Day 12

Book One of The History of The First Occasion

07.15 Awakened with the memory of lust unrequited
Subject: Neglect and Life

Dearest Darling Forsythia,


ON NEGLECT: A Meditation…

Neglect. Blackness in the smurge. A pitted pittipal under the gorge. Oy Oy Oy. The forever turgeness of gloom. Oh, The Horror, The horror! The unwashed blankidity.

Sadness, utter sadness. Utter. Udder. Oder. Lost. All is dispair. Emptiness.

FIN.

You are, or should be, aware that all French Films of Importance – truly the only representatives of that art form to actually be art – are those whose devotees are compulsorily radically chic and wan, with glaring eyes, husky voices and an addiction to long nights of Absinthe, café noir, Gauloise, and endless, labyrinthine fomentations covering every nuance of political, religious and philosophical thought. Such immortals are not given to frivolity or bourgeois humour, and neither are the films viewed and not dissected. These auteur contemplations always signal that their audience’s ordeal is finally at an end and they can go home and rid themselves of their hopeless depression by imbibing fatal doses of wormwood, by superimposing “FIN” – in tiny, bleak lettering – over a murky, horribly anguished, and suicidal blackish screen. “FIN” proclaims solitude and angst, the desolation and death of the soul. Man’s impotence in the face of the military-industrial complex and the halitosis of the United States government. It represents the desperate loneliness and impossibility of faith. And it is for this reason that I deliberately chose that very word to close my meditation. “FIN”. I needed you to know that and to ingest my immortality. I needed to express moi. Do you understand that, or have you, as usual, put my letter to one side and gone to Le Dada to drown your sorrows?

I fear I may have piled upon you a dizzying plethora of questions, as well as sufficient philosophical musings to cast your ethic into a bottomless sludge of despair for the next eon. Never fear. Rest assured there are always a million questions but never a single answer. Always too much lettuce but never enough pistachio ice cream. Always mountains of dung but no fucking beetles. Pinche pendejo! You will never recover your dignity. - HWISGAAOMRIU®

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10.32 An anguish of loneliness and despair
Subject: Woe, Woe and Thrice Woe

Dearest Darling Forsythia,



The utter fucking shame of it! If your epistle is to be believed, and when are they not, then I am scandalised. For sure, as a good, non-observant, neo-apostate, ex- wannabeajew, you must know that you cannot wear a blended wool/bean sprout pullover without suffering massive and possibly fatal guilt. Not even if both sheep and beans were organic and the garment was manufactured in a homespun yurt in the outer suburbs of Beverly Hills by Yitkin “My Son the Doctor” Mendelbaum. Somewhere, somehow during your chequered life you must have devoted yourself to studying the Torah. I grant that you are only a female, and as such, are not expected to be brilliant, much less adequate. Having studied so diligently, however, it is inexcusable that you are unaware that, while a wool/polyester blend might be acceptable, even permissible (in the outer arrondisements, at least), a wool/linen or wool/cotton or wool/bean sprout mixture most emphatically is not. Naughty, naughty, naughty, and may hopeless shame fall upon your refrigerator.

I feel bound by conscience to remind you (or at the very least, inform you) that in the Grand Duchy of Chlamydeous®, we intend to go to the most impossible extremes lengths to ensure that every citizen’s life is fully occupied with dazzling details. It is, as the prophet says, the way to bliss, and it keeps those who one cannot invite to the better restaurants from thinking. Thinking breeds discontent, and discontent breeds flies, and flies, as we know, cannot speak DuDu®. You, it goes without saying, as co-Grand Duchess, Supreme Judiatrix and Magnanimous Overseeress of Unfortunate Occurrences, will be blindly exempt from nearly law, or at least you shall be as long as your bank balance doesn’t dip alarmingly into the plebeian depths of debt consolidation.

With regards the Pickles O’Day™ brands (Fanny Blasters™, Nudie-in-a-Tub™, Little Brother’s Paunchytummy Portatoilets™ and the Frozee Snoghurt Seaside Bingo Stalls and Rollerdomes® ventures), I have nothing against the not-as-yet-late-but-certainly-lamented Pickles O’Day (their inspiration) being commemorated by, at the very least, two ice cream flavours and one designer bagel, “The Pickled Porky Bunghole Bagel™ (your suggestion). That being said, we should be seen to be sensitive to others. By that I do not infer that we should actually avoid scandalising other people, but that when we do so we should take care to be very politically correct and have our handlers reassure the mortally offended that if only they’d bothered to listen carefully they would have known that we were really discussing farm tariffs. Really good offence, one that is all too appropriate for this pathetic age into which, totally against our will and all common sense, we’ve been spawned, should be sublimely obvious without being too laden with boorish and titular innuendo. To live free is to offend. To espouse free speech, one has to be willing to be offended by readers of cheap newspapers and admirers of television presenters. On the other hand, lawsuits are onerous at the very best of times, unless you are assured of making vast amounts of money from them, in which case they are entirely admirable.

