Thankfully, my neighbor has mutant powers (and a crush on me) and helped me regnerate my limbs and I am back.

OK, not really.

Much as I’d like to blame Flaffy for our lapsed presence, which is an otherwise reliable go-to excuse (you should try it. whatever you did or didn’t do – miss a deadline, run over the neighbour’s cat, kill a hobo – blame it on Flaffy) , this one is all me. Not only do I lack a good excuse (no alien abduction,  no cult initiation that required shunning modern technology), but our absence is made even more egregious by the fact that our latest contributor rose from the dead to Urf.

And here I am dawdling about. For shame.

Apologies to The Saint – blogger of things personal and sports related (which might also count as personal but that mindset is frankly baffling to me) who is trying his hand at fiction for us.

—–

Blast from the past

Simon James was a veteran. A real honest-to-god war veteran. The badges on his old faded uniform were real, as real as the scars on his arms and the hole where his left eye should have been. As real as the memories that returned to him every night, but easier to put away.

That was a long time back, and now he was out – with nothing to show for all the time he had served his glorious nation -just a bunch of scars – not all them visible, along with a medal and a purple heart. Loneliness kept him company and he at his meals with solitude – his family had walked out, unable to reconcile the angry irascible figure with the loving father they used to know. And all he had now were his memories, and a spot in a trailer park in the middle of nowhere.

His neighbours didn’t see much of him, and were happy to keep things that way – especially since he had let of his old service revolver in response to the first, and last welcome visit they had attempted. Their kids steered clear of his trailer – especially at night. His trailer had become part of the local lore, a significant part in initiation rites for new kids in town, a complicated ritual involving baseballs and blindfolds.

He spent his nights staring at the TV screen, not seeing anything – trying hard not to go back. Attempting to drop anchor in the present with a glass of whisky and his .45 by his side to repel any boarders from the past.

Darkness encircled him, advancing in time with the receding sun. He was all alone in the empty house at the edge of the square, crouching down – afraid that the thumping of his heart would give away his position. He had stepped out for a routine patrol, nobody was expecting any excitement since radio reports had come in last night indicating that the enemy was atleast two days away – and they expected reinforcements to come in within the next 24 hours. Their orders required them to hold this post for the next day or so, the time it would take for the tanks to move up from the rear. A walk in the park they had told him. No enemies sighted for miles around. No need to put a lot of men on this, they had said. Well, there were not a lot of men now, for sure. But it seems like the enemy was not suffering from that problem. Atleast 3 armoured cars, a couple of trucks and a radio jeep inching their way through the rubble testified to that. He knew right then, that he needed to get back quickly and warn his mates. That’s all he needed to do. No need for any heroics, no need to try and win a medal – his mind had been pretty clear about it. He remembered the moment well. He remembered thinking about the narrow alleyway into the square. He just needed to get the lead car at the corner and that would buy him extra time. The thought made him oddly lightheaded. He remembered feeling the weight of his belt as though someone had just tagged it onto him. The coolness of the pistol grip in palm of his hand, matched by the cool evening breeze. The dust blowing towards him from the wake of the vehicles. The coolness of dusk around him. The inescapable brown of the war – which only gave way to an even more drab greyness. He remembered the emptiness he felt in the pit of his stomach – the feeling of fear that started out of that emptiness and grew to become a full fledged terror attack. He remembered waiting for the vehicles to get closer – he remembered the feel of the grenade in his hand as he counted down the approach. The feel of the pin between his fingers, the ages it took to pull the pin out. The soft whirr as it came out. The slowing of time as he counted down the throw.

And the feeling of horror as it bounced ineffectually in front of the armoured car. Once, twice, thrice and rolling – like a life and death game of ducks and drakes. He remembered consoling himself, it had been a good throw – not his fault if the damn thing failed to go off. The sound of shots that were fired in his direction, and the tinkle of glass shattering as a couple of grenades found their way into the adjacent room.

It was the shattering of glass that brought him out of his funk. And he instinctively brought his own gun up and fired back.
He didn’t remember anything from after the explosion.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

The fire engines stood by, guardians watching over the empty shell of what used to be a trailer. As the firemen hustled around, taking off their protective gear and winding up the hoses.

The body was taken away in the ambulance as the fire men gratefully accepted cups of cocoa and coffee from his erstwhile neighbours.

‘Thank you ma’am, we are glad no-one else was injured. If the call had been delayed by even a few minutes things could have been a lot worse’

‘Well, the kids were playing baseball out here when one of them hit the ball into the trailer. And the next thing they say was this explosion – some of them say they heard a shot’

‘You should tell the children not to worry, I don’t think the baseball caused this. From what we could make out, he had a gun in his hand and a shot had been fired. And the explosion was from the kitchenette – probably the gas – we’ll know more in the inquest, but I would tell the kids, not too worry’

‘ Thank you sir thank you. We hardly knew him, kept pretty much to himself.’

‘ Seems like he was a war hero, had a medal and all – for valiant behaviour or some such thing – apparently had been a prisoner of war as well – somebody managed to save a box of papers – trying to contact next of kin I think’

‘Seems like he was a brave man, pity it had to end like this’

??! is quite the secretive one.

Flaffy thinks it’s because she is on the lam after having pulled a string of drug store robberies during which she only stole rolls of quarters and patterned tights (neon, I believe. ??! is a risk taker – in life and fashion). I am convinced the secrecy has more to do with the massive late fees she has racked up in libraries the world over, causing the librarians to band together and take out a hit on her, forcing her to go underground and leaving her with nothing but blogs to read. Don’t mess with librarians, kids.

