Day 11

Onwards Towards Chlamydeous®


08.15 Will you please send me breakfast?
Subject: woowoowoowoowoo

Dearest Darling Forsythia,


In my quest for significant spiritual development, I acquired a crystal. At least this is the official version I wish to be included in my memoirs when you publish them. “The young everyman, in his search for truth and new experiences, acquired a crystal.” What actually happened was (don’t pay any attention because it smacks of hand-me-downs and people who wear vests and don’t trim their neck hairs) this clear shiny rubbery plastic orb, or perhaps it was a wad of chewing gum (I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but it’s fucking dark in here. I can’t even tell where my pubes end and the electrical wiring begins) was left behind by my erstwhile squatters, whose names escape me for the moment. This tendency of mine to neglect necessary details concerning fellow human beings should be humiliating, or at least it would be were I one of them. On this occasion, however, I really don’t think my social disgrace really matters all that much. Thingy and “Brussel’s Sprout” or “Aroma Therapy” (or whoever she was) were in fine fettle, so wasted I doubt whether they knew where they were. They’d followed their feet and before they knew it they were smoking weed and dissecting Proust, right in front of my killer PC. Sort of like savant commuters and their SatNavs, following blindly without paying the slightest bit of attention to where they actually are. Brilliant metaphors for society, SatNavs.

Anyhow, I now am the proud possessor of a crystal. Not a real one, of course, but not a chewing gum one either (I apologise for leading you astray). What happened was, I came across one of those five kilogram bags of American “rock candy” in one of the recesses of my chamber of horrors – undoubtedly left here accidentally by a technician in whichever factory the computer glued together. In the bottom of the bag, sort of shunted over to one side, I found this bizarre chunk resembling one of those crystal balls you find in caravans on motorway halting sites. My immediate reaction was how cool is this! Upon touching its surface, I got tingly all over, like, and I’am now experiencing, like, visions and, like, cool stuff, all very rock ‘n’ roll. I’m, like, channelling this well radical 40,000-year-old dudette, like, and it’s like she’s never had a fucking bath or seen a fucking DVD or an MP3 player and, like, we’re on the same ultra fucking wavelength. Cyber snowboarders up the stovepipe, dude.

Like I had a fucking psychic experience and, like, my entity, Gordita™, surfed, like, right into my cosmic orbis and, like, you know what? He-She, like, touched me, like, mentally, like, in my mind, you know. And, like, I could see, like, right into your deepest cosmic connection. Like you were sitting on the can, man, and right away I, like, knew you were, like, deep into thought™ and you’ll never, like, guess what you came up with? Your fucking channel, you know, like, Seymour Blissmore™, you know, like, remember the time Moses said to The Farrier, like, “Let My People Go!” and Seymour Blissmore™ got diarrhoea and went? And he got left behind and, like, spent the rest of his life as the only, like, brick contractor in the whole of fucking Mitzra’im? Well, when you were, like, on the fucking pot (WOW, just like fucking Seymour Blissmore™! Like, WOW, you know how you, like, said you always, like, feel sooo, like, refreshed and, like, clear, after an into-the-pot experience?). So anyway, I looked into things on my end (and, believe me, this takes a bit more time since I’m not a Jew and have, like, a hectare of skin to fold back neatly and, like, tie with a fucking, like, ribbon, in order, like, to really, like, have a good look into it’s, like, magic eye), and it’s come to me that we should have, like, our own, like, acquisitions people purchase the, like, worldwide rights to HippoTotty, plc® The company owns, like, fourteen hundred shops in its, like, own right, and has, like, a viable network of franchises, everything from clubs for people who, like, do nothing, to, like, nutritional bottom-ballooning miracle supplement distributorships, to, like, DVDs (with titles such as Move Your Saddlebags From Your Horse To Your Hips®), and, like, home renewable energy methane converters, and other, like, well cool ideas, all of which could make us much richer, like, every time someone on the planet got, like, fatter.

I demand you talk to our director of marketing and hydroponics. Perhaps she can come up with a tie-in between NudieYogaGlamourBars® and HippoTotty, plc®. Also, how about a patent quadruple cream-filled deep-fried bagel? We could call it CreamyCrispyBustleBoosters™, which could be paired with our ever-popular FunInTheSunBellyBloaters™, as a two for the price of four incentive! Am I a genius or what?

