re: I'm all ajangle
07.19 Unable to sleep
Subject: About Last Night
Dearest Darling Forsythia,
I cannot tell you how exciting it was holding the very first board meeting chez moi. It almost seemed like old times, even though, trapped as I am in my electronic chamber of doom, I couldn’t see much of what was going on. Will I ever be liberated from this accursed machine? Will I ever be free? Will I ever see the sunshine again, or have a bird poop on my shoulder? Oh, fucky fuckety fuckfuck. I do wish I would stop dreaming and be content. The very thought of freedom and fresh air makes my bowels liquefy, and that is definitely not a good idea when you consider my circumstances. I’d ask you to stick a garden hose in here to wash me down, but I have to ask myself, is shit worse than electrocution?
But I regress. It was grand seeing Pickles O’Day. Or at least I assume it was she. What with her being so large and the aperture being so small, it was hard to tell. For all I know, it could have been a beached whale. However, whoever it was certainly sounded efficient. Has she, if she it is, had a voice transplant or taken elocution lessons since last we interfaced?
And don’t you look wonderful. Or, at least your nose looks wonderful. Thank you, thank you, for inserting it into the slot. It quite made my heart skip a beat. Mind you, at the same time I did fear for your life. Sticking my nose in was what I was doing when the infernal beast sucked me in, and there is simply not enough room for the both of us.
Who were those two strange men? Their suits were, shall we say, dubious, but as long as they were seriously expensive and presumptuous, then I suppose I will be forced to accept them. Taste is taste and style changes alarmingly fast. To be dernier cri one must at times exult in excréments divins. Un sacrifice, but what can one do? Questionable taste or not, however, I was given little choice in the matter when it came to the two outsiders. And what was worse, I didn’t exactly hear you introducing me to the gathering? In fact, I do not recall even hearing my name mentioned as if it were important to the proceedings, let alone a reference made regarding my presence. I did make out the occasional past tense, followed by a respectful silence, but I was so taken aback I couldn’t even react. I will not tolerate this attitude! I may be stuck in my fucking Gypsy computer, but I am alive. Alive, I tell you! Alive and vital! Full of ardour and lust and enthusiasms and even courage. Maybe I don’t go around spewing out babies as if the world depended upon it (unlike some people I know), but then again, some people I know cannot do the things I can do with a farm implement. And don’t you forget it!
Where was I? Oh, yes. The two men (or was it three). Who are they when they are not coming into my house uninvited?
And while we are on the subject of the uninvited, what were your impressions of my two squatters? I must admit they’ve grown on me, and I’ve come to think of them as darlings, though don’t ask why. The three of us are actually getting along surprisingly well, all things considered. She spends a great deal of her time in a bedroom – the one located furthest away from my computer. Apparently, something in her – I know not what – is convinced I’m a ghost, and possibly a malevolent one at that. Of course, I do realise that she cannot see me and that my stomach does tend to rumble on occasion. At the best of times, trust and friendships can take ages to develop. I am, as ever, patient. Her name, by the way, is Quinella or Granola, or something equally inspiring – it is difficult sometimes to hear clearly from in here, and her diction is very poor – she is, I believe, from a suburb either of Avignon or Marseilles or, perhaps, Luton, I’m not sure which. His name, on the other hand is Jean-Luc, although he prefers to be called Tom, since it sounds more agricultural and resolute. A good stout name for a good stout youth. I’m led to believe he is reading Tibetan Dairy Farming techniques at the University. Nice chap, but a bit dense.
It was awfully nice of them to play host for last night’s gathering, wasn’t it? We must find some way of paying them back.
As to the meeting itself, it seemed to be extremely productive. “Seemed to be” because you and the others (however many of them there were) excused yourselves whenever there was anything interesting to discuss and locked yourselves in the bathroom. At least, I suppose what you were doing in there was discussing something. The first couple of times, I feared that Tom and Quinella Whatits had accompanied you, but a stout and resolute burping sound coming from the kitchen set my mind at rest. It’s fortunate, is it not, that stalwart Tom has such dependable and earthy bodily functions?
