A doodle by Klaude Davenport & our friend, Victoria Everglott, while sitting in the WCOM studio doing our show.
This emotive imagining is brought to you by The Constabulary of British Gentlemen’s Lip Starch. Do emotions get the better of you? Do you find yourself lacking resolve?
The Constabulary of British Gentlemen has a few simple words for you: Keep a stiff upper lip! That’s right folks; a daily application of our patented Lip-Starch is all you need to fool the world into thinking you are a man of substance and character. Regardless of pain, tragedy or familial death, your expression will remain stern and emotionless whilst you quietly weep on the inside. Lip-Starch! You may never smile again.
The Clockwork Cabaret leaps from rooftop to rooftop in hot pursuit of that dastardly villain WCOM 103.5 LP Chapel Hill and Carrboro. But, not to worry, he only attacks on Wednesdays.
submitted by Simon Fiddlefield
[April 26, 2011]
Are you lacking the advice of a rogue financier?
With fictional sponsors in short supply, do you find yourself worrying where the next fictional dollar will come from?
The now resigned, but still bored at work, workshop of isolated devoted fan brings the following words for your consideration. Use them, loose them, laugh with them or at them, with naught else to occupy him, he’s gonna keep on writing them…in third person.
Are you troubled by tarantulas? Angered by arachnids? Do spiders plague your waking world?
If such terrors put a rustle in your bustle then we have the solution to free your undergarments from fear related quakes. Rid yourself of this condition and harden your disposition with our ingenious invention.
How is such a behavioral transformation possible?
Simply arm yourself with our patented appendage amputation shears and this simple erroneous mantra: “Spiders have eight legs, not six. That must surely be an insect!”
Now you can live a scream-free existence surrounded by swarms of your new found friends.
This marvel of modern mis-thinking is brought to you by Miss Muffet’s emporium of curds, whey and devilish devices. Now available by mail-order.
The Spring Ball has sprung with unfavorable speed and fervor. Despite your best efforts of interception, your ward has seen the invitation and there are simply no more excuses to be made. What terrible fate awaits her in that crowd of peering eyes and wandering hands!?
Fret not. Fear not. Simply send your chaste charge off with a delightful gift from Madam Chastity’s Boutique of Charming Accessories.
Try the Propriety Propensity Belt. This fashionable adornment will accentuate her petite waistline whilst simultaneously breaking the fingers of all who try to touch it.
When your charge arrives home early, which she will, this delectable decoration can be put to good use around the home. Merely place it upon your larder floor to protect your cheeses from ravenous rodents and dishonest servants.
Madam Chastity, protecting reputations and cheeses for over 30 years.
Are you a dejected poet with the blues?
Has the ability to rhyme a couplet deserted you(s)?
Why should you bow to the unruly, hard-to-ryhmey nature of words such as orange?
Simply turn such words into a sorrange!
Purchase a copy of our Dictionary of Questionable Authenticity and all your literary troubles will be over. The Dictionary of Questionable Authenticity contains over 100’000 words that are guaranteed not to be found in any other dictionary! This legendary lexicon is a ‘must have’ for all those that suffer poetic perplexity. Buy now and we’ll include an extra 200 blank pages so that additional words you ‘discover’ can be added at your convenience.
The Dictionary of Questionable Authenticity. Buy it now before stocks eborange!
As usual, this voyage into the shallow depths of creative attempt was brought to you, regardless of consent or contempt, and with much overuse use of rhyming intent, by Mr Simon Fiddlefield.
[January 1, 2011]
I began to notice patterns at the institution, namely - the longer a patient had been interred and undergoing treatment the more tenebrous their connection to reality. I watched perfectly lucid, intelligent patients go from fluid and engaging conversations to being capable of little more than blowing bubbles in their spit. And what’s worse, I found myself going that direction. Last time I escaped, the crayon eating incident, Well - it wasn’t all faked insanity.
