You are currently browsing the monthly archive for February 2008.

Another leap-year has come around again and fortunately or otherwise with it, a time for celebration. I did a post on it last year here , in which I briefly described the origins of the anomaly to some extent. But of course, the main reason for the interest in this day is that it happens to be the anniversary of Java’s birth.

Sheeet maan, no way to overlook havin dose near an dear over this time huh? Already som of dose nutters be givin me sheet bout comin over an stuurff. Hey, maybe we could take off fo Flowerbook an celebrate in natchure wit da dogs, an let dem dat wanta do da trip join our asses over dere. Waa-say?

I’d say okay in a flash, but knowing how the reactions of some of his mates – not to mention the closely knit familial reactions, I advise him not to take the chance. Although, having said that, it would be a much better venue for an extended celebration that could go on through the day and far into the next morning without a whole lot of hassle for the participants. However, it’s best not to put ideas into Java’s head in case he flips out and goes against the organized flow that The Dancer has plotted and planned on his behalf.

And so it goes – another birthday bites the dust and Java, for one, is thankful that there won’t be any more for a few more years. That’s some compensation for someone who doesn’t really enjoy getting older – four years at a time!

Weellll, how about the bullshit flying around the Commonwealth Bank Cricket Tournament in Oz? Don’t you think it is about on par with a bunch of immature school kids in the throes of some petty bickering about minuscule matters that could well have been avoided?

Okay, so Andrew Symonds heard what he thought was Harbajan Singh calling him ‘monkey’ – so what? This then got blown all out of proportion and was referred to as a racial slur. As I mentioned in an earlier post (here) about it – come again? Racial??? Really!!!! So Harbajan was penalised, the BCCI made asses of themselves, the ICC took a backward step, and things got smoothed over for a bit.

Next episode: Symonds looked like he was bad-mouthing Ishant Sharma after getting out to a superb delivery and Sharma – all nineteen years of him – gestured with his finger towards the dressing room (Java would have extended the middle digit in an unmistakable non-verbal retort). So Martin Crowe (not the most objective or intelligent of match referees in our view) slaps a fine on the youngster, but seems to have been blind to the provocation that caused it. Is that weird, or is that weird?

Anyway, it looks like matters developed from there and the next thing we see is Mathew Hayden getting press for referring to Harbajan as “an obnoxious little weed” – faaar out! Talk of probable charges and fines was bandied about and the next thing we saw was Hayden on the tube reading a statement about it and there was no further mention or news of charges being made or a fine being assessed. Fair enough, in our view. We hold that not only has sledging evolved to be part of the game, but what an individual says about another (off the field, mind you) is known as ‘freedom of expression’ and is perfectly valid.

Don’t you think it’s about time that these grown men, and icons of sport, to boot, grew up and stopped acting like a bunch of cry-babies and ninnies? Let’s get on with the game – and if there is to be some verbal banter, let it be reciprocated in kind, instead of behaving like a bunch of pansies. After all, sledging does add to the spice of the game and is often laced with the type of wry humour that many of us appreciate as much as an elegant cover-drive.

The final match of the tournament promises to be an acrimonious affair. Great! It will certainly add immeasurably to the contest and hopefully the sledging will continue without anyone bursting into tears and running to mummy. It would also be great if the ICC and other cricketing bodies get together and decide to slap fines on the cry-babies, instead of the sledgers – just as long as race and religion are not brought into the equation.

How do you see it?

Friday was emphatically bizarre, not unlike the one before when The Sandman gathered every vestige of self-control and got things back to normal before the crap hit the cyclone. The evening started off ordinarily enough with just the two of us checking out some of the newly acquired music from the recently completed sojourn in Europe – mostly jazz standards and some classic sixties rock. Java was concentrating on getting the evening off to a good ‘head’ start and was busy with the required chores, whilst Johnny the Toad skulked around the garden in search of goodies. The sun had just set over the swamp and its final shafts of light made for golden linings around the dark clouds that bunched them-selves on the horizon. Things seemed pretty much par for the course, but the faint hint of incongruity floating around couldn’t quite be figured out – at the time, that is.