Regards the minutes, please do not fax the pages, as it will cause severe and pronounced complications to my nether regions. Emails with attachments are always the best. Efficient, too, especially if the attachments include some nice grouse pie with aspic, with a tarte tatin thrown in for good measure. I would ask for a large, ripe brie, as well, but I am being forced to curtail all cheese consumption until a few (minor) problems are solved.
I look forward to hearing from you by the close of business today. My heart is palpitating.
hg
0912 Frantically thinking
Subject: OY OY OY
Dearest Darling Forsythia,
Reference your note: Why on earth must we “walk softly” when it comes to mechanicals used for the purpose of bagel merchandising? And as for the “possible ramifications resulting from the future marketing of custom-designed kosher toads-in-the-hole”, your though process eludes me for the moment. I feel you’ve quite left me at the last hurdle. I was unaware we were planning on any such a radical diversification before first conquering the world. Please, please enlighten me.
I cannot fathom the impossibly veiled hostility of your letter, but, since I have little choice in the matter, will let it slide. In any case, you are most likely in the grips of some boring, fashionable depression reserved for the recently de-fecunded members of your sex, and are not willing to be provoked. Is that true, my sweet? Tell me, and I shall be, for the time being, possessed of an exquisitely kind and generous nature. But until you so enlighten me, I shall revert to the brutal honesty with which I am justly (or is it unjustly?) famous. Why the fuck do you persist in denouncing “dangerous and questionable neighbourhood substances that might cause the spotty and unfocused among us to embrace the religious right? Being the genteel (and lest you forget) gentile Marxist that I am, I cannot fail to support your premise with every fibre of my being. By all means, may God save us from those who love Him, but was it completely necessary to spray paint your sentiments on the façade of the Notre Dam during the American Evangelical Movement’s Hooray for Jesus Rally? We should always keep in mind that their money is as good as some and better than others’ (i.e., the Society for the Promulgation of Soft White Bread), and that our own Jesus’s Body and Blood Clubs subsidiary (so popular with our brothers on the less intelligent and cultured side of the Atlantic) relies on the numbest of the Holy Roller crowd for the vast majority of their income (the remainder coming from glamorous outposts such as Guantanamo and Honolulu). Since this income is projected as being in the region of nine hundred million US dollars (three euros fifty cents), we must exercise self-restraint. In other words, be discrete). You may, of course, offend them in the sanctity of your home, as indeed, you must for the sake of civilisation. In your boudoir, you may hate, revile and humiliate them from morning to night. But, please, my gentle lamb, be gentle about it. Be ironic. Be subtle. We don’t want them to suspect we are not on their side (whichever side that is).
I am absolutely agreeable to Pickles O’Day owning two or three of the smaller franchises, but will she have enough time for everything? She must understand that her energies should be single-mindedly devoted to the corporation. We are not simply one among many of her myriad activities, like bell-ringing or Morris Dancing. And please, I beg of you, she must her to sign her life away before we entertain any more of her demands.
Will she, par exemple, be available for such regularly calendared corporate schemes as the twice-monthly “Every Day’s a Purim Day” executive retreats? Her presence is essential and she can never be allowed to leave early. Remember, these sessions have been specifically designed to end only when all of the participants are so inebriated they cannot distinguish between a bagel, a fine Cuban cigar, and the lost nose of the Sphinx. To some well-intentioned souls this might sound objectionable, but believe me, workshops such as these are invaluable marketing tools. They may be no fun, and they may often lead to violence, humiliation and sickness on the part of the less experienced participants, but such is the price we all must pay for brilliance, obscene wealth and a role on the world’s stage as multinational behemoths. It is Pickles O’Day’s destiny never to forget her duty to uphold the majesty of our fates. Besides, was it not her inspiration to engage, at ruinous expense, those three hundred motivational facilitators? I say, keep her and them busy, busy, busy. Let them (and her) instil in the minds of each and every employee unit that the mission of Bagel-in-the-Bare® must be to conquer the universe – with, it goes without saying, occasional, well-publicised (though not binding) glances in the direction of promised generosity, personal happiness and fulfilment. Naturally, all charitable gestures, no matter how pointless, must originate from the executive committee and must be seen to be divinely inspired. At no time must there be examples of giddy spontaneity. Is that understood?