It would come in fits and starts - so I began in earnest to invent a way out during my periods away from the asylum. I always felt more lucid away from the asylum. I began smuggling back the necessary parts bit by bit beneath my corset and in the hollowed out soles of my boots. I was eventually able to build a workable, though small, plasma cutting torch.
There was no style or finesse to my escape plan - It was brutally simple. Literally. Once I’d simply torched through a few metal bars I was able to use them to bludgeon my way through the rest of the asylum security and walk out the front doors.
Of course, this was all for naught as a few days later we received a letter from my esteemed lawyer who managed to crack me out of the pokey for good by using the rather cheeky insanity plea - claiming I was too mentally unstable to function in an asylum and needed to be out among civilization. He mentioned the wheels of that argument were literally greased by an anonymous donor with the initials KoT.
Whomever this KoT may be - I heartily thank you.
- Klaude Davenport
[October 5, 2010]
D’Nelian Bix was born one spring to parents, strong and tall
They eyed him up and looked him over and tutted “This won’t do at all.
Our son is a shriveled, shrimpy thing, so tiny and so small.”
The doctor intoned, “I predict this lad won’t live past the fall.”
But D’Nelian Bix did survive that fall, and the next spring and summer too
In fact he survived for 17 years, and he grew and grew and grew.
But his parents tutted and shook their heads, “This simply cannot be true.”
And prayed each day he’d pass away, an awful thing to do.
Mr and Mrs Bix, you see, were of strapping solid stock,
And so to have a tiny child was quite a fearsome shock.
A whisper of a child, he was, with skin as white as chalk.
Contrasting quite acutely against the rest of their hulking flock.
D’Nelian Bix grew up quite overlooked, dismissed and forgot
His quietness interpreted in a manner quite misbegot
Shyness was taken for stupidity, so schooling he never got
But D’Nelian Bix read books every day, and was entirely self-taught.
On the eve of his 16th year D’Nelian Bix found a place to think
In the farthest reaches of the front cupboard, tucked behind his mother’s mink.
"To my family I feel not even the slightest link,
And the life for me here would only be rinky-dink.”
"So, I’ll screw up my courage and set forth from this place.
To carve out a life, and to find my own space.”
Remembering the words of a survival guide, D’nelian tucked and rolled
Faster on and faster still, his speed quite uncontrolled
D’nelian Bix thought to himself “I wouldn’t believe if I’d been told,
All the adventures that’d befall me, and not a day past 16 years old.”
D’Nelian Bix ended his trip with a great big massive bump
With his head resting in the grass and his feet on a stump
But he rose up quickly with a lithe little jump
And set off in the direction of town, rubbing his sore hips and rump.
So many adventures, D’Nelian Bix had on his 16th birthday
The Harebell disaster, the roll down the hill ofhay
The murderous gang, the hobo who’d put him in harm’s way
All of them bested with his wit, will, and the knowledge he’d read and stored away
D’Nelian Bix entered a shop to buy a snack to quell his rumbling guts
He picked out a tasty sandwich and removed all of the crusts
D’Nelian Bix died that day, not a bit over 16, and a total putz.
D’Nelian Bix had allergies and didn’t read the wrapper “warning: this product contains nuts.”
D’Nelian Bix ended his trip with a great big massive bump
With his head resting in the grass with a growing sore lump
A castle rose in the distance, past his view of his feet on a stump
So D’Nelian righted himself and rose with a jump.
D’Nelian Bix steeled his reserve and opened the creaking wood door
He shuffled in quietly across the stone floor.
The interior was dusty, and shabby, but not poor.
With decor on the walls from the Peloponnesian War.
D’Nelian stopped in his tracks, the smell of burning things in the air
And watched, rapt, as a young woman in a cotton dress descended the stair
With thick leather gloves on each hand, a mismatched pair
And a set of grime encrusted goggles tangled in her hair.