But, as ever, I digress. Back to the Pickles O’Day™ brands. In the end, the actually products that will, in the end, see the light of day and the retailers’ shelves, don’t really matter. After all, no one will remember them after the first burst of enthusiasm. What is more important (other than the generation of products that will surely follow) is that everything being released under the Pickles O’Day™ brands must forsake all style and wit for the sake of a healthy working set of dentures and happy bowels. Remember, the special interests investing heavily in the brands’ advertising campaigns have many cousins who are not at all nice people. Capeesh?

To return once more to the subject closest to my heart: French Films. Are they to be watched under any conditions, ever? The answer is an oblique non! Great art with serious content should under no circumstance ever be experienced first hand, not when we have critics to do that for us. - HWISGAAOMRIU®
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11.39 With a dislodged sphincter
Subject: Developments

Dearest Darling Forsythia,



Thanks for the granola bars, and may they do unto you what hath been done unto me. Kindly forebear acts of generosity and noble intent unless requests are made through the proper channels. I realise I am sounding ever more unreasonable and petulant, but everything in my life is achingly desperate without any unsolicited encouragement. To wit, what inspired you to select figs? I can only surmise that you picked up the package at random without looking at its contents, or that you are a complete and utter sadist. My compassionate side, gnarled and jaundiced though it may be, prefers the former, while the realism within me proclaims the latter as more likely. Stupidity is less easily controlled, whereas malice is open to financial incentive and is, therefore, much more unfortunate and politically correct. Since you are nothing if not au current, have you seen anything in the shops recently that would make your altogether more perfect than it already is?

I am deeply encouraged by the rampant proliferation of Virginal apparitions and shrines, one of the latest being in the window of a Florida office building (what must it be like to be born in that state? It must be akin to opening your eyes for the first time and realising that you are a male calf and that you are living on a cattle ranch in Texas, i.e., your choices are limited and your future is none at all). You will note that I have said nothing about the miraculous Ciudad Mèxico ceramic drain tile of even more recent vintage. Does this mean I have more sympathy for citizens of that teeming caldo of a city than for the odious and fungal-draped Floridians, God rot their souls? To answer that, please select one of the following: does God prefer (1) molé poblano, matadores and mariachis or (2) fat, wrinkly white bottoms, incontinence and bingo?

The results of this ultra scientific poll bode well, gloriously well, for our plans. One could always have chosen political greatness and glory, but with politics come thousands of really boring civil servant types who feel obliged to administer the activities of their teeny tiny penises (or so I’m told). I’d rather do nothing at all than have to rely on others, if you know what I mean, which means that, ambition aside, I’m perfectly content settling for slothful greed.

But where was I? I really must consider disciplining my mind, mustn’t I? Perhaps you might send me a great mind to teach me the art of meditation. In the mean time, I do have a concern. While I am confident that our beloved SOG will eventually provide the requisite miracles and special effects for her triumphant cause, mightn’t we do worse than to bring in Hollywood’s best FX wizzers to jump-start and (shall we say?) augment her possibly more humble, divinely inspired efforts? She doesn’t seem to understand that the dazzle quotient should be, well, dazzling, and not merely simpering. Anybody can heal a baby these days, now that doctors have more options than a rubber bucket of leeches at their disposal.

Have you given more thought to the theme park rides? They must be so utterly spectacular and glorious and miraculous and, yes, impossible, that only through the divine intervention of Miraculous Ruchl™ Immaculata™ Ultimata™ would the passengers not be brutally killed, or at the very least, mangled in ways previously deemed unimaginable

To be completely callous about the whole business, if people in their millions (and perhaps billions) are willing to flock to every little bizarre miracle appearance of JeesusanMerryanJoey (and their strangely adenoidal nearest and dearest Relatives – as if the real ones would appear in America, which is not even mentioned in the Torah, and as such doesn’t exist), on every wall or window or drain pipe or pizza or tortilla, we should, with little effort and investment, make all existing theme parks, even the most elevated among them (i.e., Waltie-World) look like car boot sales. Not that I am denigrating the sort of person who’d go to a car boot sale, but if one can’t get more out of life, isn’t it better to shoot oneself?