I send you my love and hope you can come up with a less tiresome excuse for your spreading waistline than an addiction to Mme. Gurnier’s frappé foie et panais.
hg
13.02 My nose appears to be dissolving
Subject: Apparent confusion
Dearest Darling Forsythia,
First of all, I shall address your name-calling! Whatever merits your sentiments may or may not have, I should have hoped you would avoid the blindly scurrilous. To whit, I want it made perfectly clear that (1) I have never in my life set myself alight and (2) I do not now, nor will I at any point in the future, possess a pair of wings. Of any description. Period. Now, have we exhausted that topic?
I was, hélas, engulfed in a dreaded fog of despair when I attempted to decipher your letter. Perhaps you would be good enough to clarify, elucidate and otherwise enlarge upon the following nonsequitors (I love that word, even though my spell-check denies its existence:
“How abat if the sublestances are hobnixious.” Am I right in thinking this was an attempt on your part to express wit at the expense of those who are religiously and/or politically impaired? Or are you referring to something or someone specific, such as Mumsy’s flatulence? Or me? Or the both of us? Irony does not suit you, my dear, especially since it is not one of your gifts.
“If the bagel deliverers are to carry permits, where should they stick them?” I am not following you. The delivery persons (Bagel-Messengers-From-God®) will be attired in uniforms commissioned from Christian LaCroix and Marc Jacobs. You remember? The ones with the obscure and tantalisingly suggestive bagel windows in strategically anatomical locations, and stunningly set off by Phillip Treacey sculptured spikes sticking out at randomly chic angles from metallic blue-black bouffants? The Bagel-Messengers-From-God® will not – I repeat, not – in any way resemble airline employees, doormen, stockbrokers or minor celebrities. Think haut couture, punk, Dame Vivienne Westwood, street and low-concept. And, as for permits, if they are essential, then so be it, but – if so - they shall be carried in special neon holders on the custom-designed Ducati 1000 and Ferrari FXX Bagel Mobiles. No exceptions.
“How abats fet popples on thu motorciclets”? No fat people. Perhaps this regulation sounds a bit arbitrary, and it may well shock you, at least officially, as a responsible co-founder/dictator of a major, equal-opportunity employer. It is, however, necessary. Fat people simply don’t look good in Ferraris, or – for that matter, on Ducatis (which routinely get sucked into their folds of fat). We simply must find a way to avoid hiring really, really fat people – at least as Bagel-Messengers-From-God® or in the sales and customer service departments. I suppose the occasional really fat accountant or IT consultant might be acceptable, but would it send the right signal? Aren’t bagels bad for really, really fat people? Is it art?
“How abat one ur two slaves-in-chains singing “Let my Pimple Grow?” Yes, it is true that we are envisioning a Major Motion Picture Blockbuster, A Bagel is Born. But isn’t it a bit premature to suggest at this early stage that we sign off on the scene in which Pharaoh and his hundreds of thousands of highly trained, magnificently beautiful and buff, naked, fake-tanned and well-lubricated soldiers are smothered under the Sea of Pimento Bagels? We must consider costs, and I – for one – would simply hate to lose any of the historical bagel orgies simply because some tedious quarrel between Pharaoh and a yiddische bagel baker. How pathetic can you get? Do you really think an audience will give a fuck about the baker and his enormous family and what happens to them when they liberate the Pharaoh’s enslaved pimples and try to flee the country? Picturesque, yes, what wouldn’t be when you’ve got all those gorgeous soldiers chasing the apprentice bakers across three back lots of Cinecitta and a parking garage. But do you think a bathtub in the pope’s apartment, no matter now beautiful and grand, is the most convincing stand-in for the Sea of Pimento Bagels? The Sea of Pimento Bagels has tremendous social relevance. You can’t just poke fun at it and expect to get away scot-free. And are you absolutely certain about Pharaoh’s revenge? Would he really want to de-feet his former slaves? Isn’t that a bit drastic? All they wanted to do was free the pimples and grant them their God-given right to expand and pustulate. Blackheads and whiteheads alike. I mean, it’s not as if the bagel bakers were pillaging and raping like everybody else. They were decent, hard-working people, who spent their time making bagels for the Pharaoh’s rather snooty family. It was only to supplement their meagre income and pay their council tax that the father, Giuseppi, went into business as dream therapist to Pharaoh. Let’s face it, money is money, and when you’ve a family to support, you’ll