Teti-à-Tête (With Tony) #9


Tati as TATI


Tony as TONY




Tati is hanging upside down in gravity boots. Tony looks on while eating from a plate of pumpkin scones.

TONY: Are the stomach crunches really necessary?

TATI: Are whipped cream and chocolate drops really necessary?

Tony stops mid-chew.

TONY: Well, that just ruined it all for me.

Flecks of scone, whipped cream and chocolate dribble from his mouth.

TATI: Look at yourself, Tony! Soon your tummy will come into the room before you.

TONY: No it won’t!

He self-consciously sucks his tummy in. Tati looks at him, firstly with a smile but then with concern.

TATI: Exhale, Tony!

Tony lets out a huge whoosh of air and crumbs.

TONY: Damn. I wasn’t going to be able to keep that up for long. Maybe some kind of girdle might be in order…

Tati rolls her eyes and resumes her upside down stomach crunches. Tony keeps watching.

TONY: Could you please plant your feet back on the ground, Tati? I feel like I’m talking to a giant, talking fruit bat.

TATI: I thought you were used to quirky fauna, Tony?

TONY: It’s not that. I’m exhausted just watching you!

TATI: Kangaroos, koalas, chupacabras… they’re your neighbours, aren’t they?

TONY: Not really. It’s not like I live out in the bush or anything. I’m a city dweller. I prefer to hang out at cafes sipping glasses of cool inexpensive water, not from billabongs.

TATI: Snoozefest! Fine, I’ll climb down.

Tati disengages the safety lock, slips out of her gravity boots and flips onto the floor. She looks at Tony with a peculiar, knowing smile as she dusts herself off.

TATI: I debated with myself if I should land on your tummy.

TONY: Oh, ha ha. Very funny.

Tati grabs the last scone from the plate and bites into it, ignoring Tony’s silent protests.

TONY: Well, too bad if I wanted that, huh?

Tati slaps Tony’s tummy, making it jiggle like jelly on a plate.

TATI: Be grateful I saved you from bursting, fill-belly.

TONY: Hey! My tummy may be big but it’s also quite sensitive. It’s where I write from!

TATI: What? Do you stenograph your growling stomach? Now it’s clear where all this weird stuff comes from! Ladies and Gentlemen, permit me to introduce the gastric wonders of Tony’s poetry to you!

TONY: What I’m trying to say is that I write from my feelings, not my head! I think with my gut!

TATI: Ah hah! I supposed something like this. Have you never tried to use your brain for the creative process?

Tati taps Tony’s forehead with her half-eaten scone.

TONY: I have but it’s not for me. I need to feel what I’m writing about. I’m more emotional than rational.

TATI: Is that why you put your shirt on arsy-varsy? Is it how you feel today?

TONY: I’m feeling a little belittled right now, I have to say…

TATI: Is it heartburn, Tony? Because no one can gobble a tonne of scones and escape unpunished.

Tati shoves the rest of the scone into her mouth. Her eyes bulge slightly as she hiccups.

TATI: Tony, do you have water?

Tony grins like a Cheshire Cat.

TONY: Who’s thinking with their gut now?

TATI: It’s because of your fucking scone!

TONY: I didn’t force you to eat one. Did you see a note anywhere saying: ‘Eat Me!’?

TATI: Tony, I swear, if you don’t give me something with the label ‘Drink Me!’… I… HIC! Will… HIC! Kick… HIC! Your…

Tony throws a mocking look at the hiccupping Tati.

TONY: My arse feels great, thanks for asking. Unlike yours.

TATI: My ass is fine… HIC!

TONY: This is just too funny.

TATI: Shut up… HIC!

TONY: I’m afraid I can’t. I’m feeling too smug and superior in the correctness of my position to be stopping right now. Heh heh…

TATI: Screw you… HIC!

TONY: I don’t want to lose this opportunity to be listened to uninterrupted by you, smart arse.

Tony then paces around the helpless, hiccupping Tati, giving a long-winded declamation on the creative process.

TONY: …and I insist that the only writing of any substance can only ever come from the heart, not the head.

An unhappy Tati is unable to object… HIC! She waves him off and leaves the room. Tony pulls out a bottle of water.

TONY: Methinks it’s time to wet me whistle


© All rights reserved 2018

THE CRUMBCAST // Supersize it!

It’s episode twenty, baby! Yeah! The little Crumbcast that could!

This time round I have someone to talk to. The subject is video games and their place in society. How did they get here and what does this mean for our future?

This episode is easily twice as long as my previous ones, and has more gabbing and intellectual pretentiousness than ever before. Let’s go large!

PS: This is a bit strange, but if you want to listen to the sound then you should click on the picture below. Yes, it’s real magic in the digital world, I tell ya!


© All rights reserved 2017

BUT IS IT POETRY? // Sunhibitionism

Midday bends
over a city
sun nipple
slips out of cloudy brassiere
shamelessly. It’s hot.


TONY: Wow. This poem’s as hot as I feel!

TATI: Really? Kewl…

(Tati sniffles. Her nose is very runny and red.)

TATI: Ahhh… ahhh… AH CHOO!

(Tony wipes himself off.)

TONY: Lovely. All. Over. Me. Thanks for that.

TATI: You’re welcome, Tony.

TONY: Could you maybe sneeze upwind in future? Anyway, let’s discuss this poem of yours. It’s called ‘Sunhibitionism’.