I did finally consult with our beloved SOG concerning your condition vis à vis immaculidity and pre-immaculidosity. Her instructions were that the question brings up profound theological conundrifications. To save time and stress, I am leaning towards immaculidity in perpetuum spirituum tuum colostomtuum. Retroactively. By the way, I had a distinct feeling she can’t quite remember who you are. – Laurent (I can’t remember my other, official, name and have lost the bit of paper on which I wrote it down)…

***

10.15 Developing chilblains from starvation
Subject: Technical Support

Dearest Darling Forsythia,

Judging by your communiqué, I gather you have been having distressing problems with your computer. For what it’s worth, I have always found the only solution is violence. Yes, I am talking extreme anti-social behaviour. Beat the fucking machine into submission. And if you still don’t get any satisfaction, you might try reading the collected mathematical musings of Archimedes and applying his theories to computer-parenting counselling. I have found this technique happily, if not completely, infallible. However, if it fails to bring you satisfaction, pay someone to take care of the problem.

I realise this is not exactly new news, but have you heard about the nun buns? The Mother Teresa Nun Buns? Some baker named Bernstein (!) turned out a “faulty” roll that resembled the late and Blessed Mother T. Being an enterprising sort, he displayed it and followed up with T-Shirts. It seems that Mother T. wrote a polite letter (this was while she was still alive, or at least, so I’m led to believe) reminding Mr. Bernstein that she could not permit her name to be used for commercial purposes. Imagine how horrified I was! HOWEVER, we may rest easy. For our GreatWomenInReligion™Bagel™ Series®, we are substituting Sister Mary Eulilie of Our Blessed Blood Clots™, an exact replica rubber inflatable look-alike/sound-alike marginally tasteful rip-off, of the old demi-saint. No one will ever know the difference, except for the fact that our version will do our bidding. Most important in this day and age. Sister Mary Eulalie of Our Blessed Blood Clots™ has, either fortunately or unfortunately, never been renowned for either sanctity or good works (having appeared in the straight-to-DVD epic “Titties of Joy, Jugs of Wonderment”), so believe me, having a bagel or two named after her is as good as she’s gonna get.

I don’t know how to break this to you, but the whole affair has inspired the team to new heights of creative endeavour, resulting in an entirely enchanting and, if I may say so, unique product line. Edible Fallen Nuns of History®. Please beseech our director of marketing and vaginal ointments to act on this before we are once again relegated to the dustbins of merchandising. I shall provide detailed biographies of notorious Fallen Nuns on a daily basis. There is sooooo much to do! Did you realise that, as yet, we have not completed the long-awaited, eagerly-anticipated Baser Relatives of Miraculous Ruchl™ Immaculata™ Ultimata ™ Muffins™ Series®? Ninety-seven and a half new and deliriously fattening flavours is all we require, but why the delay? Could it be that when our director of marketing expanded her department to include R&D and Fallible Product Design, she was veering towards the presumptuous?

As for the Laundrette meetings which never seem to find a place on your calendar, please read the following carefully: Do we really need to provide soap? Soap is so terribly expensive, and there are precedents for disallowing its use. Our beloved SOG, herself, during her wilderness years in the stetl of Monte Carlo, rarely, if ever, used soap. Many, many, many, MANY of the most cherished and effective saints swore (although only figuratively) as to the cleansing properties of filth and deprivation. Personally, this does make me wonder about the Patron Saint of Olfactory Apparati? Who is she or he or (in the case of self-mutilation) it? I, for one, would advise all interested parties that numerous cleansing and curative baths should exist by mud and mud alone. Please use this as an example to reshape public opinion and policy. You’ll find it does wonders for the ozone layer, as well, thereby killing two birds with one stone.