My mobile called for my attention with its usual beep to a text message that had a distinct whiff of mystery about it. It wasn’t that the sender was unknown – on the contrary it was a dear mate – but the contents had both The Sandman and me wondering just what it was that Shakin Simon had in store for us. Java, however, with his inimitable habit of just ‘lettin it happen’ wasn’t fazed in the least. The message emanated out of one of those less fashionable theatres around town that is now getting a hipper rep with the art nouveau wannabes, and its cryptic content hinted at getting together with the couple of attractive and interesting ladies he was with after the boring and pretentious attempt at an adaptation of Shakespeare was over and done with. The threesome, he said, would be stopping for a bite and would slake their thirst before making their move our way, just as soon as the rebellion on stage was over and they were mercifully spared further misery.

The Sandman quickly popped one of his variety of colourful medications prescribed for all sorts of reasons and, with a quizzical look pregnant with expression, cast his eyes in our direction. Java, as ever, ready for another night full of good vibes, good music and good intentions, followed suit as Nat ‘King’ Cole smoothed it all over with his special rendition of Stardust.

And so we tripped out, and chatted, and listened to music until the others arrived – full of pep and scathing remarks about various aspects of the performance they had just been ‘tortured’ by, to quote one of the ladies. Other remarks about the degrees of attractiveness of a few of the cast that apparently didn’t help overcome the boredom, once the initial impact of whatever it was that was meant to be different, was over and done with. Glasses filled, the smoke hung heavy whilst everyone set about getting thoroughly smashed.

The music got louder, so the conversation had to rise over the beat that was, somehow, now being provided by Jimi Hendrix. The volume of Purple Haze was nearly deafening, so, attentively as ever, I turned down the sound – just so that we could hear ourselves shouting at each other in what seemed to be futile attempts at communication. But then, not too long after that, someone turned it up again. It must have been close to, or maybe just past 2 am when the spaceship was sighted – at least that’s what we took it for. Everyone was so into the moment that we didn’t really become aware of the faint glow over the swamp getting brighter all the time, until its undulating brilliance could no longer go un-noticed – even by the most unobservant and whacked-out individual around. I guess it was Java that figured out something was amiss when Jace started his non-stop barking and then baying at what he may have thought was the moon on a trip.

The Sandman was so stoned he had difficulty focusing and thought that it was one of the garden lights blinking because of some electrical problem. Shakin swore that Armageddon was due and this was the Angel of Death, the ladies laughed it off as they thought it was some elaborate practical joke that The Sandman had put on for their benefit and I really didn’t know what to think – leaving allowances for the inexplicable. Java rummaged around until he found The Sandman’s ‘almost a toy’ binoculars to take a closer look, when all of a sudden, the object of our attention and dismay decided to shut off – and that was that. Java swore it must have been because he was observed as being about to identify the object and the aliens within shut off the lights or simply veered off at warp speed, leaving no trace of their existence. And Jace stopped baying at what he thought must have been the moon on a trip.

had done with Purple Haze and the more plaintive The Wind Cries Mary was on – the sound was turned down, so that we could actually hear each other speak in relatively normal tones. The Sandman was laid out on the couch, and as we started to make our moves it was Java who mentioned how strange it was that the geodesic dome at the bottom of the garden was missing.

A brilliant film by Todd Haynes on the fractured life of Bob Dylan made in a manner that kinda symbolizes Dylan’s song-writing style. Broken up into seven distinct stages, with each stage played by a different actor (Christian Bale plays two), juxtaposed in a way that flits back and forth between the stages, the film would be difficult for non-Dylan fans – or at least those who are not much aware of the singer’s life and times – to fully appreciate, or even comprehend. Although, whether one is ‘into’ Dylan or not, the film could yet be appreciated on many different levels by anyone with an appreciation of film-making. Shades of Fellini, Goddard and even Richard Lester (in his Beatle-esque period) are easily identified and the ‘Billy the Kid’ section flashes back to Sam Peckinpah’s story of ‘Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid’ – a film in which Dylan acted.

Having watched ‘Don’t Look Back’ – D.A.Pennebaker’s film that recorded Dylan’s final acoustic tour in England in the mid-sixties – I was struck at how faithful Todd Haynes has been to the original ‘life and times’, but the real mindblower in I’m Not There is the acting of Cate Blanchett playing Jude Quinn – one of the Dylan incarnations in the film – that depicts his androgynous, twitchy, speed-fueled period during that London tour. Blanchett has already walked off with some awards for her performance, including Best Actress at the Venice Film Festival and the Golden Globe for Best Supporting Actress. I’m not sure if she won the BAFTA for Best Actress in a Supporting Role, but wouldn’t be a bit surprised if she did. Also nominated for BFCA and Oscar for Best Supporting Actress (she’s also nominated by the Academy for Best Actress for her role in Elizabeth: The Golden Age), she may end up with a slew of awards for this breathtaking performance.