For Urf, she sent in a longer than usual piece (by her standards), which may or may not be fiction.  You  never know with ??!. That’s the fun of it.

—-

She noticed him for the first time on a Wednesday, standing in the line to get tickets. She remembered the day, because it was the same day she started going to the gym. She took it as a sign, visualising Fate standing next to him with one of those big arrow-pointing placards that said “This could be yours”. Yes, she would quite happy for him to be hers. All scrumptious as he was, especially with that slightly I-may-be-wearing-a-banker’s-suit-but-I-could-do-with-a-little-nurturing look. Oh yes, wouldn’t she like to nurture him.

He had gotten into the same carriage as hers, and was still sitting when her stop came. Probably asking for too much for him to be getting off where she did. Still, at least he took the same train daily, sitting in the same carriage. She took that as another sign of their compatibility, sitting in the carriage that would stop closest to the exit. Foresight and planning, that’s what it showed. She liked that in him. And she liked him, especially when she got a closer look, which was easy to arrange. It wasn’t as if they were assigned seats numbers. It was quite probable that she took the seat diagonally opposite his because she liked it, and it was her regular place. And it was her regular place now, what with him sitting there looking just so yummy. Like an extra-chocolatey brownie. Mmmmmmm.

She found out which train he returned by, through a simple matter of getting on every train over a two hour period in the evenings. Even if that meant staying back later at work to co-ordinate with his schedule. Although that wasn’t too bad, as it made her appear more “diligent” and “eager” to her bosses. And he probably thought the same too. It was just enough to balance having to go home in the dark, and bundle up even more against the cold. Not that she wasn’t used to the winters here, but she was no weather-braving junkie. Cardigan, jacket, scarf, hat, gloves – these were necessities, not accessories. Even he thought the same, otherwise why had she never seen him remove his gloves even while in the train? There, another thing they both agreed on. Covering up was sensible. Although she wouldn’t mind seeing him with just a little less on. And spent quite a few hours imagining – and waiting – for summer to come so that he could discard some of them. Or letting her discard them for him. She would be more than happy to warm him up if he felt cold.

And days passed, and she continued going to the gym. Even though it meant she trained later in the evening, and often felt like giving up after a particularly long day at work, she kept herself motivated by thinking of his admiring glances as he noticed her svelte(ish) new figure. And she was sure he was noticing, catching him occasionally glancing at her through the reflection in the window. She knew she looked better, despite all the heavy layers that she still was forced to wear. And he had started looking better too, after he took up cycling to the station. Even if it meant his hair got grooves in them because of his helmet, and that he was more bundled up. She could live with that – she didn’t want him to get a cold or worse. But she did wish for the weather to get warmer, especially if that meant he would (hopefully) wear cycling pants. Those tight ones. Oh no, she didn’t mind him being athletic in the least.

And then, she took a trip. Two whole weeks. She was glad that it was busy enough to let her not dream about him too much, although she did get a few amused stares at times due to her occasional distractedness. And she kept herself going by pointing out that the weather would have warmed up enough for both of them to be able to shed those bulky outers. Not that she wanted to flaunt herself or ogle at him. She wasn’t that cheap. But a casual display of one’s vim-and-vigour figure, and a discreet appraisal of another’s similar body – that was quite acceptable. And how she longed to appraise him.

The night before the day she returned to work, she dithered over what she would wear. She eventually plumped for something classy, yet slightly I-wouldnt-quite-turn-down-a-pickup-line. Black skirt, hemmed in dark red, just knee-length (her thighs still needed a little toning). The dark turquoise top. Heels, but the high ones. And no hat, and no gloves. The warm snap would allow that. That done, she wondered what he would wear.

When she saw him the next morning, she got her answer in vivid detail. He was wearing the cycling trousers. A light, snug jacket. No gloves. And a platinum ring. Third finger, left hand.

She didn’t reject the chocolate cookies a colleague passed round at work that day.

Yes, people, this is true. I admit I have a problem. I am the alcoholic, abusive, defunct parent of this blog. And for that, I know full well that I have to answer to Her. Sooner or later. (By Her, I, o’course, mean OTP and by sooner or later, I really mean sooner or all the time). Fortunately for me, from chastening I rise gracefully. Scathed but definitely umm chastened. I withhold all apologies and excuses (yes, it’s true that I almost died in a plane crash and my apartment got wrecked by a hurricane, but whatever, I am not the sort to burden our readers with tales of my tribulations. My upper lip might tremble and my chin might drift low but you won’t hear a peep outta me). What’s more, in the list of things that I’m not going to apologise for or excuse myself against figures what is, I think, one of my favourite Urfs so far. Da mamba produces an unabashedly Urfy piece, depressingly effortlessly (this is true: only three drafts. And the second two mostly to change typos. No, really). Chick-lit from the Black Mamba. I feel it needs no more introduction.
(Cept maybe voila!)

—-

Pinky and Michiko Ishida had shared a wafer thin wall and a bathroom in their minuscule university housing for 6 months now (whoever came up with the idea of shared bathrooms for adjoining rooms clearly never had to live with one). Half a year spent in absolute hatred. But given how difficult it was to find housing so close to school – a room in their building was considered a luxury. If Pinky complained to her friends, they would just call her a snob or worse – a whiner.

The cold war in the bathroom had started in the most unusual manner. Michiko’s boyfriend, Jean Francois, was puking the sushi and sake bombs he had ingested into the toilet bowl, with the bathroom doors ajar. Just then Pinky rushed in to pee, before getting into her delicate crepe lehenga. She was in her full bridesmaid regalia – henna up to her elbows, elaborate hairdo, wedding makeup, heavy Kundan jewelry and a flimsy backless choli… (Her Nani had blackmailed her into dressing up this way. Something about this being her Nani’s last chance (as she might not live long enough) to see Pinky in her wedding finery… anyway, let’s not go there).

