Bumbling Mutant or the Priapismic Philosopher?

A fried up morning, set in cold Valhalla. This is not a story but a comicography of one lean individual.

The slothful chauvinist philosopher has arranged himself into a cozy embrace with the sandman underneath the covers. A snarl, a grunt and a honk escape the olfactory organs of the sleeper. He's dreaming of tits!

I walk in and out of rooms eying my fellow mate at inconsistent intervals trying desperately to examine minor traces of study burn out - praying hopefully that he'll sometime somehow succumb to the weariness and eventually head off to the laxation site to discharge his fecal waste.

Each man spanning his designated territory within the accommodation does his best to focus on the literature he holds for immaculate knowledge, disappearing and again reappearing in and out of rooms like veritable dead anomalies.

No sooner have both of us crossed Rubicon, words of the enlightened cry out from underneath the comfort covers – “BehnChod*!!!”

Facial features twist – pupils dilate. We tread softly, approaching the philosopher, cautious, fearing another effusion. The sheets lay victim to a silent but severe rape treatment beneath it. The philosopher, mumbling a string of curse words, appears to awaken at a deadening pace.

The eyelids pop open and we are introduced to a revived monster. His face resembles the arsehole of a baby goat. Sitting upright in a yogic bearing, he gets ready to unlock his osseous tissue for another day of pronounced work grind. The philosopher starts off near the cranium where he wiggles his ears and a crack is heard at the back of his head. He then cricks his head from left to right and the painful snaps occur once again. This practise continues till he finally ends up twisting his toes in an attempt to let us wonder why we don’t spray synovial fluid for door hinges.

The philosopher stands up slowly revealing his enormous protuberance from beneath his jockeys. What was he trying to do? Create an allegory for ‘Yank my Crank'? This man has a definite visa for Bangkok. We give him enough room to pass through without causing us loathsome dread to have to come in contact with his stone shank.

I look at my companion in absolute horror while he stays fixated to the ‘blech’ sight walking in his boxers towards the dining table where another set of our mates lie seated in their chairs distorting their face in distaste. As the philosopher sits down, he slowly muffles a snuff and grunt again and reaches for the early morning gazette to engage himself for a few minutes. As he skims through the sheets, nodding disapprovingly at all the bigotry characterised by the several campaigns and summits, he proceeds to inform us all about the uncanny resemblance in the pugilistic mentality of our neighbouring Muslim territory and a certain Afghan terrorist organisation. He further goes on to rattle a string of curses in their name. Typical.

Our hero is one but a healthy being. His body consists of pores, revolting pores that stand home to a thousand lesions that have started a colony within them. The philosopher feels the need to scratch one of the wounds behind his neck and as he does so, the bruise is severed and the gross abrasion now spews out inflammatory fluid of varying colours – white, red and yellow. The pore tears itself open wider with the increasing pressure of bodily fluid. People sitting beside the philosopher are covered with a gooey substance that stinks of dead larvae.

Suddenly the table begins to rock – up, down, sideways and all over. A clear case of Sergeant NocWorst doing push-ups for the day under the table. A huge pandemonium erupts amongst the ones sitting down beside the philosopher. A barrage of complaints are headed the philosophers way. He replies with a crackling roar, ‘Sh…sh…sh…sh…shut up you f…f…f...f…ools. Do not k…k…k…create such ruck…k…k…k…k...us and get back to your books. Imbeciles!’

Then…it happens. She enters the accommodation. Her presence causing instant transfiguration. Ever watched ‘The Matrix – Reloaded’ in which Seraph, the divine carries golden code to form his construct? You could relate her to that. She’s the epitome of divinity. Her aural protuberances – the ‘Aupros’** glowed to render evidence of her purity. As she steps in, silence reigns supreme and everyone in the room looks on - coveting her, for she's an ethereal being who floats on gossamer wings. She floats towards the philosopher and plants a kiss on his cheek.

Like most aural protuberances, Lappu and Teelu...**

*BehnChod: Meaning - Hindustani slang vernacular for 'One who has intercourse with one's feminine sibling'.

**See article: "Lappu and Teelu: The Tale of Two Aural Protuberances" at www.purdypitchers.blogspot.com.