Alessandro was a pig who enjoyed rolling in the mud when he had the time.
Otherwise, he was busy fucking his wives who would be lined up side by side to wait for their turns to be inseminated. He would service up to four or five wives a day and was good at his job as his wives bore him a lot of children. He was always proud when a large, healthy litter of piglets were delivered.
He was never to know or find out that his children were grown to be slaughtered to become bacon, pork chops, and sausages, and sometimes even cooked as sausages, wrapped in another's bacon.
At the helm of his power, Alessandro fell ill and died of the disease.
After which, his living sons hoped to ascend to the throne, but none of them were properly nearly as productive as their father, who might have also been their great-great-grandfather. Finally, the farmer bought a boar from a neighbouring farm to be the new king.
Sunday, 27 April 2008
Tuesday, 22 April 2008
The Fox Spirit
There was once a little girl, who lived in unknown parts of Japan, quite some time ago. She liked black ants and origami. When she grew up, she encountered a fox spirit, who found her crawling on her elbows and knees on the forest floor, looking for black ants to show her origami to. The fox spirit looked just like an ordinary fox that you would see on the wayside of a mountain road in Hokkaido if you were lucky enough to meet one; however, the fox spirit, having been in existence for one thousand and nine hundred years, and understanding the ways in which the world works well enough to manipulate perceptions, had magic powers.
Amused by the strange girl who grew up to be a woman, the fox spirit picked her up magically and made her float a little in the air much like she was flying, before reorienting her and dropping her such that she landed on her feet.
"Woman," the fox spirit called to the woman who was once a girl, "you are not a fox, nor are you a lizard. Why are you crawling on the forest floor? Your elbows and knees are not made for weathering like this."
To which, the woman replied by taking out a piece of paper from her sleeve, and folding it into a fox-shaped origami.
At this, the fox spirit understood and sympathised with the woman for being too dim to even feel fearful of what had been made happen. So, the fox decided to grant her a single wish, optimistically hoping that the woman would wish to become a brighter person. This is despite knowing that if the woman were to do so, she would then scream at the top of her voice and run hysterically away from the fox spirit.
After several moments of deliberation, the woman took out a piece of paper, and replied by folding an origami effigy of herself. After showing to the fox spirit, she tore away the origami legs and attached two extra pairs of arms and hands. Carefully, she bent the six arms of the effigy and placed it palms-down on the ground, and mimicked the scuttling of an ant. The smile on her face was satisfied but unsettling to watch.
The fox spirit understood that this wish was made so that the woman could have six limbs and would resemble a giant human ant; and, such that she could manage the folding of three sets of origami at one time. Her smile sprung from how she imagined herself crawling across the forest floors with ants, and how she would be taking delight in everything she had to do.
Disappointed, but mostly sympathetic, the fox refused the woman of her wish. The fox spirit explained carefully, that the woman had requested for two wishes, technically - one, to remove the limbs; and, two, to bestow additional limbs. The fox spirit reminded her that she was only promised one wish.
Cunning was the fox who then suggested that she could be granted just one additional pair of arms, so that she could both look like an ant, and fold an extra set of origami at the same time. The fox spirit designed that with the additional pair of arms extended from the hips, the woman could still hide them under a large skirt when she had to go to the market to buy origami paper, and needed to look somewhat presentable.
Amused by the strange girl who grew up to be a woman, the fox spirit picked her up magically and made her float a little in the air much like she was flying, before reorienting her and dropping her such that she landed on her feet.
"Woman," the fox spirit called to the woman who was once a girl, "you are not a fox, nor are you a lizard. Why are you crawling on the forest floor? Your elbows and knees are not made for weathering like this."
To which, the woman replied by taking out a piece of paper from her sleeve, and folding it into a fox-shaped origami.
At this, the fox spirit understood and sympathised with the woman for being too dim to even feel fearful of what had been made happen. So, the fox decided to grant her a single wish, optimistically hoping that the woman would wish to become a brighter person. This is despite knowing that if the woman were to do so, she would then scream at the top of her voice and run hysterically away from the fox spirit.
After several moments of deliberation, the woman took out a piece of paper, and replied by folding an origami effigy of herself. After showing to the fox spirit, she tore away the origami legs and attached two extra pairs of arms and hands. Carefully, she bent the six arms of the effigy and placed it palms-down on the ground, and mimicked the scuttling of an ant. The smile on her face was satisfied but unsettling to watch.
The fox spirit understood that this wish was made so that the woman could have six limbs and would resemble a giant human ant; and, such that she could manage the folding of three sets of origami at one time. Her smile sprung from how she imagined herself crawling across the forest floors with ants, and how she would be taking delight in everything she had to do.
Disappointed, but mostly sympathetic, the fox refused the woman of her wish. The fox spirit explained carefully, that the woman had requested for two wishes, technically - one, to remove the limbs; and, two, to bestow additional limbs. The fox spirit reminded her that she was only promised one wish.