There are a bunch of other well known award-winning actors in this film as well. Christian Bale plays Jack Rollins, depicting Dylan’s ‘folk-singer with a political message’ period, and also Pastor Brown, Dylan’s persona when he was heavily into Jesus. Heath Ledger as Robbie Clark portrays Dylan as actor Jack Rollins in a movie about the star (you may get to see how complex the ‘plot’ of the movie is – and then again…) when Dylan was in the throes of a divorce. Richard Gere plays Dylan as an aging Billy the Kid in a western town – not inappropriately named ‘Riddle’ – full of surrealistic symbolism in one of the colour sequences that are in stark comparison to some of the film’s sparse black and white footage that have a distinct cinema verite and documentary feel to them. Ben Whishaw plays Arthur, named after the poet Rimbaud, who was a major influence on Dylan during his early ‘rebel’ period. Marcus Carl Franklin, a pre-pubescent black kid, plays an itinerant eleven year old guitar playing, folk-singer wannabe, who calls himself Woodie Guthrie (one of Dylan’s biggest influences) and depicts the boy Dylan as having escaped from a juvenile detention center, now on the road with his guitar – his guitar case has painted on it; ‘this machine kills fascists’. Julianne Moore plays Alice Fabian, the Joan Baez character, Charlotte Gainesbourg plays Robbie Clarke’s (Dylan’s) wife and Michelle Williams plays a socialite, Coco, the Edie Sedgwick type character – one of the many groupies that hung around Dylan in hotel suites and green rooms.

The music in the movie is vintage Dylan and contains some of the elements from Don’t Look Back’s concerts at the Royal Albert Hall and other London venues. Dylan’s Tarantula, an experimental novel he wrote in the sixties, is also subliminally evident at different times through the movie. Ed Lachman’s camera work is splendid in that it often jumps back and forth from the verite mode to the more conventional cinematography techniques in a virtually seamless manner that is both engaging, as well as thought-provoking. Todd Haynes’ conception and direction is nothing short of brilliant.

I’m Not There
is a treat for anyone who digs Dylan. All the rest of this dazzling movie is just icing on the cake.

You walk into the room
With a pencil in your hand
You see somebody yelling
And you wonder at his plan
You try so hard
But you just don’t understand
Just what you’ll write
When you get home

Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

You raise up your hand
And ask, is this where it’s at?
Somebody points at you and says
So what about that?
And you ask, what’s theirs?
And someone else asks, who cares?
And you think, oh my god
Am I here all alone?

Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

You hand in your pass
And you go watch the Creep
Who comes up to you afterwards
Having heard you speak
And he says how does it feel
To be such a freak?
And you say, it’s imponderable
As he hands you the phone

Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

You have many contacts
Among the other hacks
To get your facts
When someone attacks your imagination
They have no regrets
But they still expect
To get a blank cheque
To bolster their organization

You’ve been with professoris
And they’ve liked your looks
You’ve discussed with lawyers
All the assholes and crooks
You’ve sifted through the contents
Of all the great books
You’re very well read
It’s well known

Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

The codswalloper, he comes up to you
And then he kneels
Pretending to pay homage
He clicks his regulation heels
Then without further notice
He aks you how it feels
And gives your identity back
Saying, thanks for the loan

Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

Now you see the pea-brained midget
Bulldozing his way through
And you ask for what reason?
And he says, what’s it to you?
Then you ask, what does this mean?
And he threatens the others too
To tow the line
Or else he’ll ‘send you home’

Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

Well, you walk into the room
Like a dog without a bone
You got your ears inside your pocket
And your eyes inside your phone
There ain’t no law
Against you comin around
But if you write the truth
Watch out for the groan

Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

Could be tricky singing it if you don’t know the song!

Java’s been gone for the past week or more and I have been so preoccupied with so much other stuff that I haven’t really missed him. But now, back in the hills, and more relaxed in the near-pristine environment, I couldn’t help wondering at his absence and the reason he hadn’t kept in touch. Oh well…

Heey maan…

I guess I spoke too soon – or could it be that just thinking about him…?

Waazzup bro?

He moves over to the couch, changes the station on WorldSpace from Maestro, which had some Handel aria on, to The Hop, the 60s rock station that has Ray Charles doing I got a Woman. The fixins appear as if by magic and sooner than I know it the sweet smell of some classy sinsemilla fills the morning air. Buster, Bruiser and Rocky are happy Java’s back, and Sally, who’s still nursing her four puppies, also comes in to greet him and gets fondled in return. I don’t ask questions, knowing very well that Java habitually loosens up in his own time. Zombie has replaced Ray Charles with the original version of She’s Not There, an old rock classic, covered more recently by Santana.