If, of course, you are dead set on permitting soap to be used in Miraculous Ruchl™ Immaculata™ Ultimata™ Laundrettes®, perhaps our beloved SOG would be good enough to grant a miracle and grant that we may be graced with an abundance of Holy Sogsoap™, gratis, of course, so it doesn’t effect our bottom line – as a sign that even she is willing to graciously reduce our overhead. It’s either that or, at some time in the near future, we might be forced to outsource her in the same manner that we’ve fired all other employees not actually living in the same body with our director of marketing. I hope I’m not appearing overly greedy and impatient, but let’s face it, isn’t she letting the side down, miracle-wise? In fact, compared to other major religious figures, she’s making us look downright slothful and pathetic. Why is that? Haven’t we been good to her, lighting candles day and night and spraying our feet with garlic unguent? Have we been, perhaps, too crass for her gentle sensibilities? What, pray tell, should we do? Ask her, ask her, ask her? Should we appease her by adding another saint’s day as a way of soothing her ruffled feathers? Another four, perhaps? How about one every other Sunday? Our attempts at upgrading the one she already has, has apparently not impressed her one iota. Get back to me. Presto. - Laurent.

***

16.53 Recycling yesterday’s lunch
Subject: Neglect

Dearest Darling Forsythia,

Have I mentioned how thankful I am that I can watch Open University on my mobile phone? Of course, I realise it is online, which should be a doddle for me since I reside in a computer, but have I mentioned that exuberant surfing gives me gas? Please do not ask why. I do not wish to burden you with unpleasantness. But I deviate. Open University. I am deeply encouraged by my studies, such as they are, and feel impelled (or should it be compelled) to inform you that, for our next project, we shall invent a new language. From scratch (as it were). This language will make use of only irregular verbs and freshly-engendered, politically sensitive nouns. No longer will it be permissible to restrict our linguistic selves to such narrow-minded and bigoted concepts as masculine, feminine and (in cases of self-mutilation) neuter. In our new world, each and every noun and pronoun and participle and verb shall be expressed in masculine, feminine, gender-sensitive neuter, gender-insensitive neuter, masculine-feminine, feminine-masculine, masculine-transexual, feminine-transexual, masciuline-undecided, feminine-undecided, and unrepentant neo-conservative forms. Plus canine and feline and canine-feline/feline canine. Feline-budgerigar/nymphomaniac-transvestite/insurance salesman-anteater. And all such other forms as may be determined by our Committee of the Righteous and Uncommitted. The structure of the language shall be inspired by but in no way limited to the Finnish and Hungarian and Western Kalahari models. Quite naturally, we shall be requiring a new alphabet, but that will take some time, as it must be intellectually inaccessible to telephone sales representatives and others of that ilk, including employees of call centres and political think tanks.

Your thoughts would be appreciated, providing you are no wasting time and have nothing else to do. - HWISGAAOMRIU® (I located the bit of paper, but I won’t tell you where).

PS. We shall also require a revised legal code, not to mention thousands and thousands of new lawyers conversant with the code. It is my understanding that we should be prepared at a moment’s notice for a great deal of deeply unpleasant and protracted litigation resulting from individuals not addressing each other correctly. It will be legally impossible for us not to be at the cutting edge of everything.

PPS. You are one of those deemed fortunate to have spent much time in the linguistic salon of Madame Sofia de Dudu, of blessed memory, in an attempt at inhaling the essence of obscure languages. That being incontestable, you will concur with me that the official name for the new language (or linguistic System® or LingSys®, for short) shall be dedicated to her, the linguistic duenna of this or any other age. DuDu®.

PPPS. At such time as DuDu® is perfected, we shall embark on a new social system/country, as such a thing is urgently needed. The trouble with old forms is that people of vision are forever trying to re-form them. Nothing good ever comes of re-forms, except for the hunger for yet more re-forms. It is all very boring and tedious, and leads to discontent in the unrepentant. I was thinking we might name this new nation Chlamydeous®, surely one of the sweetest, most beautiful names I know, and in perfect keeping with our aspirations. Would you please, in your spare time between changing nappies, give some consideration to a suitably incomprehensible form of government, as well as a possible location. Some place warm yet bracing, without too much sunlight to clear the head. There is, of course, a great deal of suitable land scattered all over the globe. I personally have a preference for Scotland, especially since they barely have any language at all – at least not on Saturday nights.

PPPPS. Given that Chlamydeous® will have neither precedent nor precedence, it might be essential that we actually draft a constitution, boring and tedious though this will undoubtedly prove. It goes without saying the document must be written in DuDu®, though without a key to render translations to other linguistic forms intelligible. In fact, I should go so far as to insist that it be entirely unintelligible to all but the ruling One. Unintelligible and refreshingly audacious, much like great Champagne.

You are, of course, highly qualified to undertake such a task, but are you suitably irritable? Would it be art?