do just about anything to make ends meet. Was it his fault that Pharaoh, in addition to being a total despot and bigot, was such a tedious, boring, whinger and whiner, and simply would not shut up about his stupid, fucking dreams? I should hope not. But then he claimed all the pimples belonging to the bagel baker’s many adolescent children from his hundred of wives, as his own private property. He claimed he owned all the pimples in the land, and that people of the bagel baker’s persuasion (that’s what they called them back then), weren’t allowed spots of their own. They could only rent blemishes at exorbitant hourly rates. So when “they” (another thing they were called) sang “Let my Pimples Go” and ran off into the desert, Pharaoh got all uppity and decided that the baker and his family should, not unreasonably, die a hundred thousand deaths by every available means. What he didn’t know was that the bagel baker (can we call him “Giuseppi” to save time?) was somehow related by marriage to a really powerful son-of-a-bitch (yeah, he was Italian) who – for various reason – controlled a lot of things. This son-of-a-bitch saw Giuseppi and his family running towards the sea of the pimento bagels. Thinking it was some sort of holiday and that they were only hoping for good sites for their beach towels and umbrellas, the son-of-a-bitch decided to give them some more space. You know, open up some prime real estate for them. With a wave of is magic schlong, the sea shrank back and back and back and then disappeared. A MIRACLE! Needless to say, Giuseppi and his family were overjoyed, and ran clear over to the other side to a plot of land owned by a rival developer. Now, the son-of-a-bitch didn’t like this at all. Not only didn’t the bagel bakers stop on his property and pay him rent, plus an agency fee, but they ran across his property in total violation of his rights as a landlord. This was too much! Without further ado, he took out his schlong for the second time in twenty minutes and, presto change-o, the sea of pimento bagels once again covered the land. What he hadn’t noticed were the thousands and millions of simply beautiful (etc.) young men pursuing Giuseppi, although to give him the benefit of the doubt, they were extremely small. The poor, fake-tanned warriors were instantly buried under tonnes and tonnes of boiled bread and quite probably smothered in hideous anguish (but what do you expect, it made for good television). This was, of course, complete nonsense and never happened. In truth, no way would pharaoh have behaved so badly. He was, after all, a democratically elected official, and as such, was a shining beacon for all to worship and adore, and not a sadist! The baker and his wife would have met quite a different end. In his land, they would have been questioned politely, and then summarily walled up without trial, questioned endlessly, and forgotten about forever and ever. Not very cinematic, but historically correct, and I suppose our triumphant epic should be nothing if not historically correct. Don’t you agree? It’s all so very complicated, this question of accuracy.
What I am really asking, my dearest darling Forsythia, is, which would you, as a typical filmgoer of average means and intelligence (not that you would ever be called either of those things), prefer? A glorious cinematic depiction of the death-throes if writhing, naked and oiled soldiers, as they are put to inexorable tortures under the weight of ten thousand million tonnes of brashly-baked cinnamon raison pimento bagels? Or would you opt for several hours of carefully considered and enacted bagel debauches? The historically significant, but much later ‘bagelois’ of Louis XIV and Madame de Pain Rotonde (as lovingly examined in the second entracte in Shoppenhauer’s lost opera Les Translucides) would, by itself, be worth the price of admission. But that is only my taste. I put it to you, my dear Forsythia. How do you wish to be remembered by posterity? Think carefully. Remember, whatever your choice, you will have to live with the consequences. As the arbiter of taste for millions, and perhaps billions, you have set yourself a deadly serious, bowel-numbing task. Needless to say, I await your decision with cankered breath.
On a more personal note, I simply must do something about the state of my dental hygiene. Since, surrounded as I am by electrically-powered circuitry, I am discouraged from using water, I must ask the geeks in research and development to please put their heads together and come up with something useful for me – along the lines of mayonnaise toothpaste (with tartar control and whitening, please), or, perhaps, a thematic café noir/mouthwash combo? Not, I may add, decaffeinated or with exotic industrial flavourings, à la Starbucks. My mouth tastes of God only knows what, and I’m desperate. Help me this once and I’ll be your slave forever.