Input. Imput. Imputium. Imputiouque. Imputicus. Morlpherius. Bizmicum. Homilyburg. Same flowers, separate vases. Ah, linguistics, forever linguistics! - HWISGAAOMRIU®

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The Fatted Dump

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14:16 In a more presidential and pardonable mood
Subject: More Woe

Dearest Darling Forsythia,


Out from the murky spludge of reasonableness I heard a voice, and the voice spake, and within its spakefulness came pronouncements unpronounceable. “We Are The Chosen Three,” it roared. “And who be ye?” asked I in my baseness and undeservatude. “We are the Three Blessed Angelicals and Enablets, Unnameless and Unnameable, of Our Beloved SOG, Miraculous Ruchl™ Immaculata™ Ultimata™ of the Laundry®,” thundered the vocal ever glorious. “Oh.” respondeth I.

The oracles spake the following, but requested that I not quote them directly, as their handlers hadn’t personally approved the interview. Please note that I, as the chosen vessel into which the wisdom was poured, have found it necessary to annotate the message and insert, where applicable, my personal views (as befitting my station):

In short, the message warned the innocent heathen, such as you and I, to beware of garments prepared and fusticated by that arch-bile of all bile, Raclette of the Lower Spillage (what a fascinating and scintillating personage is she? More beauteous than the summer droplets, more rampant than a serpent’s musings). She shall blend wool with linen and polyesters unto polyudders, ice cream with chopped liver, slug-slime with chocolate chips, all of which shall be venomous slurry for the limpets. I am at this very moment, as we speak, attempting to ascertain the underlying cause for her misery and coquettery. Could it be because of her half-sister and twin, Miraculous Ruchl™, Effervescent Purificatress™ of the Stetl™, or was it really on account of her Dolly Dimples?

Doubtless, this was a story told you in your infanticide, while you reclined upon your Mumsy Immaculata’s tender and doughy knee, but what if it has seeped from your foamy memory banks in the intervening years? It would be a tragedy of utter magnitude were you to slide into the senility of decline without first knowing the bitter troth. It is with passion and perposetude that I convey to you the following:

Book One of The History of The First Occasion
Also Known as Genesis
(Translated from the Origami)

… (word omitted) but such was not the case in the nether groins beneath and below the (word omitted) thundering stewlege pots, where lived a fat durkin by the name of Simbeline. It came to the puss that Fatty Durkin Simbeline was hideous to behold, simply hideous, utterly, hopelessly and perpetually hideous. As he always had been. As he always shall be. Forever. And ever. Sayeth the Lord..

When he was but a toady tyke, it was said of Fatty Smelly Durkin Simbeline by Those Who Knew, that nothing good would ever come of him. As a result, when he did finally blossom into rampant odours and habitudes, and was tall and comely, he was more beautiful and mightily endowed than was humanly possible. And so his life continued. Guided by the omens most pitiable, Fatty Smelly Puffy Durkin Simbeline courted, wooed, wedded and bedded the fair Belinda, and nothing about him changed. When, on the second day, he did seduce the pure and gentle Madonna of Minsk-By-Pinsk, to whom all was holy and spatulated, less was seen than met the eye. Surely, the mourners berunkled, how could that have come to pass? Was it not impossible? But it came to pass that it was impossible, and thus it appeared in the most beloved newspapers and in the blogs, at least those parts which were good and wholly memorable.

What, pray tell (I hear you ask) has this human tragedy to do with sweet, sublime Dolly Dimples?

Much, respondeth the Lord, and much you will know, when later, wisdom flies from this ignoble strife into the silent skies and yonder rupture (word omitted)…

This, Forsythia, is as far as I’ve got in my research, and as you can see, I am making little or no sense of the imponderables. I do, however, have opinions concerning the whereabouts and exact location of The Grand Duchy of Noble and Pleasant Aspect known and celebrated as the Divine Chlamydeous®. As you may have gathered, I am still in a muddle over the preferred climate and suitable location, and especially over our neighbours? Who should we accept, and who should be rejected out of hand? As was previously agreed upon, there should be (pardon me if I seem to repeat myself, but there is reason to my madness) a great deal of wind, swirling fog and relentless, driving rain (at least at the ports of entry). I should very much like to discourage excessive and disagreeable tourism, as well as budget airlines. To that end, may I suggest that The Grand Duchy of Noble and Pleasant Aspect known and celebrated as the Divine Chlamydeous® impose a strict quota on the number of visas issued by the foreign ministry? Twelve is a suitable number. Crippling stamp taxes must be added for good measure. Relatives of ourselves we might exempt, though in moderation and without prejudice. I doubt I can think of any good reason to admit foreign politicians. They are not good tippers and tend to consume items from mini-bars in hotels without paying for them. You are to devise obscure regulations for impenetrable layers of bureaucracy before it is too late.

Is our director of marketing still behind with her work? - HWISGAAOMRIU®