Measuring Intelligence

Great show yesterday Kid. After the soft feminine voice of Tubby Nolan, after his weekend transgender operation, it was good to hear your strong, male voice and the testosterone gulders of Mr Coyle as he chased wee baldy Ken round the the photo copier.
"Run, Ken run, old Red neck's got a gun and he's aiming it at your head," sang Tommy my cat. Tommy threw a boomerang and cut the top off his egg with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. Being a bit more--retarded than Tommy, I picked up a ten pound hammer and left my boiled egg looking like a minute Humpty-Dumpty. Tommy looked at me, shook his head and said,
"And they allow YOU to adopt a cat?"
"Yes they DO!" I yelled. "And Jim Rodger's told me, if I study hard, I may get a licence to carry MLAs from their car into Stormont."
Tommy popped a toasted soldier into his mouth and said,
"The cold, hard truth is that you are stupid, stupid, thick and lacking the intelligence of the humble fruit fly."
"Oh is that right?" I yelled. "And would the powers that be, allow a stupid, thick person to carry wee Sammy Wilson in their arms like a baby?"
Tommy wiped his lips with a lace napkin and said,
"Let's have a little test. Let's see just how many lonely marbles are rattling about in that big head."
"Bring it on!" I yelled. "Bring it on. Ask me anything, general knowledge, sargent english or private education, bring it on! Bring it on, you smarty cat."
Tommy looked at me and said,
"Could you tell me please, what is the capital of China?"
My brain went blank. All I could think of was Arthur Askey singing, "The busy, busy bee."
Tommy drummed his fingers impatiently on the table and said,
"Oh come, come!"
"That's right!" I yelled "The capital of China is, Come-Come. I was just going to say that."
Tommy bent a bronze figurine of typhoid Mary over my head and went out singing Willie Nelson's version of-'CRAZY'. Crazy for being so stupid. CRAZY, crazy for being so thick."
I met Tubby Nolan as prearranged outside an all-night tights,knickers and steel girders' complex. Tubby stood there, clear proof that John Dunn was wrong when he said,
"No man is an island."
Tubby Nolan IS an island, the Isle of Man.
"Hey my man," I jived, "yo' sure is looking good. Yo' is thriving like a baby on dem ol' pork and beans."
"Cut the slabber bucket bake," growled Tubby. "Up until I was 21, mummy used to waken me every morning by singing, "How's the wee man the day?" I have searched everywhere to find a recording of that song, but no joy. I wonder would Anderson and Coyle come to Belfast every morning and sing that wee song to me?"
"I don't think so Gluttonous," I said. "It's too far to travel and Coyle gets homesick when he leaves Derry city limits. BUT WAIT!" I yelled. "I will be talking to Gerry and Sean tonight at the drag racing."
"Them two tubes go to DRAG racing"? said Tubby.
"In a way," I said. "After dark, both of them change into women's clothing and they race round and round a wee secret pasture at the rear of The Shantallow school for blind bats and moles."
So Kid, if you have ANY regard for your plump chum, I want you and Sean to sing,
"HOW'S THE BIG MAN THE DAY?" For your friend and mine. Ladies and gentlemen in the yella corner it's,
Steven "Fat Boy" Nolan.
Is your friendship real, Or just a cheap, showbiz facade?
My money's on-facade!