D’Nelian Bix had many adventures; his 16th birthday had been a real hornet’s nest
Running from home, the Harebelle, kidnapping, hobos and hills all put him to the test
But never had he felt the terror that rose that moment in his breast
D’Nelian Bix felt a quivering, racing feeling in the center of his chest.
And so D’Nelian Bix ended his adventures on his 16th birthday
Confessing his love in a mountain of cliche
And from that moment on he wouldn’t dare to stray
And he spent most of the day gliding across the library’s parquet.
- Klaude Davenport
This weekend was glorious, wasn’t it? I hope it was glorious wherever you were. The sun was shining, the air was crisp. If you stood still you could feel the sun warming your skin and a cool breeze tickling the back of your neck. I had a lot of time to consider the beauty of the natural world this weekend. I was stuck in a tree for most of it.
I got up early on Saturday morning and packed a picnic lunch. The usual, egg and cress sandwiches, a thermos of iced mint tea, a brown paper bag of desiccated chocolate covered grasshoppers (originally when I typed these notes out for today’s Botched Inventions I typed grasshoppers. I think that’s funny and I wanted to share it with you.) Armed with my picnic hamper, blanket, book, ukulele, kite and water and sand powered phonograph, I set out for an adventure on my auto-velocipede. I settled in a lovely patch of meadow through a thicket of trees, far off from civilization. Everything was sweet and peaceful. I read, I ate, I played the ukulele, I watched butterflies, I flew my kite while listening. It was a perfect day. Somehow I got the bee in my bonnet that I should climb up into one of the tall trees and play my ukulele in it’s branches. That was…..unwise.
I climbed, branch over branch, digging my heels into the tree trunk and swinging myself up higher and higher, my trusty ukulele strapped to my back. Higher and higher I climbed, further on into the inevitable, higher into my doom UNTIL, I felt my ukulele start to slip from my back. I lurched forwards, gripping the tree with my legs and flailing at the ukulele. I caught it in one hand, but as I did my knees slipped from around the tree and I started to fall backwards. I caught myself with one hand and pulled myself up another branch, determined to make it higher into that tree. Until…I felt I could go no further. I was caught on something. I looked behind me and saw my bodice strings had become tangled around some lower branches, right were I’d almost fallen. Dangit. I climbed back down to try and untangle them and when I got there, found I’d caught my bodice strings again, on a higher branch. I tried to loosen the strings on the lower branch, but they wouldn’t budge, so I climbed back up to the higher branch, worked my way around it and with a sickening snap Ifelt the branch give out beneath me and I felt for the briefest of moments until with a sudden jerk, I hung there, suspended in midair, dangling from my tangled bodice strings.
The sky was a beautiful blue, very striking against the flowering trees around me. Birds were singing around me in the tree, full of beauty and various other things. And in fact, one decided to give me a beautiful little present, right on the back of my leg. Lovely. I twirled there, slowly, for a few hours, sometimes I’d give a shout, hoping someone would find me. After a while I gave up and started playing the ukulele, quickly running through my repertoire. Then running through it again, this time slower. I wrote four extraneous verses to Johnny Cash’s Flushed from the Bathroom of your Heart. It wasn’t all bad really, I practiced tuvan throat singing, which I still can’t properly do, but I did wind up making some funny noises and scarring some squirrels so bad they fell out of the tree. I used the tree to twirl around in tighter and tighter circles, you know the way you used to on swings when you were a kid? Then I’d let go and let the strings untwirl until I made myself a little sick. It was pretty great.
The sun started to set and I still hadn’t been rescued. It’s not terribly unlike me to go out on an adventure and not show back up on board the Calpurnia until 10:45 the night of our radio show, so I had little hope of Emmett coming to look for me. It was getting chilly and I didn’t have a wrap with me. The sun set, the moon came up and the stars were twinkling in the sky high above me when I remembered my boot knife. I scrambled and contorted myself, reaching around my back to the strings and sawing through them one by one, the whole time muttering about what a dummy I was. Dumb Dumb Dumb Dumb Dummy.
