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MODERN BRIT

A Humour Publication For Child Labourers, By Child Labourers

No. 1

All content copyright © 2014. All rights reserved.

Visit us online at http://www.modernbrit.co.uk/

1

A LOVE STORY

Come here, granddaughter. What have you found? Oh, that’s a picture of your grandmother and me. Oh, no, the film isn’t damaged. That’s a photo we printed out from instagram years ago to save it before they shut the servers down.

Again? I’ve told you the story of my first date with your grandmother so many times already. Alright, alright. A long time ago, I favorited one of your grandmother’s tweets on Twitter. She very quickly favorited one of my old tweets, which made me think she was looking through my profile and was possibly interested in me. I sent her a silly message on Facebook and we did bits through chat for a little while.

Hmm? Bits are like jokes that you don’t say you’re doing. You pretend a silly thing is true so you don’t have to be emotionally honest—or so you can be emotionally honest but pretend that you’re not.

Any way, we extended the concept of one of our bits to cover an actual date, so we met up for drinks. We walked around together in the cold, keeping up the bit the whole time. When the date was over we said our goodbyes and had our first kiss, all without breaking out of the bit. As I went home I felt like I was walking on air, until I realized I had forgotten to get her Snapchat name.

LITERARY CRITICISM

“Annabel Lee” by Edgar Allan Poe

Sepulchre? I barely knew her!

2

AN EXCERPT FROM TIPS FOR SUCCESS: AN WHOLE BOOK’S WORTH

By G.W. Studge

“Of course, whenever one comes up with a truly disruptive idea– which challenges the current paradigm, raises eyebrows and shakes foundations to their core–one will invariably face their fair share of naysayers. These naysayers often have brown hair, wild eyes and a stubborn disposition, and always, in fact, say ‘neigh’ because that’s all their vocal cords will allow, seeing as they are genetically dissimilar to humans due to their being horses.”

CARVING A TURKEY

Deeper into the woods I walked. My father’s boots, too big for me, shifted with each step, crunching the particolored leaves beneath them. The crisp air chilled my lungs then escaped as a cloud of steam in one of those venal miracles I hadn’t noticed in years.

The trick, my dad was fond of saying, was not to search but to wander without losing focus. I summited a small rise and a copse of turkeys came into view. Hidden in a valley, they had grown in neat rows except for one, forming a quincunx with its nearest brothers. I had found it: not the biggest, certainly not flawless, but the right one for this year.

After finishing my preparations, I knelt at the base of the turkey. I removed my gloves and picked up the knife and carving fork. I worked quickly, my hands already chilled. I cut once into the trunk of the turkey, parallel to the ground, holding it fast with my carving fork. Another cut on the opposite side, higher than the original incision and angled down forty-five degrees, finished the job.

Once I returned my tools to their case I began pushing the turkey.

3

It bent stubbornly, but didn’t topple. I tucked my shoulder tight to its sternum, digging my boots into the ground for traction, and gave another hard shove.

With a cracking noise that was frightening after so much quiet the turkey fell and came to rest on the tarp. Its landing thud echoed for a long time, hemmed in by the valley surrounding. I stood still a while, letting the turkey lie in repose, until the quiet had returned.

The pliant stillness pressed down over the copse of turkeys like a starched white sheet tautened with hospital corners. I lashed the turkey to the sled and pulled.

I heard only my sled’s sussurating runners as I towed my quarry from the woods. Even my breath, pulling in the dry and woodsy air and pushing out miracles, was inaudible, humble in comparison to the incessant vainglorious whoosh of a ventilator.

I reached the highway and my car and headed to my parents’ home to decorate the turkey in the living room of an empty house.

You’ve got to work this out,” he thought to

himself. “Some sign, some clue somewhere

in this text will help you unravel the mystery!”

But as his pulse quickened and his thoughts

raced, one question, one solitary puzzle

dwelled in the back of his mind.

“Just who sent me this email?”

4

THE MOST “NEW YORK” THING IN THE WORLD

The most “New York” thing in the world is when you’re walking down the street, and you see a pretty girl on the other side... her eye catches yours, and your eye catches hers, but you lose sight for just a moment as a yellow cab passes by.