It’s a great day, with the sun streaming through the trees outside the study where we are hanging out, so I decide to take a walk with the dogs whilst Java does his thing. It doesn’t take to long before the dogs spook a Jungle Fowl (Gallus lafayettii) in spite of my yells for them to stop. They get back to a stern reprimand and as we head down to the bottom end of the garden I spot a beautiful Krait (Bungarus caeruleus) in a heap of compost. Thankfully the dogs have missed it and are busy with other investigations. The Krait is a beauty – gleaming black and white as the sun’s rays plays off sections of its body. I move it off the compost with a stick so that there would be no chance of the dogs spotting it on our way back and it moves into the live fence and to the scrub beyond.

On the way back to the house, near the pond, we disturb a flock of Lady Torrington Wood Pigeons (Columba torringtoni) – a flock of at least fifteen, that were feeding on seeds that had fallen off the trees on the lawn by the guest cottage. The Grey Wagtail (Motacilla cineria) that was fluttering by the pond didn’t seem too concerned and went on with its breakfast and its fellow-migrant, the Forest Wagtail (Dendronanthus indicus) was also spotted feeding in the leaf-litter down the path. Something else got the dogs’ attention and they rushed off into the brush all excited. They had caught and killed a Civet Cat (Vivericula indica) last week when I was away, and the helpers had cooked it into a dry curry. They said it was quite delicious and regretted that I wasn’t there to try it out!

Back indoors, I find Java absorbed in Dylan’s Ballad of a Thin Man.

Hey maan, check out dem lyrics – seem to be fittin fo dis place an all dat sheet dat’s goin down bout media freedom and all dat odder sturff.

I’m familiar with the song and the lyrics are applicable in so many ways to so many situations; but that’s another matter best left to another time.

It was well past twilight in the no parking zone when the sleek black limo pulled up in front of Schwabs’. The place was nearly bare when they got inside, although the Marilyn Monroe look-alike was perched on a stool at the far end of the bar. They had been warned.

The guy with the dark glasses and hat looked like someone out of a Micky Spillane novel and the chick was a platinum blonde – the kind that looks like one of them bimbos in those old black and white detective movies. They each grabbed a stool at the bar and ordered two vanilla shakes. The man checked out the Monroe look-alike, careful not to be too obvious about it, until he noticed that she was checking him out through the mirror that hung at an angle over the bar. They both looked quickly away as her eyes met his shades in the mirror for that instant. He lit a cigarette by striking a match on the edge of the bar and met the bartender’s scowl – at the shiny surface of his bar being in danger of getting scratched – with a knowing wink and an apologetic nod of his head.

Blondie left her half-drunk shake on the bar and headed for the ‘Ladies’, her tight red skirt accentuating the swing of her perfectly formed buttocks as she swished past the old couple having coffee at the only occupied table. The flashing neon light outside the window made patterns of light undulate in perfect time to Blue Velvet coming out of the old jukebox in the corner. The guy in the shades crushed out his cigarette in the ash tray, tipped his hat back at an angle and focused his blacked-out eyes on the Monroe look-alike.

They were right, she was a knockout – and a dead ringer to boot. She could easily have passed for Marilyn when she was at her sexy best. Shades angled his face so that it wasn’t directly facing the object of his gaze, just so it wouldn’t be obvious to her that he was taking her in – inch by luscious inch. He concluded that she was the one – no mistaking the profile they were given, so when Blondie got back from the ‘head’, he gave her the sign that it was A-okay.

The bartender – just a bit bigger than your standard midget, was standing on a stool behind the bar busily wiping glasses and putting them back in place. The old couple at the table finished their coffee and asked the lone waitress for the check. The waitress, an elderly lady with graying hair and no nonsense look to her, hurried off to the cash register to do her bit. The music on the juke box changed from an easy jazzed up version of St. Louis Blues to Fats Dominoe doing Blueberry Hill. The neon light kept undulating, but now out of synch with the music. The clock behind the bar was close to getting both hands up straight when Marilyn finished her soda and headed for the washroom, her shiny white figure-hugging dress clinging to her hourglass figure. Shades glanced at Blondie, who nodded and quickly checked her bag, confirming that she had what she would need, then made her way towards the ‘Ladies’. Fats had finished Blueberry Hill and the jukebox went silent. The neon light outside stopped flashing.