07.19 Unable to sleep
Subject: About Last Night
Dearest Darling Forsythia,
I cannot tell you how exciting it was holding the very first board meeting chez moi. It almost seemed like old times, even though, trapped as I am in my electronic chamber of doom, I couldn’t see much of what was going on. Will I ever be liberated from this accursed machine? Will I ever be free? Will I ever see the sunshine again, or have a bird poop on my shoulder? Oh, fucky fuckety fuckfuck. I do wish I would stop dreaming and be content. The very thought of freedom and fresh air makes my bowels liquefy, and that is definitely not a good idea when you consider my circumstances. I’d ask you to stick a garden hose in here to wash me down, but I have to ask myself, is shit worse than electrocution?
But I regress. It was grand seeing Pickles O’Day. Or at least I assume it was she. What with her being so large and the aperture being so small, it was hard to tell. For all I know, it could have been a beached whale. However, whoever it was certainly sounded efficient. Has she, if she it is, had a voice transplant or taken elocution lessons since last we interfaced?
And don’t you look wonderful. Or, at least your nose looks wonderful. Thank you, thank you, for inserting it into the slot. It quite made my heart skip a beat. Mind you, at the same time I did fear for your life. Sticking my nose in was what I was doing when the infernal beast sucked me in, and there is simply not enough room for the both of us.
Who were those two strange men? Their suits were, shall we say, dubious, but as long as they were seriously expensive and presumptuous, then I suppose I will be forced to accept them. Taste is taste and style changes alarmingly fast. To be dernier cri one must at times exult in excréments divins. Un sacrifice, but what can one do? Questionable taste or not, however, I was given little choice in the matter when it came to the two outsiders. And what was worse, I didn’t exactly hear you introducing me to the gathering? In fact, I do not recall even hearing my name mentioned as if it were important to the proceedings, let alone a reference made regarding my presence. I did make out the occasional past tense, followed by a respectful silence, but I was so taken aback I couldn’t even react. I will not tolerate this attitude! I may be stuck in my fucking Gypsy computer, but I am alive. Alive, I tell you! Alive and vital! Full of ardour and lust and enthusiasms and even courage. Maybe I don’t go around spewing out babies as if the world depended upon it (unlike some people I know), but then again, some people I know cannot do the things I can do with a farm implement. And don’t you forget it!
Where was I? Oh, yes. The two men (or was it three). Who are they when they are not coming into my house uninvited?
And while we are on the subject of the uninvited, what were your impressions of my two squatters? I must admit they’ve grown on me, and I’ve come to think of them as darlings, though don’t ask why. The three of us are actually getting along surprisingly well, all things considered. She spends a great deal of her time in a bedroom – the one located furthest away from my computer. Apparently, something in her – I know not what – is convinced I’m a ghost, and possibly a malevolent one at that. Of course, I do realise that she cannot see me and that my stomach does tend to rumble on occasion. At the best of times, trust and friendships can take ages to develop. I am, as ever, patient. Her name, by the way, is Quinella or Granola, or something equally inspiring – it is difficult sometimes to hear clearly from in here, and her diction is very poor – she is, I believe, from a suburb either of Avignon or Marseilles or, perhaps, Luton, I’m not sure which. His name, on the other hand is Jean-Luc, although he prefers to be called Tom, since it sounds more agricultural and resolute. A good stout name for a good stout youth. I’m led to believe he is reading Tibetan Dairy Farming techniques at the University. Nice chap, but a bit dense.
It was awfully nice of them to play host for last night’s gathering, wasn’t it? We must find some way of paying them back.
As to the meeting itself, it seemed to be extremely productive. “Seemed to be” because you and the others (however many of them there were) excused yourselves whenever there was anything interesting to discuss and locked yourselves in the bathroom. At least, I suppose what you were doing in there was discussing something. The first couple of times, I feared that Tom and Quinella Whatits had accompanied you, but a stout and resolute burping sound coming from the kitchen set my mind at rest. It’s fortunate, is it not, that stalwart Tom has such dependable and earthy bodily functions?
