Mamma Mia
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
"What do you want to be when you grow up?"
"An arCHAEologist", I said and Miss Cheesely shook her head in response, signalling incomprehension. My young mind was still struggling with polysyllabic words so I tried a substitution of phonemes and answered her again : "An ARCHaeologist".
"Oh, an archaeologist?", she asked, as I patted myself on the back for getting it right and made a mental note of the correct pronunciation, "Why would you want to become one, li'l Lampooner? Archaeologists spend hours out digging in sunny climes to find dirty old bones, y'know."
"Becoming an archaeologist gets me closer to mummies, Miss Cheesely. It feeds my need for mummies."
"Mummies?"
"I love mummies. It must be the Oedipus Complex inside me."
Miss Cheesely sighed. I hadn't been paying attention in the psychology classes she said, and Freud would be turning in his grave, she hypothesized.
"That's factually incorrect", I replied, "Even for a hypothesis. Freud was in fact cremated. His ashes would be swirling in an urn would be more appropriate", I pointed out.
"Right", she said, "Anyway, your penchant for mollycoddling mummies seems-"
"I fear it is more than mere mollycoddling, Miss Cheesely."
She stared at me through her glasses. "Okay, this um.. love for mummies suggests necrophilia."
Necrophilia. I liked the sound of that word. I said it aloud, wondering if I got the phonemes right, and as Miss Cheesely nodded, realized that I did and made a mental note of the pronunciation.
"But why mummies?", she asked, "Wouldn't the cadavers at the Biology department be better partners, for want of a better word?"
"Cadavers?", I scoffed. "Mummies hit a hypothetical eleven on the necrophiliac hotness scale, Miss Cheesely. Think deadness as hotness and you can't get deader than a Mummy. Mummies are vintage death."
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Miss Cheesely and I travelled to Cairo the year I came of age, an unlikely pair of tomb robbers. The desert - well, to cut a long story short, skipping over character descriptions and page filling material like intimate encounters, we did get to dig up mummies, actually a singular mummy, a single mom who preceded gender equality by centuries and was probably mummified alive and expected to be damned forever in the Netherworld. It is not known though why her mummy remained intact instead of being unwrapped and flesh torn to shreds by hellish minions, but a speculation on that subject is wisely left to the scholars. I was looking at the most attractive dead woman in the world and I could not care less about the dereliction of duties of the Netherworld staff.
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She remained Miss Cheesely till her death in '56. After that she became Mrs. Lampooner.
posted by foogarky @ 12:16 PM,
,
Francis
Sunday, March 08, 2009
"It was nearing Christmas when I hit puberty. Francis began looking at me differently since. My breasts had grown bigger and I would notice his eyes going down towards them when he thought I wasn't looking. I let him stare though. I figured that one day he would ask me out to a movie and dinner and we would return to his apartment later in the night and throw ourselves at each other, hungry for the taste of flesh. It happened months later and we found ourselves in his place, undressing each other. As he pushed me to the wall, I resisted playfully and escaping his grasp, stepped away from him, tripped over the couch, crashed through the French windows of his balcony and fell to my death."
"It ends there?"
"Yes."
"That was a great hook though."
"Yeah."
"A pity that it had to be wasted here."
"I wouldn't call it a waste."
"It is a waste, isn't it? How could this story continue after the accidental death of the narrator?"
"Well yes, we wouldn't have descriptions of characters and setting. But tales have been successfully told in more extreme circumstances, haven't they?"
"Probably. But I have no interest in the literary avant-garde."
"That's surprising. Aren't you one of the openers?"
"Opener?"
"Were you scheduled to appear on page 1?"
"I'm not sure. Where does one check that?"
"In the draft, of course."
"I received no draft."
"You're beginning to sound like a secondary character.."
"I don't know who I am. Who are you?"
"I am the narrator's father."
"Oh. What do you do when you know that Francis is boning your daughter?"
"Warn him to stay away from my little girl, I suppose. My character is stock unfortunately, to drive the story along."
"Well, I think you can still serve your purpose."
"Really? How?"
"Applying Occam's Razor, I figured that I could only be Francis. And here we are, standing over your dead daughter's body. In your rage, you assume that I am responsible for her death. So, are you going to take this story to its bloody end?"
posted by foogarky @ 10:34 AM,
,
The Author
foogarky
foogarky is the pseudonym of the fictional construct who battles for supremacy with other constructed personas in the mind of a crazed individual. He describes himself as a man living in a non descript house in Rio De Janiero, Brazil with two dogs and a parakeet.
About This Blog
The Loony Lampoonist serves to parody, spoof and satirize everything that needs to be parodied, spoofed and satirized. Due to the fictional nature of this electronic journal, any anecdotes appearing here ever so often that seem to be personal in nature, would suffer from the effects of conflicting personalities, the creation of fictional events and the inclusion of non existent characters who did not make it to the big league in the author's literary works. Thus, the Loony Lampoonist is also a purgatory for characters and ideas that have missed the limelight.