Where were we? Yes, she stepped back, absolutely disgusted by the sight in the bathroom, and tripped on the bathroom mat. She promptly landed on her shoe rack, banged her head against it, ripped her blouse, and ruined her jewelry and hairdo in the process. The scene her mom and sister had created at the wedding an hour later was nothing compared to the trouble she had with her bathroom in the months to follow.

Michiko and Pinky decided to set some ground rules for the shared space. Just so they didn’t bite each other’s heads off, Jean Francois volunteered to act as the mediator. The next few days Pinky and Frankie (as she liked to refer to Jean) spent every waking hour negotiating the rules. They would meet in one of the local cafés or restaurants. Soon they discovered their shared passion for food and started trying out places he had unearthed or she had always wanted to try. It was hard enough to find a dedicated foodie, but to find one who you could tolerate otherwise was paradise.

Still, back in her room, there was no peace. Wanting to pee meant leaving the peace and calm of her room and entering a war zone, full of hatred and taunts (in the guise of pink or baby-blue glittery bottles of lotion). This had made her even more grateful for the time she spent with Jean.

Jean Francois Legrand was with the Institute for South Asian Studies exploring similarities between Celtic Knots and Alpana. That is, when he wasn’t out playing tennis, swimming or getting lucky. His recent gourmet trips with Pinky meant he was never doing any real work.

Pinky (urf Loveleen Kohli) was a CS PhD student working on social networking frameworks and patterns. She was still young, impressionable and always in her lab – actually working. She liked charming, friendly and funny boys. She also loved Bhangra Remixes, Lounge music, short-story collections by Indian authors and comic strips.

With her professor’s recent adjunct appointment at the business school, she was constantly being asked to help visiting scholars and B-school graduate students with anything related to “Information Technology”. She was considered an expert in every buzzword – DRM to Cell-processors. When she was finally asked to help someone with social networking, she was relieved.

That was how she had met Amartya De. Amartya was Rhodes Scholar specializing in economics, with a keen interest in Indian Classical music (read riyaz every morning). He watched obscure European films, and read (original texts by) suicidal German intellectuals and alcoholic Latin philosophers. His brooding brown eyes, lovely tousle-worthy hair and shy retiring smile added greatly to his carefully cultivated intellectual charm. It has been a while since he had buried his identity as a crazy, punning, fun chap, along with his daak naam, Felu. (Yes, after Ray’s Feluda).

As it happened Amartya was researching financial transactions in virtual worlds and online-gaming communities and their impact on BRIC economies. His professor, however, was convinced that the inclusion of social networking would greatly improve his chances in the job market. How analyzing scraps from Facebook would enhance his thesis was beyond him, but he decided to give it a shot anyway. That is where Loveleen entered the picture.

From their very first meeting, their interactions have been strictly about research. Though they were both single, the possibility of romance never crossed their minds. Amartya never dated Delhi Punjus. (Besides he wasn’t sure if Loveleen and Jean were seeing each other.) Loveleen believed intellectualism was a scam.

Back to the bathroom. Late one night, after she had downed her third spiked lassi, Pinky sat at the edge of her bed pondering the weighty “to pee or not to pee?” question. Finally nature triumphed over will and she walked in to the bathroom. To her surprise, half of the room was empty, expect for a new deep-blue towel and a note stuck under her toothbrush holder – “Thank you for the Dental Floss! Sorry to have used up the last bit. Will replace it first thing tomorrow morning – F”.

She plunked on to the toilet seat, steadied herself and tried to take this all in. She was almost in tears at the idea that someone would leave her a nice note in the war zone – her bathroom. Then she blushed. Who could F be? It had to be Jean, signing off as Frankie. He did mention something about him and Michiko moving in together. So he had moved in with her, next door. She was just glad he drove some sense into Michiko. Taking this to be a ceasefire, she cleaned out her collection of lotions, scrubs, conditioners, shampoos, nail enamel bottles, lipsticks filling up an entire garbage bag.

Then she wondered if she should leave a note. Since she had started working with Amartya, she hardly saw Jean. Besides, it had always been embarrassing for them to talk about the bathroom (and the puking incident). It seemed like a good idea to just leave a note. So she said something silly about dental floss and signing off as – P.

In the weeks that followed, she found a note in the bathroom everyday- something funny, a snippet of poetry, a frame from The Far Side or one from Peanuts – and responded in kind. She fretted each time she had a visitor. Always rushing into her bathroom first, making sure she picked up the note (in case there was one), before letting others in. Slowly they began to confide and console, understand and depend on each other.

Most people wait months before they consider sharing a bathroom, or their truest feelings. Many refuse to invite someone over even after dating them for months. And here they were, she thought, two people who knew the exact brand of soap and the deepest fears of the other, though the only things they discussed when they actually met was always superficial, a new delicacy at some restaurant or his girlfriend’s latest tantrum.

When they met, she had tried alluding to something from a note, but to her great consternation Jean invariably feigned innocence. Though when she woke up each morning to the beautiful ragas from (what she suspected was) his Hindustani collection, she would forgive him with a smile. She finally convinced herself it was best to limit the intense witty two-liners to the bathroom and never brought it up in conversation.