(Tony wipes himself off again.)

TATI: Sorry. That was upwind this time.

TONY: Good freakin’ god. It’s like sitting next to a sprinkler.

(Tati gives Tony a helmet.)

TATI: Will you ask me after all?

TONY: About the poem?

(He puts the helmet on.)

TONY: If I can just get a word in with all this projectile snot flyin’ about then yes, I will ask after all.

TATI: And…?

TONY: What made you think of equating weather patterns with the imagery of a woman bending over?

TATI: It was a cloud. Its shape reminded me of a bra… ah CHOO!

TONY: Thank the very Christ for this helmet.

(Tony wipes his visor off.)

TONY: So, do clouds often make you think of women’s undergarments, Tati? Are you some kind of pervert?

TATI: What? Of course no! If a cloud looks like a teddy bear, will you accuse me of liking bestiality too?

TONY: Well, I don’t know what kinkiness goes on inside your head.

TATI: Tony, are we discussing the poem here, or are you trying to fish out my hidden desires?

TONY: Oh, so you do it with fish now? What a sicko…

TATI: Are you going to discuss poetry after all, you freaking pervert? What about my use of imagery, metaphor, and meter? AHHH… CHOO!

(Tony wipes his visor off.)

TONY: You’re sneezing on me on purpose now, aren’t you…

(He takes off his shirt and wrings it dry. Tati sniffles.)

TATI: Dear Readers, because Tony is being extremely objectionable today, let me take up the reins.

TONY: Says the woman who sprays everything with mucous.

TATI: It’s a shadorma.

TONY: Is that what they’re calling it these days?

TATI: What’s that?

TONY: Snot. Shadorma. Must I spell this out?

TATI: Oh, hell. No! It’s a poetic form. Not what your sore fantasy suggests. And if you dare to call yourself a poet, you had better learn some theory!

TONY: Theory? Damn. Then I guess I’m no poet after all. I hardly know any theory when it comes to writing my poems.

TATI: AH CHOO! By the way… do you know? Whenever you say something and someone else sneezes at the same time, it means you are telling the truth.

TONY: I guess it’s confirmed then. I’m a hack.

TATI: Oh. Don’t you want to say, “Bless you?”

TONY: You’re like a cat, Tati. You always manage to land on your feet no matter how far you fall. I’m pretty sure you don’t need a blessing!

TATI: Sunhibitionism.

TONY: Are you sneezing again?

TATI: No, it’s a broad hint.

TONY: To talk about the actual poem, yes?

TATI: Hallelui… ah… ah… AH CHOO!

TONY: Good grief. Okay, so if the sun is like a nipple, is that why we’re often dissuaded from looking at it? It’s too rude, so we might go blind if we do?

TATI: Of course. It’s so mushy little boys like you, Bubby Tony, can continue to play with their toy soldiers… and don’t hide another issue of Playboy under your pillows.

TONY: Are you saying I’m too immature to appreciate your poem?

TATI: Yes, I think so. You’re focused on details and don’t see the whole picture. It’s like you giggle at the nakedness of Venus de Milo, or David. Or poke your finger at Madonna Litta. Ahhh… ahhh… AH CHOO!

TONY: So, is this a commentary on society’s collective shame regarding sexuality? Is that what you’re referring to here? And since when did you begin comparing your poems with the works of such masters? Not that I’m saying your poems aren’t worthy of scrutiny…

TATI: Oh my god! Really?! Was I able to drag you back to the main point of our discussion?

TONY: Hey, I’m perfectly capable of have an intelligent conversation y’know!

TATI: Says the man with a helmet on his head, and sprinkled all over with mucous shadorma!

TONY: Excuse me all to hell then! I’m off to have a much needed shower…


© All rights reserved 2017

THE CRUMBCAST // It’s All Just a Bad Dream

Podcasts are the kind of thing one does when one is bored and looking for a purpose in life. I’m not so certain that I’ve found that purpose, nor am I certain that the episode you’re about to hear is the best I’ve ever done. Actually, it’s probably the worst, so consider yourself warned.

(I strongly suspect that I need another human being to talk to during these things! Hopefully, I can make that happen…)

Anyhow, this latest Crumbcast is about dreams, an unmentionable sex act, and going off script. Someone please wake me up!

PS: This is a bit strange, but if you want to listen to the sound then you should click on the picture below. Yes, it’s real magic in the digital world, I tell ya!


© All rights reserved 2017

Wingardium Furiosa!

It’s often said that beginning is the hardest part. We’d thought about this idea for so long that we had begun to wonder if it would work at all. Still, you never know what can be achieved until you try, so we’ve decided to make an announcement…

We’ve made our very own Patreon page!

Yes, we’re still a bit shy about asking for money outright, hence the intro full of funny drawings and inconsequential waffle. And while it’s fair to say that we put a lot of effort into all we do, when it comes to self-promotion we feel like dolts.

You see, we haven’t devised a motto where we blubber and scream and guilt you into supporting us, nor have we made any tempting promises about the outcome if you do. No, we just can’t seem to get that part right.

Anyway, we won’t repeat what we wrote for our Patreon intro here. Why not pop on over and read it at your leisure instead? We promise, Dear Reader, that it’ll be worth your while. Well… it should be fun at least.

Come, fly with us!


© All rights reserved 2017