Nipperty Slim - literati gangster, Auckland.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Simon Pound appears to have caught a wiff of blood in the air:
Battle on...
There's space in your day, between furiously masterbating over pictures of Deborah Coddington and crying yourself to sleep. Pencil in some "me time" and take the advice you used to flog from your dirty crackhouse. You know, "Suicide and How to Do It".
You seemed proud of your wisdom then, spouting something about "freedom of speech" and "an important issue that needs to be discussed". Live by your words, and die by the same. Take some of your own medicine, lots of it, and overdose. This isn’t just an idle death threat, it's valuable career advice. Your demise is an important issue that needs to be discussed.
I know you’ve already thought this through and planned your funeral out well. A hire-purchase headstone's stashed under your bed. I know it reads "Here lies the hard Neil Falloon." I know this because you needed me as spellchecker.
Your funeral would be beautiful, the crowd of mourners stretching maybe to a half-dozen. A unusually downbeat Jim Hopkins, a gruff Jock Anderson and a disbelieving Ian Wishart. The fantastic four, crusaders for truth and "keeping it real", would furthermore be just be an unholy trinity. There would be much lamenting and much wailing from this somber trio. (Mediacow would be there, but is busy for the next decade rehabilitating Roger Kerr.)
But across the nation, celebrations and parties in the streets will continue for weeks. I've booked for the occasion the penthouse suite at the Hilton, three of Steve Crow's finest, and Monteith’s entire December production line. And no, you are not invited.
When your bloated corpse lies buried beneath six feet of rotting flowers and now-poisoned earth, then, and only then, will you truly have become part of the underground. Until that day, you're just a shiver looking for a spine to crawl up.
Late at night, following the wake where I too toast the recently departed call-center stooge, I'll return to the cemetery with hammer and chisel. Spraypaint and stencils are so twentieth century. Lovingly I'll carve granite. You will be remembered, Falloon, and even Hopkins will crack wise over this one. Your epitaph to the ages, subbed by moi, will read:
Nipperty Slim
Trash talkin' mo'fo'
In other news, how funny is the intellectual ping-pong between Cohen, Nippert, and the ice skating rink?For clarity's sake, it is all in jest. The punchline's a short bloody left to Neil Falloon's nose. Falloon is going the way of Tupac, except Tupac will be remembered for more than a pithy headstone.
Barbs flying like a battle on the Nation's letters page, except none of the writers involved are wet and sanctimonious. It is almost like a freestyle battle, not too distant from the breakdancing that may have sparked it all....
It keeps getting wittier at each turn, I thought Matt was hilarious, and then the rink came back hard. All in jest though?
Battle on...
Dear Neil,Falloon, you have much to say. Pity about short attention spans and tastes of the wider public, because they need to hear you. You’ve got malicious advice by the bucketload, but before you launch your ultimately unsuccessful campaign to unseat Paul Holmes you need to look in the mirror and engaging in a life-changing interior dialogue.
There's space in your day, between furiously masterbating over pictures of Deborah Coddington and crying yourself to sleep. Pencil in some "me time" and take the advice you used to flog from your dirty crackhouse. You know, "Suicide and How to Do It".
You seemed proud of your wisdom then, spouting something about "freedom of speech" and "an important issue that needs to be discussed". Live by your words, and die by the same. Take some of your own medicine, lots of it, and overdose. This isn’t just an idle death threat, it's valuable career advice. Your demise is an important issue that needs to be discussed.
I know you’ve already thought this through and planned your funeral out well. A hire-purchase headstone's stashed under your bed. I know it reads "Here lies the hard Neil Falloon." I know this because you needed me as spellchecker.
Your funeral would be beautiful, the crowd of mourners stretching maybe to a half-dozen. A unusually downbeat Jim Hopkins, a gruff Jock Anderson and a disbelieving Ian Wishart. The fantastic four, crusaders for truth and "keeping it real", would furthermore be just be an unholy trinity. There would be much lamenting and much wailing from this somber trio. (Mediacow would be there, but is busy for the next decade rehabilitating Roger Kerr.)
But across the nation, celebrations and parties in the streets will continue for weeks. I've booked for the occasion the penthouse suite at the Hilton, three of Steve Crow's finest, and Monteith’s entire December production line. And no, you are not invited.
When your bloated corpse lies buried beneath six feet of rotting flowers and now-poisoned earth, then, and only then, will you truly have become part of the underground. Until that day, you're just a shiver looking for a spine to crawl up.
Late at night, following the wake where I too toast the recently departed call-center stooge, I'll return to the cemetery with hammer and chisel. Spraypaint and stencils are so twentieth century. Lovingly I'll carve granite. You will be remembered, Falloon, and even Hopkins will crack wise over this one. Your epitaph to the ages, subbed by moi, will read:
"Here lies the blowhard, Neil Falloon."Yours sincerely,
Nipperty Slim
Trash talkin' mo'fo'
