LE GRAND BATARD
LE GRAND BATARD, eine Kult-Sendung auf Radio Bellevue, Lyon, F mit DJ Olivier Colace, hier ein Ausschnitt aus einer dieser Live-Sendungen, eine Art Publikums-Beschimpfung...
"The vultures and carrion-eaters are friends of the Great Bastard - his ambassadors to be exact. Respect the ignorant manure-tossers; the coating of filth that clogs every pore of your herring skin cuts you off from the smallest bubble of perceptiveness. Cruel monolithic idiot, supreme boor, dismal sauce, arthritic centipede. Radio Bellevue - huge reservoir of poisoned sound - imposes you the complete end." Olivier Colace
ganzer Text. Original, französich
ganzer Text: englische Übersetzung:
The Great Bastard
The vultures and carrion-eaters are friends of the Great Bastard - his ambassadors to be exact. Respect the ignorant manure-tossers; the coating of filth that clogs every pore of your herring skin cuts you off from the smallest bubble of perceptiveness. Cruel monolithic idiot, supreme boor, dismal sauce, arthritic centipede. Radio Bellevue - huge reservoir of poisoned sound - imposes you the complete end.
It's the Great Bastard, master of the air waves, great organizer of the cult, who condescends yet again to tan your hide. Oh, thank you Great Bastard. Silence, coarse worm, pot belly, bear's prick, elephant's balls, jackal's skin, nanny - take my cock and walk around the block
Banzai! All the John's and all the Mary's are going to find that it stinks. Because the Great Bastard has decided to increase his hold over the air waves. Shit-heads of this fine city of Lyon, fine like a flat flabby whale which we shake in rhythm to get out the melodious song of this tuberculous cetacean.
Patience, lazy, lobotomized vegetables. One day the Great Bastard will emerge from his bunker - winkles made limp by the luxury, subspecies - and then you will hear not only the soft, melodious voice of the Great Bastard, but he will be near you, creepers. To be exact, he'll be behind you to kick your ass. Amorphous puppet, hiding in a narrow, vegetative life. Thank God, sooner or later you will all die. Microbe, temporal and microscopic. The Eternal, it's blackness, no one will be able to enjoy the landscape from which you have disappeared. Stupid, square paramecia, monsters of ignorance, crass invertebrate mollusks, poor nothings.
Are there still a few senile morons who can see their smallness and tininess? Certainly not. They're closed with a ground-glass stopper, those cretins. The huge, the enormous, the magnificent Great Bastard will consent to sell you the code, but I want absolute obedience - pathogenic microbes, stinking scum - and I mean absolute.
Stunned snails will drag you. Soon it'll be toads, snakes especially grass snakes, and vipers. How can anyone have dared to defy his blackness. The Great Bastard will suitable punish you, vile churl.
?Let the leaden virgins be gnawed by wild animals, let the venereal Don Juan's watch the autumnal flowering of their shrivelled pricks while the specialists of specialized speciality scare the shit out of them to fill their pockets. All ass holes. Lymphatic grub, unable to crawl towards the surface, the voice of the Great Bastard freezes your heart and annihilates your cortex. Radio Bellevue is only the first link in a chain of the total destruction of the human race.
?Bunch of larvae, you've already forgotten me? Oh, the clowns, the dimwits who are perched on the antenna of Radio Bellevue, picking in the Virginia creeper and shitting pips on your head. Walk in the shade, otherwise his black - ness will slay you, morons; will grill the fatal stones, abjections, fucking sacks. But you're nuts, dare going out again in full daylight. What arrogance! The Great Bastard will sort you out. Grotesque nit-pickers will object that Radio Bellevue is a ghost. Who cares about their imbecile remarks? The Great Bastard ignores you, rotting residue. The ghost exists and will haunt your days and nights from now on. The deafe - ning noise of chains will finish off your poor failing mental apparatus. Public servants of sentiment, ticket-pun - chers of sensation, obliterators of vacuum, travelling acrobats of sperm.