Stuart Gimble: June 2002 Archives

Aha! Is Gimble not always the epitome of success? Today I give to thee the spoils of my victory, The March of Gimble, unsullied and grand.

As you may know, another of the Pork Pony staff members vacated the offices this week. Yes, Mike Wargo, the brewer of the acrid ale that is Club 11 is gone. With him goes the office's need for a cabinet full of Fibercon. That's right, Wargo, you are literary constipation!

In other news, Pork Pony has decided to send me on a trip. They're asking me to tour the world on their dollar! They want a Gimble's eye view of the Earth and its people. Alas, who does not?

The itinerary has not been set, but I imagine I'll be sent to locations exotic. I cannot wait to be pampered and bathed by Samoan princesses on the island's of the blue Pacific. Germany's husky lasses call out to me, for they wish to feed me wurst most tasty as they hold me to their bosoms.

I relish this opportunity as much as you shall anticipate every report.

Dear reader, the world is Gimble's.

I've been found out. Yes, fair reader, one of my dirtiest secrets has been exposed: I did indeed consort with the four filthy English hippies who called themselves The Beatles.

Why would I confess to a deed so horrid? 'Tis simple. Stuart Gimble is a man of principle. He does not steal audio masters and mutilate them. He does not pen potty-mouthed letters saturated with slanders and sarcasms most heinous. Nay, Gimble strives for the moral firmament floating in the skies above.

Yes, these Beatles were fans of mine in my heyday. John Paul would call me at every odd hour, asking for literary advice. I'd simply tell the lout, "cut your hair and stop associating with that Robert Zimmerman character. He's no poet; he's just a Midwestern simpleton with a penchant for peasant songs." But would John Paul listen? I think you know the answer, so let us draw the curtain on that episode and continue.

They did so love my work, those Beatles, that they'd stalk me in the library, assaulting me, begging for my autograph. John Paul was particularly persistent. After hours of listening to the buffoon's flattery, I buckled and took pen to photograph. The photo, as you can see here, ended up on the cover of the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band album.

Originally the album was to be titled, These Lads Play for Sgt. Gimble and No One Else, but I threatened to file suit if they used my name to market such sonic swill. Alas, the world was cursed by the album's awful music and lousy last-minute title.

By the way, dear reader, I did secure the fabled March of Gimble master tapes and I'm in the process of personally mixing the song. Prepare for the splendor!

I shall only write briefly to inform you, dear reader, that I'm on a mission. The March of Gimble has been hijacked by sonic perverts and the results are hideous. David Kendall, I'm sure you had a hand in this. I'll have your heads, the lot of you.

EDITOR'S NOTE:

David Kendall feels a need to respond to Stuart's numerous attacks on his character. We feel a need to publish Kendall's response. Here Goes:

Stuart, Stuart, Stuart.

I leave and the second I'm out of the door you are bad mouthing me. First of all, telecommuting, bitch. Just because I'm not in the office doesn't mean I ain't workin' for the Double P. Ho.

Second, remember when you came to my office asking if I had any brandy? Remember I said, "brandy is for stupid old ladies and I would never have any on my person?" Then you asked did I "have some sherry." I laughed in your face and after I contained my tears of laughter I said I didn't have any but I could give you some whiskey. You said that was fine. Then I said, "I'm not giving you any until you grab you crotch, thrust back and forth, and say 'I like to work my knob.'" You didn't seem to find the humor in it, but since it was Knob Creek whiskey and it ain't cheap, I thought you had to do something for it. Well, you did what I asked anyway. Guess what. I videotaped the whole thing. God bless, those X10 cameras. They really do work.

Third, remember when you came to Pork Pony you bitched and moaned to have your own bathroom. 'Why can't I have my own bathroom.' 'The last place I worked I had my own bathroom.' 'Any respectable office for a person like me should have a bathroom.' Blah, blah, blah. Well, you were at Ralph's making meat trays before working here. It just so happened the shitter was right next to you while you worked. Now, the only reason you need a bathroom is because YOU ARE OLD. Your prostate is all weak and shit and you can't hold a piss in for more than thirty seconds. Plus, you crap more than a goose. Well, I left you a surprise. Upper deck, anyone? Yeah, I bet it's gotten mighty smelly in there over the past three weeks.

Fourth, that time you fell asleep at your desk (you remember, not the 89th time, but the 90th time). I took a picture of my nuts next to your head while you slept. Nuff said.

So the next time you go bad mouthing me, remember I have a video of you doing stupid shit for whiskey, a picture of your head lovingly next to my scrotum, and a huge chocolaty loaf in your toilet tank. Bitch.

And I'm out.

Kendall.

Oh how I've grown weary of hollow promises. These people at this wretched organization promised to deliver to you, my adoring fans, my very own March of Gimble. Do your ears hear it? Nay. Do the record executives and radio stations quench their thirst for quality with it? Nay.

The concept of business is lost among these people. God bless them if they ever do one thing on time or with order.

Curse the lot of them.

In protest, I shall write no more prose this week. Instead, I shall end with the following dalliance:

Words.
Joy.
Television.
Wretched death.
Lanza.
Bliss.
Beatles.
Poppycock.
Gimble.
Magnanimous.
Pork Pony readers.
Misguided fools, the lot.