Their delicately balanced ecosystem was chugging along fine until Michiko decided to break up with Jean. Distraught, desperately needing to talk to someone, he headed to Pinky’s room, with a couple of bottles of wine. On the way, he bumped into Amartya, in the elevator. They got talking and Amartya made said something witty about the Chardonnay and the Bordeaux. (Amartya had once helped Jean with a translation of some Bangla text on Alpana). Jean invited him over to Pinky’s. Never one to refuse a drink, Amartya gleefully agreed.

When Jean finally stopped at her door and knocked, Amartya panicked – it was P’s room! Mumbling some inane excuse, he rushed to his room. Jean snatched his keys and dragged him back just as Michiko opened the door.

There was a moment of confusion as they entered. Amartya assumed Michiko was P and was deeply disappointed when Jean introduced her as his girlfriend (or ex?). Jean handed both the bottles to Amartya, asking him to uncork the wine. Poor, heartbroken Amartya was soon taking swigs straight from the bottle as he watched Michiko apologizing and wanting to get back together with Jean.

Pinky had been having a quiet evening, sipping her fifth lassi (which was mostly vodka, with a dash of lassi, these days). Michiko had shown up at her door a few minutes before and asked if Jean had stopped by. She said had broken up with Jean. Pinky was thrilled. But she recovered quickly and consoled Michiko half-heartedly. Unable to continue the pretense, she poured Mitchiko a drink and disappeared into her bathroom – for a shower – to get away from Michiko and clear her head.

Now as she stepped out of the shower, half-drunk, in her lovely blue bamboo-modal tank top and boyshorts, she was horrified at the sight of Jean and Michiko, in her bed, kissing each other and making up! Then, she noticed Amartya sitting right next to them, watching this, as he chugged a bottle of wine.

Pinky hissed at them, demanding they get out of her room that very minute. Jean and Michiko readily complied. Jean just mouthed a Thank You, to Amartya, for letting him have his room and headed straight to the adjacent room, before the poor guy could utter a word.

Now Pinky and Amartya sat at two corners of her bed, stunned, for what seemed like eternity – it had been them all along. But both were too drunk to actually say anything. They finished their respective drinks and proceeded to giggle for next 10 minutes. Finally an exhausted Pinky fell asleep in Amartya’s arms. Her long lustrous hair covered her face and her endless, endless legs (in those lovely blue bamboo-modal boyshorts) against him. He drained the last drop of Chardonnay, set the bottle on the nightstand and sat there amazed by the irony of it all – the dental floss, the months spent yearning to meet this mysterious girl next door, while having spent every waking hour with her. What was it that Eliot said – …And the end of all our exploring/ Will be to arrive where we started/and know the place for the first time.

He looked at Pinky, smiled and fell asleep.

First off, humblest apologies (ten points for everyone who thought of Llosa when they read that). We, the blog purveyors have been caught in a maelstrom, a hurricane, a cyclone even. No, really. Life, whirlpool, same difference. No? But, we bring tidings of joy and acute cheer: We are Back. And how.

This here next one is one of our personal favorites. It’s a perfect Urf, capturing the spirit of the Urf-challenge right down to its nittiest gritty. So, let’s all hear it for Spacebar, who presents a self-confessed essay at experimental fiction (and it couldn’t be more experimental if it tried). It’s nothing like anything over at Spacebar’s. Even more Urf-worthy than that, it’s a whole new style. If we were being simplistic we’d peg it as a lazy, lazy author’s diary (or (if we wanted to be perverse and confounding) a dairist’s attempt at fiction). If, on the other hand, we were being profound, we’d say it was a realist’s attempt to detail the trivialities of life that make it incomplete, incongruous and just, basically, so life-y. As a lot of y’all can confirm, we are never profound. So, we’re sticking to the simplistic view.

Having said that, we feel it’s only right to throw this open to our enlightened readership. All good experiments are open to many interpretations and invariably have one interpretation that fits the best (OK that’s not true, good experiments normally are easy to interpret and have defined interpretations but still, Urfily speaking). So go read, interpret and comment (It’s ok to leave ‘huh? what?’ comments in the commentspace. We will be nice and empathize). A little birdie tells us that Spacebar’s going to be giving out prizes (in the interests of full disclosure we don’t know if the birdie can be trusted – demn pesky lying birdies!).

The Smaller Picture

Sept 25 200—

I’ve spent the last few years trying to slow down, trying to catch the small things that usually escape me and trying to make sense of them. I must admit that it feels good but today I have another problem.

ENTRY #1 HOUSE HUNTING

A day after the deluge| The blue plastic at the construction site lies in tatters| A small lean-to, almost unnoticeable in the rubble| soggy cartons lie outside, some of them piled with saris, others with assorted utensils that seem rather grand for their surroundings: a non-stick pan coated a cheerful red on the outside; a copper-bottomed cooker; a hand-held sandwich-maker meant to be used on the gas| a sleepy child comes out from the hovel (what else can one call this collection of crumbling brick and torn plastic?)| they have to hunt for a house here, but still not clear how this is to be shown|

a few bright umbrellas bob along the road| school has reopened today| but that boy there is too young to go to school| excited with all the water flowing on the road, he comes bursting out of his house with a sheaf of old papers|

the girl doesn’t like to be watched while she’s brushing her teeth| She turns her back on the eager boy, trying to hide her twig| her mother says something sharp to her and she hurries up| the mother bends over her cartons| further down the road, where the water is flowing hard, the little girl patiently makes paper boats for the little boy who is rattling questions at her silent head| the boats sail off, fragile and optimistic.

Sept 28 200—

This is supposed to be a good time. It is. It really is.