Regards the minutes, please do not fax the pages, as it will cause severe and pronounced complications to my nether regions. Emails with attachments are always the best. Efficient, too, especially if the attachments include some nice grouse pie with aspic, with a tarte tatin thrown in for good measure. I would ask for a large, ripe brie, as well, but I am being forced to curtail all cheese consumption until a few (minor) problems are solved.
I look forward to hearing from you by the close of business today. My heart is palpitating.
hg
0912 Frantically thinking
Subject: OY OY OY
Dearest Darling Forsythia,
Reference your note: Why on earth must we “walk softly” when it comes to mechanicals used for the purpose of bagel merchandising? And as for the “possible ramifications resulting from the future marketing of custom-designed kosher toads-in-the-hole”, your though process eludes me for the moment. I feel you’ve quite left me at the last hurdle. I was unaware we were planning on any such a radical diversification before first conquering the world. Please, please enlighten me.
I cannot fathom the impossibly veiled hostility of your letter, but, since I have little choice in the matter, will let it slide. In any case, you are most likely in the grips of some boring, fashionable depression reserved for the recently de-fecunded members of your sex, and are not willing to be provoked. Is that true, my sweet? Tell me, and I shall be, for the time being, possessed of an exquisitely kind and generous nature. But until you so enlighten me, I shall revert to the brutal honesty with which I am justly (or is it unjustly?) famous. Why the fuck do you persist in denouncing “dangerous and questionable neighbourhood substances that might cause the spotty and unfocused among us to embrace the religious right? Being the genteel (and lest you forget) gentile Marxist that I am, I cannot fail to support your premise with every fibre of my being. By all means, may God save us from those who love Him, but was it completely necessary to spray paint your sentiments on the façade of the Notre Dam during the American Evangelical Movement’s Hooray for Jesus Rally? We should always keep in mind that their money is as good as some and better than others’ (i.e., the Society for the Promulgation of Soft White Bread), and that our own Jesus’s Body and Blood Clubs subsidiary (so popular with our brothers on the less intelligent and cultured side of the Atlantic) relies on the numbest of the Holy Roller crowd for the vast majority of their income (the remainder coming from glamorous outposts such as Guantanamo and Honolulu). Since this income is projected as being in the region of nine hundred million US dollars (three euros fifty cents), we must exercise self-restraint. In other words, be discrete). You may, of course, offend them in the sanctity of your home, as indeed, you must for the sake of civilisation. In your boudoir, you may hate, revile and humiliate them from morning to night. But, please, my gentle lamb, be gentle about it. Be ironic. Be subtle. We don’t want them to suspect we are not on their side (whichever side that is).
I am absolutely agreeable to Pickles O’Day owning two or three of the smaller franchises, but will she have enough time for everything? She must understand that her energies should be single-mindedly devoted to the corporation. We are not simply one among many of her myriad activities, like bell-ringing or Morris Dancing. And please, I beg of you, she must her to sign her life away before we entertain any more of her demands.
Will she, par exemple, be available for such regularly calendared corporate schemes as the twice-monthly “Every Day’s a Purim Day” executive retreats? Her presence is essential and she can never be allowed to leave early. Remember, these sessions have been specifically designed to end only when all of the participants are so inebriated they cannot distinguish between a bagel, a fine Cuban cigar, and the lost nose of the Sphinx. To some well-intentioned souls this might sound objectionable, but believe me, workshops such as these are invaluable marketing tools. They may be no fun, and they may often lead to violence, humiliation and sickness on the part of the less experienced participants, but such is the price we all must pay for brilliance, obscene wealth and a role on the world’s stage as multinational behemoths. It is Pickles O’Day’s destiny never to forget her duty to uphold the majesty of our fates. Besides, was it not her inspiration to engage, at ruinous expense, those three hundred motivational facilitators? I say, keep her and them busy, busy, busy. Let them (and her) instil in the minds of each and every employee unit that the mission of Bagel-in-the-Bare® must be to conquer the universe – with, it goes without saying, occasional, well-publicised (though not binding) glances in the direction of promised generosity, personal happiness and fulfilment. Naturally, all charitable gestures, no matter how pointless, must originate from the executive committee and must be seen to be divinely inspired. At no time must there be examples of giddy spontaneity. Is that understood?
