Monday, May 02, 2011

My new best worst thing

I'm a magpie of dross. I really am. I delight in bad films, bad music, bad art and bad poetry. It makes me laugh as much as any intentional comedy ever could. I've been collecting the stuff for years. Here's me hiding my shame behind Cat in flowerbasket, a particularly nasty oil painting I bought in a charity shop recently for a quid. Pity me, people, pity me.

I'm never happier than when watching Ed D Wood's Plan 9 from Outer Space or Tommy wiseau's execrable The Room and I've used this blog to champion some of my favourite rubbish these past few years. I first avowed my love for crap in this post back in 2007. And in this post, I talked about the 10 worst records ever made (you can listen to the late Kenny Everett's Bottom 30 and World's Worst Wireless Shows here, thanks to Chronoglide).

I've donated items to the Museum of Bad Art and bad music to Mick Master's excellent Craplister blog. I'm also a frequent visitor to Robert Popper's site - he has a fantastic collection of arse-gravy there; things like Jan Terri's epic and tuneless video for Losing you:



Not so long ago I posted what I considered to be the worst poem ever written in English. Or bad English. It's A tragedy by Theophile Marzials and you can soak up the full horror by clicking here. I never thought I'd beat that. But I think I might have done so.

Today I found the pure essence of joy that is The Stuttering Lover (not to be confused with the traditional Irish song of the same name - see here) by Fred Emerson Brooks (1850-1923). It's absolutely astoundingly bad.

Read it out aloud in all of its insensitive glory (I hear it in my head as read by Forrest Gump for some reason). I promise you that you'll never be the same again.

The Stuttering Lover

I luh-love you very well,
Much mu-more than I can tell.
With a lu-lu-lu-lu-lu-love I cannot utter;
I kn-know just what to say
But my tongue gets in the way,
And af-fe-fe-fe-fe-fection’s bound to stutter!

When a wooer wu-wu-woos,
And a cooer cu-cu-coos,
Till his face is re-re-red as a tomato,
Take his heart in bi-bi-bits,
Every portion fi-fi-fits,
Though his love song su-su-seem, somewhat staccato!

I'll wu-worship you, of course,
And nuh-never get divorce,
Though you stu-stu-stu-stu-storm in angry weather;
For whu-when you're in a pique,
So muh-mad you cannot speak,
We'll be du-du-du-du-dumb then both together.

No, you're right. Marzial's poem is still the worst. Plop.

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