ENTRY #2 FILLING IN THE DETAILS

In the chair at the dentist’s, a man spits out a tooth and some blood| the dentist says what sounds like ‘rinse’ but the guy in the chair can’t be sure| he tries to get a word in, but the dentist, seizing the opportunity, digs into his gums again| she really is very pretty, though there’s little enough of her he can see| dark, liquid eyes, short, straight nose, white gauze|

The rest of the day is agony for the man, who tries to ignore the smells and talk of food| why is everyone so gluttonous?| he logs on to his favourite chat room and even considers registering for one of those dating sites| what has he got to lose?|

More visits to the dentist| still no sight of her full face|

There’s a girl he’s agreed to meet this evening| Brinda| she looks familiar, but he can’t be sure how| they walk along the lake, are slightly frugal with information but agree to meet another time|

He dreams of her eyes but when he wakes up he’s not sure if it is the dentist’s or Brinda’s|

At the final visit to the dentist, she shows her face| but I don’t want her to be either Brinda or Brinda’s sister or a complete stranger| how many variations are there?|

Oct 7 200—

I’m very depressed. If change is due, why does it have to be so slow I don’t even know it’s happening? I want results! Now! I want my life to be sunshine and roses. I want to be at the winning end of the rat race, having finished and ready to put my feet up.

ENTRY #3 SHE WINS LUGGAGE

In a large echoing cinema hall| the seats are randomly filled with young men and women| a suppressed air of excitement| the stage is strewn with all kinds of luggage| hard backed suitcases with wheels; backpacks; old-fashioned vanity cases; strollers| the colours are indefinite in the dim light, but some oranges and yellows stand out feverishly| a young person, well-dressed, appears on the stage with a list| a flunkey follows with a mike| she starts to announce the rules| a tense silence| this will not be a ladies-first thing| the guys titter nervously| the list is not in alphabetical order; it’s a computer-generated random list| as a name is called, that person goes on stage, picks a piece of luggage and leaves| people get up one by one as their names are called| others pick out their favourite pieces in hushed whispers| some groan when ‘their’ piece is picked by someone else| Mahua waits| as names get called, she slips deeper into her chair| finally only she is left| on the stage, the announcer and one unwieldy purple bag, rather shapeless and battered| Mahua doesn’t move| the announcer calls again| a man enters, obviously a caretaker| he begins to turn off the lights| the chairs that he begins to flip up one by one echo in the almost empty hall| Mahua sits stubbornly in the dark|

Nov 10, 200—

I’m sure there have been other days like this one, and other nights like last night.

ENTRY #4 DEFLOWERED

She looks immaculate| in a cool turquoise salwar and kurta and a lightly starched dupatta with just that hint of silver running through it| her hair smells of shampoo and her cheeks glow| but her lips are cracked and dry| as she lifts her hand to slather her lips with cream,| it is to be seen that her fingers are raw| she stands in front of her mirror and almost without knowing it| has started to chew on the already bloody skin around the bitten nails| the nails are jagged, uneven and bitten to the quick| some of the skin around the nails has hardened from having been bitten many times| bitten and healed, bitten and healed| she sits on the bed nearby| being in front of the mirror makes her conscious of what she is doing| chewing on fingers needs to be unconscious to be effective| thumb done, bleeding a little along the old wound| she considers dispassionately all the fingers on her right hand| seen against the light, the middle finger holds promise| some little piece of skin stands out, fine and almost transparent| there’s just enough nail on the other hand to cut it out with a sharp pinch| and drag| the skin peels off like a zipper| now the cuticle has almost detached itself from the nail| she winces in pain and sucks on her finger|

Nov 11 200—

Irony is all very well when it is directed elsewhere. I have enough detachment left to know that I have become what I had so easily condemned in someone else.

ENTRY #5 DAY JOB

Ananda slits open a letter| a discarded pile lies at her feet| it grows, scatters and flies around in half-hearted bounds| at the table, she has finally picked three applications that look promising| the last applicant has attached a copy of the original ad that Ananda had placed in the paper, presumably lest she forget why she is getting all this mail| the ad reads: CALL ANANDA! DO YOU WANT SOMEONE TO SEE YOUR VACATION VIDEOS OR LISTEN TO STORIES OF YOUR GRANDCHILD? SOMEONE TO GO SHOPPING WITH? IF YOU WANT AN HOUR OR TWO OF SOMEONE’S TIME AND THERE’S NO ONE ELSE, CALL ANANDA! (NO SEX, VIOLENCE OR ANYTHING ILLEGAL). APPLY TO P.O.BOX 5962 GIVING A BRIEF OUTLINE OF WHAT YOU WISH TO DO WITH MY TIME| today Ananda has only one applicant who sounds promising|

Outside the gates of a school| a bell goes off inside somewhere and one breathless pause later, the gates burst open| children pour out and Ananda waits| finally, when the crowd thins she finds two children looking at her| the elder, a gangly boy, looks solemn| the younger, a girl with her hair half out of her pigtails, looks impatient| it’s an assignment that Ananda has to complete for the boy| she’s quite touched at his seriousness| Ananda promises to return his completed assignment the next day| he offers to pay her in advance, but she says he can pay her tomorrow|

Some weird things come her way| mostly Ananda is quiet, nice and obliging| to each client she becomes exactly the person they want at that moment| to the old, she is deferential and interested| to the lonely, cheerful and zippy| Ananda rejects the creepy assignments with no hesitation| she has developed a nose for trouble|

(There should be some way to make this into a multi-media experience for an audience sitting in a cinema hall: turn on the lights at this point, and hand every one of those goggle-eyed monsters a book that begins where the screen leaves off. Have them sit in their chairs, brush the popcorn off their laps and if they want to know how it all ends, get on with the book they’ve been given.)