I send you my love and hope you can come up with a less tiresome excuse for your spreading waistline than an addiction to Mme. Gurnier’s frappé foie et panais.
hg
13.02 My nose appears to be dissolving
Subject: Apparent confusion
Dearest Darling Forsythia,
First of all, I shall address your name-calling! Whatever merits your sentiments may or may not have, I should have hoped you would avoid the blindly scurrilous. To whit, I want it made perfectly clear that (1) I have never in my life set myself alight and (2) I do not now, nor will I at any point in the future, possess a pair of wings. Of any description. Period. Now, have we exhausted that topic?
I was, hélas, engulfed in a dreaded fog of despair when I attempted to decipher your letter. Perhaps you would be good enough to clarify, elucidate and otherwise enlarge upon the following nonsequitors (I love that word, even though my spell-check denies its existence:
“How abat if the sublestances are hobnixious.” Am I right in thinking this was an attempt on your part to express wit at the expense of those who are religiously and/or politically impaired? Or are you referring to something or someone specific, such as Mumsy’s flatulence? Or me? Or the both of us? Irony does not suit you, my dear, especially since it is not one of your gifts.
“If the bagel deliverers are to carry permits, where should they stick them?” I am not following you. The delivery persons (Bagel-Messengers-From-God®) will be attired in uniforms commissioned from Christian LaCroix and Marc Jacobs. You remember? The ones with the obscure and tantalisingly suggestive bagel windows in strategically anatomical locations, and stunningly set off by Phillip Treacey sculptured spikes sticking out at randomly chic angles from metallic blue-black bouffants? The Bagel-Messengers-From-God® will not – I repeat, not – in any way resemble airline employees, doormen, stockbrokers or minor celebrities. Think haut couture, punk, Dame Vivienne Westwood, street and low-concept. And, as for permits, if they are essential, then so be it, but – if so - they shall be carried in special neon holders on the custom-designed Ducati 1000 and Ferrari FXX Bagel Mobiles. No exceptions.
“How abats fet popples on thu motorciclets”? No fat people. Perhaps this regulation sounds a bit arbitrary, and it may well shock you, at least officially, as a responsible co-founder/dictator of a major, equal-opportunity employer. It is, however, necessary. Fat people simply don’t look good in Ferraris, or – for that matter, on Ducatis (which routinely get sucked into their folds of fat). We simply must find a way to avoid hiring really, really fat people – at least as Bagel-Messengers-From-God® or in the sales and customer service departments. I suppose the occasional really fat accountant or IT consultant might be acceptable, but would it send the right signal? Aren’t bagels bad for really, really fat people? Is it art?
“How abat one ur two slaves-in-chains singing “Let my Pimple Grow?” Yes, it is true that we are envisioning a Major Motion Picture Blockbuster, A Bagel is Born. But isn’t it a bit premature to suggest at this early stage that we sign off on the scene in which Pharaoh and his hundreds of thousands of highly trained, magnificently beautiful and buff, naked, fake-tanned and well-lubricated soldiers are smothered under the Sea of Pimento Bagels? We must consider costs, and I – for one – would simply hate to lose any of the historical bagel orgies simply because some tedious quarrel between Pharaoh and a yiddische bagel baker. How pathetic can you get? Do you really think an audience will give a fuck about the baker and his enormous family and what happens to them when they liberate the Pharaoh’s enslaved pimples and try to flee the country? Picturesque, yes, what wouldn’t be when you’ve got all those gorgeous soldiers chasing the apprentice bakers across three back lots of Cinecitta and a parking garage. But do you think a bathtub in the pope’s apartment, no matter now beautiful and grand, is the most convincing stand-in for the Sea of Pimento Bagels? The Sea of Pimento Bagels has tremendous social relevance. You can’t just poke fun at it and expect to get away scot-free. And are you absolutely certain about Pharaoh’s revenge? Would he really want to de-feet his former slaves? Isn’t that a bit drastic? All they wanted to do was free the pimples and grant them their God-given right to expand and pustulate. Blackheads and whiteheads alike. I mean, it’s not as if the bagel bakers were pillaging and raping like everybody else. They were decent, hard-working people, who spent their time making bagels for the Pharaoh’s rather snooty family. It was only to supplement their meagre income and pay their council tax that the father, Giuseppi, went into business as dream therapist to Pharaoh. Let’s face it, money is money, and when you’ve a family to support, you’ll do just about anything