The last string snapped on it’s own, and I tumbled down couple feet, landing belly-first onto the next branch before I gradually picked my way down, out of the tree and back home to the airship.
This concludes Klaude’s modest collection of botched inventions: Spring Funtime Adventure Edition!
Pseudonyms that people really should be using for their steampunk personas, but aren’t;
Phineas P. Phineas-Phineas
Lord Reginald & Lady Elizabeth Blimpington
Winthrop Q. Cogsbury
Rust Bucket Johnny
Underwood P. Gogglethorpe
Oh, how do I love thee,
let me count the tentacles.
I love thee to the tops and tips
Of you lovely Squid.
I don’t care that you tried
To eat my cousin Sid.
When I have opened my parasol,
It reminds me of you, in all.
(My Squid-like parasol.)
Your inky voice calling my name,
Sounds like muwahaaaaaaa.
- Emmett Davenport
Sunrise and the morning star,
And one last call for me!
May there be no groaning at the bar,
When I finally find my keys.
But such a time must come for I need sleep,
Too full of whiskey and foam,
When that which caused the leap
Turns me back towards home.
Dawn and the morning bell,
And after the bright!
May there be no laughter or farewells
When I am set right;
For tho’ from out of Time and Place
The drink may bear me far,
I hope to see my love face to face
When I have crossed the bar.
- Emmett Davenport
(reinterpretation of Tennyson’s ‘Crossing the Bar’)
A listener, who recently discovered our show, was apparently inspired by our misadventures with the koalas and sent us this wonderful cartoon.
Thank you, Captain Rosamund Peregrine of the Botany boat, The Tentative Larkspur, for your lovely cartoon! - Emmett
Thanks to the latest in hybrid technology, this week’s show is brought to you from the creaking, mysteriously dripping vaults containing Klaude Davenport’s Botched Inventions, which thanks to their high degree of botchitude, can now be purchased at rock-bottom prices.
Firstly, Klaude Davenport’s Blunderbustle! Giving a new meaning to the term “rear flank”, these high explosive, high fashion accoutrements, first disarm the enemy romantically, then disarm them in actuality. Putting the boom in the zoom-a-boom-boom, it’s Klaude Davenport’s Blunderbustle!
Also from Klaude’s Kitchen, it’s the Pancake Milkshake! Fortified with moleculites, the Pancake Milkshake is delicious, nutritious, and slightly hallucinogenic. Now in blueberry, banana, and sentient.
As always, Klaude Davenport’s failures as an inventor and victories as an unintentional conceptual artist are brought to you by WCOM LP Chapel Hill & Carrboro, which thanks to Klaude, is now powered by the plutonium honey of the deadly ATOM-O-BEE! Buzz buzz kill!
[October 1, 2008]
On last week's show we called out to anyone listening to provide us with a noun that we could write an impromptu poem concerning. The wonderful Mister Ducky phoned in to our program and provided us with the word Carpetbagger. Below you will find our poems, written very hastily, and read aloud despite much giggling
C - is for Carpet, of which your bag is made.
A - is for A slice of pie: made of lemonade.
R - is for Rayguns, which Klaude likes a lot.
P - is for Pot Pies, best when served hot.
E - is for Everything, that's a good many things.
T - is for Tops, that spins and spins and spins.
B - is for a Bag, to hold all this stuff!
A - is for finding inside A bit of fluff.
G - is for Going places, what carpet bags are for.
G - that's another G, yup, one more.
E - is for packing Each and Every bit.
R - is for Really cramming it in, I do hope it all fits.
That's my Carpetbagger poem, each word from my mouth,
Now close that bag up and let's head on south!
There once was a Carpetbagger named Ducky,
Who was considered to be quite lucky,
He traveled from town to town,
Buying things for farthings and pounds,
Which was considered to be quite plucky.
Next week, arm yourselves for the same challenge. Bring us your nouns!!