned out he was just a random guy who liked white robes. Eddie was some loser tramp, and Beet some old deaf German who liked to sleep a lot. Still can’t work out where that donkey came from. A shame no one will ever believe this crap. Best re-write it, make it “abstract poetry,” call it like, “post-modern,” and maybe lose the suicidal Pope… They’ll lap it up man.
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