Spam...a lot of spam

 

Earlier in November a friend of mine turned 50 and his birthday party was last night (hey, why take any chances?).  Like me, he is an ardent fan of Monty Python, so I put together some favorite bits into a poem of sorts and read it to the gathered assembly (many thanks to the Internet Movie Database - I couldn't have done it without you.)  Oh, and you must read this out loud with your loudest, most obnoxious Cockney accent, or it won't mean diddley.  I began with these words:

Many of you may not know that all you need to know about turning 50 can be found in the wisdom of the collected works of Monty Python.  And so, in that spiggot...

Poem for Pete (Actually It’s Not a Poem - Just a Bunch of Cobbled Bits,

Rather Like Spam but Not Quite as Tasty)

I’m rather impressed you’re here.

You’re not afraid to be jibed in nasty ways.
Not the least bit scared to be mashed to a pulp
Or have your eyes gouged out or your elbows broken
Or your kneecaps split, your body burned away,
and your limbs all hacked and mangled.

(I mean, this is abuse.  If you’re looking for an argument, that’s down the hall.  Stupid git!)

Turning 50 can be dangerous business

But you know it’s only a flesh wound.
Everyone else says “Run away, run away!”
No shame in bravely turning tail and fleeing
Or turning about valiantly and chickening out
Sneaking away and buggering off, pissing off home,
Bravely throwing in the sponge.
Others avert their eyes, like those miserable psalms,
Always so depressing, but not you!
You’re a King, no shit all over you!
Using two halves of a coconut that you found and banging them together,
Never mind the swallow that carried them by the husk, beating its wings 43 times every second,
You’re on a quest!

(Even though strange women lyin' in ponds distributin' swords is no basis for a system of government.   We all know that supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some farcical aquatic ceremony.

Just because some watery tart threw a sword at you,
I mean, some moistened bint lobbed a scimitar at me, they'd put me away.)

But you, you’re on a quest!

No cutting down trees with herrings for you!
No shrubberies, swamp castles, silly English k-nig-hits, no indeed!
You want to be…a lumberjack!  Sleep all night and work all day. 
And I thought you were so rugged – poofter!

So look on the bright side of life!

Not like you’re being sold for scientific experiments.
And by the way, at your age, every sperm IS sacred.

Turning 50?

‘Tis but a scratch.