With time Ananda’s sense of self has eroded. As if to make up for this loss, she is now able to define and pigeon-hole her prospectives (as she’s begun to call them) even before she has set eyes on them. From the tone of a letter, she knows which one will have a mean mouth, which one secretly reads Judith Krantz, which one will try something on, given a chance.

It is this last category, however, that provides Ananda with a way out. She now tears up the cutesy applications and sets aside the apparently nasty ones. Not because she hankers after some imaginary life on the edge, but because she is filled with a sense of glee at the prospect of giving them a piece of her mind and getting paid for it in the bargain.

Not that she is abusive. But as if her ill-defined self can hold nothing in because there is nothing to hold it, she let’s people know exactly what she is thinking, without considering in advance and on their behalf, what their possible reactions are likely to be.

And with each observation she makes, without tying herself into knots,

(end of ENTRY# 5)

Right. This is more wish-fulfilment than even I can handle. From now on, if I have a story to tell, I’ll tell it by making it or actually writing it out in full. And this diary can remain just that: a place where I can make cryptic entries without fear that someone will know what I’m talking about.

Everyone thinks he’s a poet now (by everyone we mean Mockturtle, of course). Just cos you can sense that day rhymes with way does *not* make you a poet. But when you can blithely be totally sarcastic (and mean and mocking) about two bloggers who have never done anything but invite you to their blog and write brilliant intros for your posts, it is (perhaps) fair for you to think you are one. So, Urf-poet of the week, posting here, for your edification (pliss feel free to leave comments about MT’s hardheartedness and general cruelty, we will not be moderating).

Ed Note: Though OTP feels that she has been unjustly targeted (OTP: and I’d respond but I have this killer headache and the glow from the computer is making me a tad dizzy and i think i need more water and maybe bacon) as being the drunk loopy bimbette in this essay at poetry, one feels dutybound to point out that at least she isn’t an easily excitable enthusiast who doesn’t seem to pay any attention to the other people in the poem (OTP: Oh and for chrissake I don’t drink gin).

OTP and Flaffy went out one day,
Across the blogosphere of blue,
But all the blogs that came their way,
Rang hollow and untrue.

Said Flaffy “Look at this my friend
These bloggers need our aid!!
They write the same crap for days on end
It’s all trite and clichéd!!!”

“Maybe a new blog will do the trick
Something hip and extraordinary??!!”
But OTP just said “I feel so sick
I’ve had one vodka too many”

But Flaffy went on “I see it now!!!
A masquerade party so cool
Nothing artsy, glamorous or high brow
Just bloggers playing the fool!!”

OTP now reeked of gin
Her mind it was awhirl
The alcohol was making her spin
She said “I think I’m going to hurl.”

Flaffy said “Ok, so just to make me smile
Please think up a name for this blog!!!
Something with sophistication and style.”
OTP looked up and said “Well, how about…” *URRRFFFFF*

There are these men who have sex with life size dolls. Actually, they’ll tell you – it isn’t just about sex. They have involved relationships with these “synthetic” humans. (Kinda like Lars and the RealGirl, only no looks like Ryan Gosling).

One very hungover Sunday, while waiting for the greasy deliciousness that is Chinese takeout, we found ourselves entirely bereft of trashy television to watch and resorted to a documentary on these men – “Love me, Love my Doll” on BBC America.

It was riveting (and horrific and sad and gross, but riveting). However, by the time the food arrived, we had lost the will to eat.  We’d attempt a tentative bite. Then we’d watch one of these men cleaning out his “girlfriend” with dish detergent (“starts to smell like fish”) and then make out with her, and we’d want to bring up that and everything else we may have ever eaten.

Seriously – marketed correctly, it could be the new it diet.

In keeping with that general theme, although sex with inanimate objects is the only thing missing from the piece below (Ed’s note – nope, he’s got that covered too), here is Falstaff’s contribution to the battle against the obesity epidemic – his re-telling of the The Aristocrats.

Minor Quibble – It is incredibly graphic – seriously filthy, and twisted, but it is not porn. There is no intent to titillate. (I think. I hope.)

I’d recommend not eating immediately before reading this. If you find yourself overwhelmed and overcome with nausea, don’t be a hero – take a break. In fact, there is no shame in not finishing this. No one will judge you. They’ll all be too busy judging Falstaff.

—

The Aristocrats: A Play of…errr…Many Acts

[Author’s Preface: The purpose of the Aristocrats joke (see examples here, here and here– all taken from the movie The Aristocrats) is to push every conceivable boundary of decency. Part performance sport, part art form, the Aristocrat joke is an excursion into the perverse and the profane. When you read what follows, you’re almost certain to find it obscene, may even be outraged (if you can read this matter of factly, you really are sick!). So let me say at the outset that I’m not in favor of having sex with your family members, especially if they’re old, wrinkled or recently deceased; that I do not condone sexual abuse of cattle, which is a cruel and unnatural way to treat what is basically steak; that I have nothing personal against communists, and that I have nothing but the utmost respect for M/s. Chekhov, Shakespeare and Sterne.]

Guy walks into a producer’s office, says, “Man, have I got the play for you!”

Producer says, “I’m not really looking for new plays right now. I’ve already got four of them running.”

Guy says, “Four plays? That’s great. But this is the real thing. It has the whole avant-garde German expressionism meets soulful Russian angst vibe.”

Producer says: “Ah, naked redheads. Sounds fascinating. Tell me about it.”