Cunning was the fox who then suggested that she could be granted just one additional pair of arms, so that she could both look like an ant, and fold an extra set of origami at the same time. The fox spirit designed that with the additional pair of arms extended from the hips, the woman could still hide them under a large skirt when she had to go to the market to buy origami paper, and needed to look somewhat presentable.
Sunday, 20 April 2008
A Rodent's Tale
Everybody at my bus stop knows of the rat who wants to be a squirrel. Every morning, around 7.15 am to 7.20 am, a rat would scurry out of the storm drain that runs behind the bus stop, and rush to this particular yellow flame tree, and try to climb it.
I've seen this happen on several accounts (for sometimes I go to the bus stop later, or the bus arrives earlier, so I don't witness this everyday, but I imagine it to happen everyday). The highest that I've seen him gone, is about...1.5 metres? Which is quite a feat, don't you think? For a rat.
Nobody knows what's the motivation, exactly, or maybe everybody else knows it, but since I don't talk to anybody, they don't tell me.
But anyway, I'd like to think that the rat wants to be a squirrel, because it is in love with the handsome squirrel who springs from tree to tree, branch to branch, with a handsome bushy tail, which, no doubt, should make the "swinging bachelor" very desirable, as compared to the other rats, and their worm-like tails.
On second thought, should love, or even lust, inspire such tedious dedication? Perhaps. But surely, such a tale would constitute a tedious repetition, and my imagination should be able to complicate matters in a more interesting way.
Perhaps, the rat was once a squirrel, and when it was little, there was a squirrel civil war, of sorts, and the occupants raped his mother, and threw him out of the nest, and down the tree. He was gripped by his need for vengeance, ever since.
Exiled, the rats took him in, out of pity or something else, it cannot be certain. Perhaps, he bribed them with his luscious tail (highly plausible since that would explain why he looks like a rat now).
Being skilled merely as land soldiers, even warriors, the rats were suitable to help fight the aerial combats of the squirrels. In this way, the rats proved to be weak allies, despite their viciousness and unscrupulous nature. They could hardly even offer emotional support without exchanging it for sexual favours.
As his popularity as a male prostitute grew in the rat community, so did his romanticised tale of vengeance, until it reached the ears of a ninja rat (whose true story may have inspired the popular character, "splinter"). Or, on hindsight, perhaps the ninja rat's ears reached him. So, more probably, it should have been a samurai rat (I heard samurais are into this).
Being a cheapskate, or in a rush, or a bad boyfriend, the samurai rat told him that, in order for one to fight his battle in the sky, he must first learn to fly. These words of wisdom, or obviousness, besides falling into the annoying stereotype of how ninja or samurai or kung fu masters talk, had our hero infused with a sense of purpose - he must first learn to climb trees again.
Climbing trees must be difficult, for a squirrel who grew up with, and who was pretty screwed up by, rats. Well.
Climbing trees must be difficult, for a squirrel who was never properly instructed, and who had no bushy tail to help. That is why, he practises it every morning. He probably practises more often than that, but I just wasn't there to see.
I don't know if I am rooting for his success, really. Although, it is very moving to see his determination every morning, on my way to work, I cannot decide if I believe that vengeance, in general, is an overrated or childish... excuse for not accepting defeat. This is in the same vein as how I cannot quite decide if our hero is a male or female.
(Sneak)
I've seen this happen on several accounts (for sometimes I go to the bus stop later, or the bus arrives earlier, so I don't witness this everyday, but I imagine it to happen everyday). The highest that I've seen him gone, is about...1.5 metres? Which is quite a feat, don't you think? For a rat.
Nobody knows what's the motivation, exactly, or maybe everybody else knows it, but since I don't talk to anybody, they don't tell me.
But anyway, I'd like to think that the rat wants to be a squirrel, because it is in love with the handsome squirrel who springs from tree to tree, branch to branch, with a handsome bushy tail, which, no doubt, should make the "swinging bachelor" very desirable, as compared to the other rats, and their worm-like tails.
On second thought, should love, or even lust, inspire such tedious dedication? Perhaps. But surely, such a tale would constitute a tedious repetition, and my imagination should be able to complicate matters in a more interesting way.
Perhaps, the rat was once a squirrel, and when it was little, there was a squirrel civil war, of sorts, and the occupants raped his mother, and threw him out of the nest, and down the tree. He was gripped by his need for vengeance, ever since.
Exiled, the rats took him in, out of pity or something else, it cannot be certain. Perhaps, he bribed them with his luscious tail (highly plausible since that would explain why he looks like a rat now).
Being skilled merely as land soldiers, even warriors, the rats were suitable to help fight the aerial combats of the squirrels. In this way, the rats proved to be weak allies, despite their viciousness and unscrupulous nature. They could hardly even offer emotional support without exchanging it for sexual favours.
