Favell Lee Mortimer once taught a donkey to swim by blindfolding it and then leading it astray into the icy waters of Ireland. She also dried a sheep, she had bathed it earlier, by burying it in sand. I support these manoeuvres whole-heartedly. If I had a child, this is how I’d teach it adaptability and resistance. Respect the elements, I’d say. Ever since the discovery of computers we have forgotten about our olden values.
I am taking the rest of the week off to work on my sword-fighting and poetry. I have bought enough latin American and East European anthologies to cleverly swipe off of for decades. Look out for a sensational masterpiece of newly minted/plagiarised librettoes from this cow-shed soon enough.
I have also discovered that if one managed to string together “jojoba”, “kohl lined sky”, “inner yearning” and “my sacred centre” with some conjunctions one can produce the most masterful womanist haiku poetry. But at the moment I have other pressing issues than to write garbage no one would pay to read. I am busy cutting holes in my friend’s trousers. He is leaving for London to commence teaching in some division of Applied Physics at the renowned Mehta, Desai and Barnley Institute of Technology and Mental Health Studies in Wembley. Oxford, it is not but it is a lively place. Here sprightly, third generation British Gujaratis postulate about ways to use nuclear fission for making glow in the dark snacks. The purpose of such experiments has yet to be established.
Back to the friend. Imagine the old fruitcake’s surprise when he unpacks his pants. Which one should I wear to my introductory dinner with the other staffers.. he will muse. Oh! let me go with those cream colored ones… and then he raises the cratered chinos to his chest, only to find beams of light filtered through each leg. Ah! He’ll be foaming at the mouth with maddening rage, hoping to strangle me with his bare hands. But I’ d be many thousand miles away smiling the gleeful smile of a girl who cut really large holes in her friend’s trousers.
In life, as in film, choosing your priorities is of immense signficance.
See you in a while. If pirates or senile astrophysicists don’t get me, that is. In the mean time, perhaps, you can let me know of the rudest bit of fiction you have ever read in your life. Go the full hog. You can use the comment threads. No holds barred. In any case, I see a whole of lot of communist sites sending me visitors. Wretched nuts.
3 responses so far ↓
vintagefan // June 4, 2009 at 3:23 am
I would want to do that to some people, except I’d seal the frayed edges with a lighter to make the holes pretty.
This is terrible, I haven’t read any rude fiction! I thought Candide was wicked, does that qualify?
sauti // June 7, 2009 at 2:11 pm
The purpose of glow-in-the-dark snacks is self-explanatory. They are snacks. That glow in the dark. Anything that glows necessarily also generates heat, as was established by the esteemed Peter of Auvergne from his studies of Aristotle and later by the learned Jacob Boehme who was certain that light can only exist without heat in the person of God. It isn’t so much a snack as an alternative source of energy that out humble comrades out West are striving so hard to discover in the face of racism, consumerism and Islamofascism.
Unless, of course, they actually manage to generate glow-in-the-dark snacks that do not emanate heat. Which would lead to quite the theological conundrum in the Vatican.
Regarding rude fiction, I guess some of the stuff written by the Earl of Rochester would qualify. I found Ayn Rand rude too.
vintagefan // July 5, 2009 at 4:18 am
I really didn’t like what the earl had to say. Stupid stuff.