When it’s gone, you look around, desperate to catch just one more

glimpse of her gentle visage.

Then, just when you think all hope is lost, two planes crash into the World Trade Center.

ANOTHER EXCERPT FROM TIPS FOR SUCCESS: AN WHOLE BOOK’S WORTH

By G.W. Studge

“As human beings, we often find ourselves so entangled in problems that we lose sight of solutions right in front of our faces.

“Take dark matter, for example. Prominent astrophysicists have spent decades theorizing its existence and questioning exactly what it is, when a simple Google search reveals that ‘Dark Matter’ is a 2006 episode of Numb3rs where Don and his team investigate the motive behind a deadly shooting and Charlie uses the school’s radio frequency identification system to discover that a third shooter was involved.”

A DEFINITION

water tower (n.): a place for imprisoning water princesses

6

FIRST DRAFT LYRICS

“If I Die Young” by The Band Perry

If I die youngBury me in satinLay me down, on aBed of rosesSink me in the river At dawnSend me away with the words of a love song

Uh oh, uh oh

And pose my handsHave me giving thumbs upDress me up, in aSlayer T-ShirtTake me to a concert,Propped upMove my arms and legs, make my body do “The Bernie”

Oh, if I die young,Name my brother CarlAct as ifHis name hasAlways been thatTake him to the schoolhouse, each morn’Tell all of the kids “Everybody call him Carl now”

Mhmm, yeah, if I die youngEat a bunch of paperLearn to sculpt,Make aBust of Rip TornBuild yourself a yacht madeOf GrapesThen sail away as the king of your Grape Yacht

7

INSPIRATION

The horses thundered down the track. Gio, the jockey, sat bolt upright in his saddle. The yells and whoops of the fans rolled down from the stands across the field. Galvanized with excitement, Gio pushed his horse harder. The clasps of the bridle flashed and glinted in the tiny amount of sun trickling through the overcast clouds. Gio and his horse, Ben Franklin’s Folly, stormed toward the finish line—toward their first ever victory.

Everyone at the track that day was killed by a tornado.

A SHORT PLAY

MAN 1: You look upset.MAN 2: Someone pissed in my bed!MAN 1: Someone fucked your wife in it, too.MAN 2: I’m not married.MAN 1: Two strangers fucked in your bed.

The killer had signed his name, along with a

list of aliases, at the crime scene. He hadn’t

left his address, though. Detective Johnny

Vulture would have to go back to HQ somehow

before he could look it up.

“Damn, this guy’s clever,” said Vulture.

9

MY WIFE IS BEAUTIFUL

My wife and I have been married for a few years now. She’s pregnant with our first child, and I still think she is absolutely gorgeous. I really do. I mean, she’s a little heavier, but it’s like I can’t even see that? When I look at pictures and things I see that she’s a little bigger, but she still looks gorgeous. It’s the weirdest thing, though, that in real life I can’t even tell she’s put on any weight. She still looks like the beautiful woman I married. I have to measure her while she’s sleeping in order to convince myself that, yes, she has gained weight.

It’s incredible how beautiful she is and how attracted to her I am. I know it’s common for women to be insecure about their bodies during pregnancy, and I know that she still doesn’t truly believe me when I say that I don’t see her as being one whit less attractive than before she was pregnant. I realize, intellectually, that she is less attractive. I’ve surreptitiously gone online and asked people to rate pictures of her from before the pregnancy versus pictures of her while pregnant. I have to tell you, it’s not even close for them --- they all find my wife to have been much more attractive prior to pregnancy. Not me, though. I think she’s absolutely beautiful.

I’ve even hired a graphic designer to take those same pictures and edit my wife’s face and hairstyle, and even the backgrounds, so my wife won’t recognize herself. Then I ask her which one she prefers. Even my wife prefers herself pre-pregnancy. It’s nuts to me that despite all of this evidence: measurements, the opinions of disinterested third parties, and even my wife’s own unknowing opinion of herself, I still think my wife is as radiant and sexy as ever.

That’s enough out of me, huh guys? Looks like halftime’s wrapping up.

J-E-T-S JETS JETS JETS!

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