(The song contest, as called by a World War Two era horse race commentator, messed up on memories and blind from staring into the sun).
The starting gates were loaded, (just like the pistols pointed at the skulls of the lads down in Luxembourg), the sirens were about to wail (Just like the wanton cries of the sleeping children awakened by the air raid sCREAMS) and every independent nation and his six-legged dog was out here tonight, to claim VICTORY (just like the masked MAdonnas in the Warsaw windows)…YESIREE, any cat with a bad case a clap and a tent fulla talent was waiting for the whistle to shovel their home soil into the backa the winnin' bulldozer...
AND THEY’RE OFF!! Serbia, in all her sixties swing was seeming sturdy, built like an iron maiden and rousing the dead like Iron Madchen, while Slovenia, oh, they’re on the return with a crate full of unchecked cargo, could be machine guns? Pharmaceuticals? No, it’s just a grab-bag a good solid strangeness! A late scratch from Scotland meant all the kilted bets were CANCELLED, folks, sent off to the bleedin’ Moors...
The faggot from Finland has taken a breezy lead, bursting into first, a jarring spectacle for all audience members with less than three beers underneath their belts- an underwhelming ode to protection of the planet, which makes you wonder why we should bother at all, but LOOK! Coming up the side, sidling along like a Siamese nightmare, the Irish midget twins are running in fast as the streams outta old Kilkenny! A bonafied couple of Oompa Loompa spawn, making a break, checking their make-up, sprinting and splashing their way free from oblivion, but OOHH, they didn’t quite make it… wot’s THIS? A series of skeletons from Sweden, parading out as the repetitive soundtrack to the end of the Mayan calendar, 12, 11, 10, nine, NOW, the end, THE END, the FINALE of taste as we know it, annnnd they’re angled outta there, bundled to the bottom by Brits with better haircuts, toupees torn from the feathers of the fabled Phoenix herself, singing forgettable boy-band bland sandpaper grating this ol’ commentators weary wrinkles RIGHT OFF the side-a his gob. Touching television viewers in places cold enough to earn them arrest warrants, HERE COMES LITHUANIA! On their biggest break since the clattering fall of the iron curtain rods, there she goes! Her viking flavoured, smelting pots of opera shooting UP into the moon and promptly EXPLODING upon impact, sending out the shards to anyone at home, anyone still hoping to hear, OH, causing cataclysms to earthly ear-drums, but never to worry! Affected badly by nuclear radiation, Moldavian lawn gnomes, now unshrinking, have launched ahead, hats the size of human children, a white fairy peddling a unicycle, the best use of a woman on one-wheel since Rollerskate Annie, the one-legged pornstar, rolled her way into the record books nearly twenty years ago…but it’s not over yet folks, because here comes ITALY! The spaghetti sucking saxophonists are lulling their way into poll position, but NO!! It’s CAAN’T BE!!
By a nostril, edging the twenty-four remaining countries back to the brink of bloodshed, the WINNER! First place, the memorable performance by J-Lo's gypsy cousin, straight outta the grenadine gutters of downtown…(what the hell is the capital of Azerbaijan?) and straight on to the commercial radio of our fruitless hearts, to spin and spin on and on and on and on and off into the night……….
(Our ancient commentator hyperventilates; his aides slap him back into reality, and the bets are tabulated while an advertisement break blares. A couple of Valium later he returns to recap the events gone by).
Ah, yesssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.
What a breath-stealing performance to be sure, out here under the Düsseldorf smoggggg tonight. A more terrible waste of talent was not found during the Japanese tsunami, or outta a bag of sliced salami, or down the rivers of ol’ Killarny. But at least it would've been a stomping-good party for the three people who live in Ajebaijan or whichever was the damned no-good kraut crackin’ country who won.
(He drags upon a Cuban).
So much politics, so little reason.
(His brow grows shaded, as if clouds are passing above him).
You don’t know what I’ve seen, out by the fields of Dresden…Women BURNT into plastic chairs, melted to the sidewalk, I RAKED OFF THEIR BONES…but, the battle is over now, the war has subsided, the winners set sail on their sea of victory, out here under the storms of eurovision….
(He transforms cheerful, suddenly, mechanically, his head lifting upwards at superhuman speed, displaying a smile ghostly for the ages, scaring all those in reaching vicinity to his mic).
As for Lithuania, what a ride hey folks? If Poland hadn't given Lithuania those twelve lil votes, there would have been blood poured in these city streets. But thankfully, they did, and the only thing poured out HHEEEERE tonight, was way too many beverages.
(Here he became thoughtful. Not sure if he was slipping into a spasm or a stroke, his aides ran out with fresh water. He jolted the well-wanters aside, splashing his H2o over the console, and began to hum melodically, soft, as sparks of electricity circled him, radiated him, like a halo, and then his voice slipped into the wave rhythms of late-night love song dedication hosts, and his arms raised to the ceiling).
Whoever won the race, whichever country they may have hailed from, wartorn, corrupt or backwards as they might well be, the real winners were found, not in the bottom of cereal boxes, not in the neon grandstands, no. But here, (he taps at his chest with a fist) out in the squares of Vilnius old town. There they waltzed, the real winning performers, out by the fountains, staring into hazel coloured eyes as the sun rose rudely up over the parched hills, a grinning gaggle of anonymous heroes, members of the USSR- the Universal Self-Annihilating Shitheads Republic- And may their gods have mercy on us all.
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