Guy says, “It’s this adaptation of a play by this Russian dude called Anton Jerkov or something. So there are these three sisters, see. They used to be part of the nobility and all, but now the Ballshoveix have taken over so they don’t have a pot to piss in (which is okay, actually, because they don’t have showers either, so it all works out). The three of them live in this cherry orchard with their brother Vanya, who is badly off too because there aren’t any cherries left in Russia after the Great War. With me so far?

So anyway, Act one opens with the three sisters sitting around their parlor looking glum because it’s been years since they got any – what with them being wrinkled old hags and living out in the middle of nowhere on an abandoned orchard. One day they’re reading this book of old Greek myths, sharing the reading glasses between them (did I mention they were too poor to afford more than one pair of glasses between them?) when they read about this chick called Pacifier or something who wasn’t satisfied with her husband and made it with a bull.

So then they think to themselves “Hot Borscht! We have a bull too!”. They go rushing to the cattle shed. And there he is – a fine, virile specimen of bull-hood. The trouble is, there’s only one bull and there’s three of them. For a while they wrangle about who gets to go first, until they notice that while the bull has only one cock, he also a pair of fine, erect horns. So they all take of their dresses, tear their way out of their corsets, and two of them climb on top of the bull’s head, facing each other, licking and sucking each other’s breasts as each inserts one prong of the bull’s horns into her cunt. Meanwhile, the third sister, the oldest one (age will have its privileges) crawls under the bull’s belly and licks and strokes his cock until it’s completely erect, after which she gently takes his throbbing, turgid member into her ass.

At this point, their brother Vanya, who’s been feeling up the cow’s udders in the next stall, walks in to see what’s happening. When he sees two of his sisters being given head by a horny farm animal, while the third is anally violated by the beast (an act officially known as shit-bulling, I’m told), he figures he may as well join in the fun. So he whips out his already erect cock, lifts the bull’s tail, and plunges his organ deep into bull’s ass. The trouble is all this frisking has made the bull kind of gassy (hey, you try fucking three women on four full stomachs), so just as Vanya inserts himself, the bull lets out this mammoth fart, which travels all the way up Vanya’s cock and straight through to his bladder, causing it to swell like a balloon. This in turn causes Vanya’s bowels to move. Now Vanya, who’s perpetually constipated, is faced with a dilemma. Should he continue to fuck the bull in the ass, or should he take advantage of this unexpected bowel movement (he’s practically turtleheading here) and take a good crap instead?

Vanya is deeply conflicted about this choice, until he realizes that the answer need not be either / or. He can do both! So he takes his dick out of the bull, turns around, presses his asshole against the bull’s anus, and delivers a mammoth, rock-hard twelve-inch turd straight into the bull’s ass. This so excites the bull that he begins to thrust harder and harder at the older sister (who is, you’ll recall, still under him) until his engorged penis breaks through the walls of her vulva, pierces her internal organs, and eventually comes thrusting out through her belly, spilling her intestines to the floor. This doesn’t deter the bull though. He just keeps going, thrusting deeper and deeper into her, until finally he’s cracked her sternum and is pushing his cock between the fleshy mass of her breasts – basically titty-fucking her from the inside – before the others notice what is happening and, alarmed for their sister, drive the bull off with cattle prods.

With the bull gone, the two remaining sisters and Vanya stare down at their sister’s body, wondering if, despite the gore spilled everywhere, she may still be alive. Fortunately for them, Dr. Fastputin happens to pass by at this critical moment, so they call him in to take a look at their sister.

This Fastputin, aside from being the country doctor, is also a notorious communist vibrator, which is why he and the family have never been close. Having pronounced their sister dead, he now suggests that they salvage what they can from her body. “Comrades”, he says, “these are hard times. The heavy weight of her population weighs down on the country, so that we are forced to take whole villages into the wood and shoot them. In these troubled days, the burning need is for birth control (no really, burning need – in Siberia, we’re now using babies as firewood). Less mothers in Mother Russia, as our beloved Lenin once said. But condoms, as you know, are hard to come by, because the factories are closed while our great Russian Scientists attempt to reinvent rubber. And yet look what a goodly piece of tubing we have here”, (pointing to the dead woman’s intestines). “So thin, so delicately ribbed. Isn’t it our duty, as Comrades, as good citizens, to use it to make condoms?”

The family of the deceased see the logic of Fastputin’s argument, and have, of course, no objections to making condoms out of their dead sister’s guts in principle, but there is a practical difficulty – will the diameter of her intestines be adequate? This, Fastputin concedes, is a concern, but being a man of science, he soon finds a solution. Under his orders, a random selection of 31 peasants are assembled from the neighboring estates, to form a representative sample of all possible cock sizes. These 31 peasants (joined by Fastputin, and, in a burst of propraetorial pride, by Vanya ) then shove their penises into the asshole of the dead woman, on the theory that since the guts open into the anus, if a cock fits the asshole, it will fit the intestines as well. When this diameter proves satisfactory, Fastputin and Vanya cut the intestines into neat 7-inch sections, using a sickle, sections that the two remaining sisters stitch up at one end, using the deceased’s pubic hair as thread (did I mention they are too poor to be able to afford thread?).

This recycling operation complete, the newly produced condoms are distributed to the assembled peasantry, who, having stayed off sex for months for lack of condoms, now proceeded to fuck each other in the kind of wild, abandoned orgy characteristic of Russian villages of the period – a circle of men dancing the cocksack dance (you know the one – man takes of all his clothes, squats above another man, with the tip of the other man’s cock just inside his asshole, and then goes kick! with one leg, kick! with the other, keeping his arms folded and horizontal in front of him while he – like his scrotum – bobs up and down) , while a bearded, vaguely Jewish looking man sings ‘If I had a big dick” from the hit musical “What is that guy doing on the roof?” (the one that goes: “If I had a big dick / ta da dum, ta da ta da ta da dum / All day long I’d brad-a-brad-a-bum”). End of Act one.”