to make ends meet. Was it his fault that Pharaoh, in addition to being a total despot and bigot, was such a tedious, boring, whinger and whiner, and simply would not shut up about his stupid, fucking dreams? I should hope not. But then he claimed all the pimples belonging to the bagel baker’s many adolescent children from his hundred of wives, as his own private property. He claimed he owned all the pimples in the land, and that people of the bagel baker’s persuasion (that’s what they called them back then), weren’t allowed spots of their own. They could only rent blemishes at exorbitant hourly rates. So when “they” (another thing they were called) sang “Let my Pimples Go” and ran off into the desert, Pharaoh got all uppity and decided that the baker and his family should, not unreasonably, die a hundred thousand deaths by every available means. What he didn’t know was that the bagel baker (can we call him “Giuseppi” to save time?) was somehow related by marriage to a really powerful son-of-a-bitch (yeah, he was Italian) who – for various reason – controlled a lot of things. This son-of-a-bitch saw Giuseppi and his family running towards the sea of the pimento bagels. Thinking it was some sort of holiday and that they were only hoping for good sites for their beach towels and umbrellas, the son-of-a-bitch decided to give them some more space. You know, open up some prime real estate for them. With a wave of is magic schlong, the sea shrank back and back and back and then disappeared. A MIRACLE! Needless to say, Giuseppi and his family were overjoyed, and ran clear over to the other side to a plot of land owned by a rival developer. Now, the son-of-a-bitch didn’t like this at all. Not only didn’t the bagel bakers stop on his property and pay him rent, plus an agency fee, but they ran across his property in total violation of his rights as a landlord. This was too much! Without further ado, he took out his schlong for the second time in twenty minutes and, presto change-o, the sea of pimento bagels once again covered the land. What he hadn’t noticed were the thousands and millions of simply beautiful (etc.) young men pursuing Giuseppi, although to give him the benefit of the doubt, they were extremely small. The poor, fake-tanned warriors were instantly buried under tonnes and tonnes of boiled bread and quite probably smothered in hideous anguish (but what do you expect, it made for good television). This was, of course, complete nonsense and never happened. In truth, no way would pharaoh have behaved so badly. He was, after all, a democratically elected official, and as such, was a shining beacon for all to worship and adore, and not a sadist! The baker and his wife would have met quite a different end. In his land, they would have been questioned politely, and then summarily walled up without trial, questioned endlessly, and forgotten about forever and ever. Not very cinematic, but historically correct, and I suppose our triumphant epic should be nothing if not historically correct. Don’t you agree? It’s all so very complicated, this question of accuracy.
What I am really asking, my dearest darling Forsythia, is, which would you, as a typical filmgoer of average means and intelligence (not that you would ever be called either of those things), prefer? A glorious cinematic depiction of the death-throes if writhing, naked and oiled soldiers, as they are put to inexorable tortures under the weight of ten thousand million tonnes of brashly-baked cinnamon raison pimento bagels? Or would you opt for several hours of carefully considered and enacted bagel debauches? The historically significant, but much later ‘bagelois’ of Louis XIV and Madame de Pain Rotonde (as lovingly examined in the second entracte in Shoppenhauer’s lost opera Les Translucides) would, by itself, be worth the price of admission. But that is only my taste. I put it to you, my dear Forsythia. How do you wish to be remembered by posterity? Think carefully. Remember, whatever your choice, you will have to live with the consequences. As the arbiter of taste for millions, and perhaps billions, you have set yourself a deadly serious, bowel-numbing task. Needless to say, I await your decision with cankered breath.
On a more personal note, I simply must do something about the state of my dental hygiene. Since, surrounded as I am by electrically-powered circuitry, I am discouraged from using water, I must ask the geeks in research and development to please put their heads together and come up with something useful for me – along the lines of mayonnaise toothpaste (with tartar control and whitening, please), or, perhaps, a thematic café noir/mouthwash combo? Not, I may add, decaffeinated or with exotic industrial flavourings, à la Starbucks. My mouth tastes of God only knows what, and I’m desperate. Help me this once and I’ll be your slave forever.
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