A few minutes passed and the old couple settled their bill, said their goodnights to the near-midget bartender and waitress, and made their way out. Shades finished his shake, checked the inner pocket of his overcoat with his right hand and felt the warm assurance of the wooden implement that was so indispensable to his work. He wished Blondie would hurry up. Just about then, the clock behind the bar chimed twelve times.

Shades was just beginning to get a bit fidgety, wondering if Blondie could handle this by herself, when she made her way back. She looked a tad disheveled and not quite herself, but Shades put it down to the process. He gave her that ‘everything okay?’ look and she nodded. They got the check – the waitress appearing impatient to close up – settled their bill and left.

The bartender, also impatient to close up, wondered what Marilyn was doing so long in the ‘Ladies’ and asked the waitress, who had finished cleaning up by then, to find out and finish up with the washrooms so they could go upstairs and get it on before going to bed. A few moments later her piercing scream had him jumping off the stool to rush towards the washrooms.

And there she lay – Blondie, stripped down to her underwear. A shiny white dress was crumpled on the floor next to her. Her bag was open and by it lay a wooden stake, a silver cross and a string of garlic. The two perforations on her neck left a thin trail of blood oozing out, making a small rivulet on the tiled floor.

The neon light came on and started flashing again – this time undulating in perfect synch with the juke box that came back on again with Bing Crosby doing Baby it’s cold outside.

I’m not sure if any polls have been taken on ‘war or peace?’, but from my frequent interaction with the villagers that I come into contact with, it appears that although they are mostly down to one meal a day, due to the state of the economy in general and prices of essentials in particular, they are willing to tough it out because they have been told the war is being won and hard times will soon be over. And they aren’t the only ones – just glancing through kottu is enough to be aware that many of us bloggers feel that way too – even though we may not be quite down to a meal a day. Great! The thing about all this, though, is how long can the villager endure the one meal a day scenario, which will probably get worse before it gets any better for them? And for us all? Should a time-line be established for this (the Defense Secretary, I think it was, said that it would be over and done with within this year) and some alternative plan of action put in place if there is no victory within the year? How long to wait? And what of the economy?

So, does any one want to postulate on what happens if the war drags on and the prices keep going up?

Serendipity didn’t harbour grudges – she knew the snide remarks of the snarkretins were the stuff that was born of little minds with severe insecurities and illusions of grandeur. She chose, instead, to focus on the important matters at hand – like tending her pot plant and seeing that her cat, Timothy, stayed the hell away from the rotting little creatures he so delighted in bringing home with him.

The snarkretins were the invisible folk that got off on setting the stage for their little games, poking fun – or not so fun – at anyone they picked on for whatever reason they conjured up in their little minds. Of late they had picked on Serendipity and whizzed their mostly banal and cliché-riddled platitudes in her direction, waiting for the reaction that would feed their hunger for attention. Serendipity, however, being blissfully unaware of the attention she was getting, went on with her everyday goings on – until the mail arrived. She wondered at the interest she was receiving from the snarkretins, and then, in typical fashion determined to shine it on, preferring to let little things please the little minds that didn’t have much else to occupy them.

Now Timothy was not just an ordinary cat – no sireee – Tim was one of those special breeds from the ‘Fone for a Clone’ pet store in the city, where you could order a custom-cloned pet of your choice. Serendipity couldn’t believe that she could actually order a cat (or any pet, for that matter) with extra features not usually found in your run of the mill pussy, so she went to town with her choice of additional ‘extras’.

Timmy looked feline-ish to be sure, though a bit on the runtish side, with a charcoal coat and a tail like a bandicoot. The tail bit happened by mistake, as Serendipity checked a wrong box on the form that she filled out at ‘Fone for a Clone’, and since there was no way of changing things once they had been done, she had to settle for the odd looking tail. The rest of Tim was, however, bearable – given that every now and again things went a bit askew with the cloning process and you didn’t get exactly what you had in mind. She couldn’t say she hadn’t been warned, though.

Okay, so he was myopic and Serendipity had to have him fitted out with contact lenses, as he was always bumping into stuff and couldn’t see a mouse at anything over five feet away. But her Timmy was in possession of a mighty brain and his speech was developing nicely as well. He had an ear for music and preferred Karnatic to all other forms, although he did enjoy dancing to the old Motown classics.