Producer: “Errr…look.”

Guy: “No, no, wait, you have to hear Act Two”

Producer: “Errr…”

Guy: “Act two opens back in the parlor, where the coffin containing the dead sister’s remains stands awaiting burial. Friends and relatives of the deceased have gathered to pay their last respects to the dead. These include Prince Forteinbras, a proud nobleman of Norwegian origin who was once a close friend of the dead woman (rumor has it he was also her lover). Forteinbras is currently suffering from a bad throat infection (which he calls his ‘dying voice’) and travels with a retinue of five body doubles, all of whom have been surgically rendered sterile to void the possibility of Forteinbras fathering illegitimate children without getting any fun out of it. Forteinbras also brings with him his cousin Hamlet, a young man perpetually depressed because his Whore Ratio (number of fucks with whores / total fucks) is much higher than seems consistent with his philosophy.

In addition, the company includes a niece and a nephew of the dead woman – the niece a sweet, virginal young thing and the nephew a tortured intellectual who goes around writing poems about seagulls with short wing spans, as a thinly disguised metaphor for his own sexual inadequacy.

As the act begins, the two remaining sisters sit weeping by the coffin, reminiscing about how much their sister liked her shandy, how no one could ever have dreamt that she’d die at the cock of a bull, and how unfair it was that a brief moment of harmless, natural, practically organic fun should lead to consequences so disastrous.

Their lament over, the sisters then head for the village graveyard, following Forteinbras, his five body doubles and Hamlet who are carrying the coffin between them. Vanya has elected to stay behind, ostensibly because he can’t leave the orchard unguarded, but mostly because he wants to see if he can get it on with his pretty little niece. (More on that later.)

At the burial, the two sisters are overcome with grief, and throw themselves into their sister’s open grave to show how devastated they are. Before long, their sorrow turns competitive, and they get stark naked and mud-wrestle in the grave to prove which of them loved their sister more. When this wrestling bout finally ends (in a draw) they realize that standing there, with their feet on their sister’s coffin, puts them at exactly groin height in relation to the six men standing around (Hamlet, by this point, has wandered off). Seeing this for the opportunity it is, they open the flies of the six men, take out their cocks and suck them one by one, moving in a circle around the grave edge, spending exactly one minute on each cock before moving onto the next, their pleasure in the semen shooting into their mouth (did I mention they’re too poor to afford more than one mouth between them?) heightened by the knowledge that only one of them is filling them with real cock juice, while the other five are shooting blanks.

Hamlet, meanwhile, has wandered off by himself, and finds a bleached white skull lying on the ground. Tempted by the round Os of the eye sockets, and figuring that fucking a skull is bound to bring his whore ratio down, he proceeds to have sex with skull, inserting his penis into first one eye socket and then the other. At some point, though, the urge to urinate comes over him. “To pee, or not to pee” he asks himself, then unable to resist, pisses straight into the inverted dome of the skull, using it as an impromptu chamber pot. This works well for a bit, until the quantity of his piss exceeding the capacity of the dead man’s brain, the piss comes pouring out of the recently fucked eye sockets, and onto Hamlet’s shoes, like a stream of yellow tears dribbling from the upside-down face. Disgusted with himself, Hamlet gets him to a tannery, where he throws himself into a pile of animal entrails – a pile from which he is rescued by a peasant girl, whose constant stench (from working at the tannery) has earned her the nickname of Offal-ia. The two then fuck on a bed of squishy animal guts. “It’s like sleeping on a water bed” Offal-ia remarks, at which point Hamlet confesses to his persistent habit of bed-wetting, which, of course, is the real cause of all his angst.

Meanwhile, back at the farmhouse, Uncle Vanya has finally managed to co-opt his fifteen year old niece into having sex with him, and is currently receiving a most enthusiastic blow-job (his niece has buck-teeth, but fortunately for Vanya, the glorious Russian Scientists haven’t managed to reinvent braces yet). The nephew wanders in, sees his uncle and sister locked in the sex act. For a while he tries to show the proper family spirit and join in, inserting his barely erect penis into his sister’s asshole, but being an intellectual, he soon gets bored of all this meaningless intercourse, and decides that rather than shove his cock into his family members, he’d rather read Pushkin.

The only trouble is – by this point it’s getting dark, and obviously the farmhouse itself has no electricity, and being a good nephew, he doesn’t have the heart to ask his uncle to remove his saliva-bathed cock from his (the nephew’s) sister’s moist, eager mouth and go fetch him a lamp. A moment’s thought offers an alternate solution (I told you he was an intellectual). First, he goes and fetches the cattle prod from the barn. Then he rummages through the house until he finds a bulb. Thus prepared, he shoves the cattle prod up his uncle’s ass and switch it on, sending a surge of electric current through his uncle’s body, and through his cock, into his sister. He then lifts and spreads his sister’s legs till they are at a convenient angle, props them up there, and screws the bulb into her vagina until it sparks and then lights up with the electricity passing through her. Thus illuminated, he sits down to read Eugene Onegin by the flickering light of his sister’s cunt.

End of Act Two.

So, what do you think?”

Producer: “I…I…what do you call this thing?”

Guy: “Oh, didn’t I tell you? The Aristocrats.”