Serendipity set the table whilst Tim sat impatiently in his chair waiting for his dinner. He hadn’t quite mastered handling the cutlery, but was making good progress – the fingers she had ordered for him came with claws, so he had a hard time with the knife, but he was adapting agreeably well.

Dinner done, and after Tim had a slurp of his favourite whipped cream dessert, they went out to visit the pot plant. It was growing nicely, with the fat buds emitting that special aroma – maybe another week before the harvest. Tim took a deep drag of the aroma and licked the resin off his whiskers, impatient for the moment.

Coming back inside, they watched the nine o’clock news, had a cup of cocoa and then, together, they went to bed.

Percy woke up in the same bod every spangled morning, even though he went to sleep in a nether one in the ether room. His mummy could never understand it. One day she tied a string to his big toe and knotted the other end to his parrot’s cage – just to see what would happen. But there was no discerni-diff. He woke up in that other bod, leaving his toe behind – no blood or anything either. The parrot, however, was never the same, being found on its back at the bottom of the cage – dead as a Dodo – but with a smile on its facetious. The string trailed out of its beak, but there was no sign of the toe. The parrot’s name was Gretchen and Percy’s mum went off to the hardware store down the street to see if she could get her name inscribed on a mini-gravestone, so that Gretchen could have an avispesh send-off. Percy’s pet dog Vermin wanted to sink his teeth into the rigormortified bird, but, as fate determined, Percy’s mum caught him in time and aimed a swift kick in his direction, catching Vermin square on his bumptious, sending him yelping for Percy.

Now Vermin was in a grumptiously whingey mood, his bloodshot eyes adding to the verisimilitude – although Percy knew deep down in his booties that Vermin’s looks were deceptious. So Percy cuffed Vermin on the left ear – the right one being in baddish shape after being smacked by the fat broad at the studio week before last – and threatened to extract his molars if he didn’t up his rate of success. Vermin gave him that pathetic doggie look and wondered how he would crush bones if his molars were extractified. But Percy, being serious – quite unlike the bloogies or panelites at the literal festivities – went over to the closet and got out his toy pliers. He gave Vermin that special look as he twirled the pliers like Wyatt Earp at OK Corral. Vermin, not being completely obtutious, snuck his tail in and under to cover his rectal aperture and slunk off to pander on other matters.

When Percy got to Gretchen’s cage to arrange the little coffin, he found Gretchen covered with a mass of throbbling flies. There she lay bristling – covered with a blanket of shiny throbbing glittering bluebottles humming the funeral march. He tried shootling them off, but they buzzled in unison – it was only later his mum realized that the glue she spreadeagled on Gretchen to preserve her little bod was the culprit. So, together with the kitchen knife, they pried Gretchen off the table and into the coffin – the bluebottles broke into harmony which rose to a crescendo as the lid of the coffin made it all dark for them when it closed.

Vermin, in the meantime, nursing a sore rear end, was plotting how to inveigle his way back into the good books of Percy and mum. He little brain was sorely taxonomic as he hit upon an idealogical – he would launch an assault at the undertaker and bite off his right pedicular digit so that his Percy could get a toe stitched back on his footsie. Tired from this extreme mental exertion, he took up his position and waited.

The funeral was a grandiferous affaire. Percy’s mum had made milk-rice for the wake, even though the price of rice had zoomed skyward and powdered milk was in shortish supply. Then, just as the undertaker was servituding himself, Vermin made his move. He bounded up to the undertaker and grabbed his foot, aiming for that special digital. He didn’t realize however, that the undertaker had crossed his legs in an attempt to inhibit the flatulence that was building up within his innards, and got the wrong foot. He had a problem getting past the shoe, so he went for the ankle. Unfortunately for Vermin – and fortuitously for the undertaker, who was so drunkelled he didn’t feel a thingy – Percy’s mum was right there, and with a practiced swing of her left leg, got Vermin right between the anus and his ball-bearings, sending him hurtling through the crowd and out of the door.

The undertaker finished serving himself the milk-rice and searched for the sambol whilst Percy rushed out to pacify Vermin who was nursing his rapidly swelling bumptious. Not liking what he saw, Percy arranged for Vermin to be admitted to the vet-unitary until his mummy cooled off.

The funeral finished, the crowd dispersified and Percy and mummy had dinner together before he went to beddy. He would feel lonesomely tonight without Gretchen, and Vermin – and without his toe, of course.

February 2008
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Ephemeral Ruminations by Java Jones is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at

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