As his popularity as a male prostitute grew in the rat community, so did his romanticised tale of vengeance, until it reached the ears of a ninja rat (whose true story may have inspired the popular character, "splinter"). Or, on hindsight, perhaps the ninja rat's ears reached him. So, more probably, it should have been a samurai rat (I heard samurais are into this).
Being a cheapskate, or in a rush, or a bad boyfriend, the samurai rat told him that, in order for one to fight his battle in the sky, he must first learn to fly. These words of wisdom, or obviousness, besides falling into the annoying stereotype of how ninja or samurai or kung fu masters talk, had our hero infused with a sense of purpose - he must first learn to climb trees again.
Climbing trees must be difficult, for a squirrel who grew up with, and who was pretty screwed up by, rats. Well.
Climbing trees must be difficult, for a squirrel who was never properly instructed, and who had no bushy tail to help. That is why, he practises it every morning. He probably practises more often than that, but I just wasn't there to see.
I don't know if I am rooting for his success, really. Although, it is very moving to see his determination every morning, on my way to work, I cannot decide if I believe that vengeance, in general, is an overrated or childish... excuse for not accepting defeat. This is in the same vein as how I cannot quite decide if our hero is a male or female.
(Sneak)
Tuesday, 15 April 2008
The Girl from Ipanema?
She looked tall and tan and young and lovely. I admired her at the traffic crossing through the dusty window panes of my car.
Her light green satin dress was dancing with the gentle throbbing of her long brown hair that had big curls at the ends; and, her plumpy breasts were bobbing.
Then, a gentle breeze started blowing, distracting the rhythm of her jaunty walking. It was wrapping her dress to her body more tightly... so I noticed her hips... her crotch was showing... but it was not so womanly, something was jutting... She had a cock!
Her light green satin dress was dancing with the gentle throbbing of her long brown hair that had big curls at the ends; and, her plumpy breasts were bobbing.
Then, a gentle breeze started blowing, distracting the rhythm of her jaunty walking. It was wrapping her dress to her body more tightly... so I noticed her hips... her crotch was showing... but it was not so womanly, something was jutting... She had a cock!
Sunday, 6 April 2008
Tamás Vásáry
I've put it off for about one year or more but, today, I finally got my own CD recording of the Rach 3.
I've forgotten which version was supposed to be a good version, so I got the cheapest one left on the shelf. It sounds a little different as everything often does but it should suffice - the London Symphony Orchestra with Tamás Vásáry on the piano. I think he may be Spanish. Or he could be French. Frankly, I don't care and would rather he remain as the person who played the piano on the cheapest Rach 3 CD that I could find and bought on the afternoon of the 6th of April 2008. For this reason alone, I shall be grateful to him and the London Symphony Orchestra.
I shall harbour hopes of being introduced to him in person one day. I will tell him that his name sounds familiar and when I finally recognise him in time, I will tell him that he made a difference to me on the 6th of April of 2008, when I did not matter to him at all.
Maybe he will shake my hand and we will be friends, and then, we can go have mint chocolate chip ice cream together and wonder if it were made from crème de menthe.
Maybe Tamás is dead and I shall never be introduced to him in person...and it shall be very tragic for me to be anticipating an encounter. Will I only come to know his nationality from the internet?
I've forgotten which version was supposed to be a good version, so I got the cheapest one left on the shelf. It sounds a little different as everything often does but it should suffice - the London Symphony Orchestra with Tamás Vásáry on the piano. I think he may be Spanish. Or he could be French. Frankly, I don't care and would rather he remain as the person who played the piano on the cheapest Rach 3 CD that I could find and bought on the afternoon of the 6th of April 2008. For this reason alone, I shall be grateful to him and the London Symphony Orchestra.
I shall harbour hopes of being introduced to him in person one day. I will tell him that his name sounds familiar and when I finally recognise him in time, I will tell him that he made a difference to me on the 6th of April of 2008, when I did not matter to him at all.
Maybe he will shake my hand and we will be friends, and then, we can go have mint chocolate chip ice cream together and wonder if it were made from crème de menthe.
Maybe Tamás is dead and I shall never be introduced to him in person...and it shall be very tragic for me to be anticipating an encounter. Will I only come to know his nationality from the internet?
Monday, 17 March 2008
Fit
She learnt from some website mag to use mink oil on her mothers' purses to make them as good as vintage. So, in a fit of independence and self-actualisation, she triumphantly found some fine animal fat and a piece of left over craft felt and began to rub her bags.
“Wow. The leather really feel so nice and smooth with this magic mink oil, it's so cool! I...”
And before she finished her thought, with a sudden poof, a genie popped out of the classic Chanel clutch she was rubbing and said formidably,
“I am the genie of the Chanel bag... I will grant you one wish....You have only one wish because you're a size six! If you were a size four, I'd grant you maybe, three wishes.” This was not true, the genie always granted one wish to anyone, even size fours; he just liked to make people feel bad about their bodies so that they would wish to be slimmer, and he could quickly grant that well-rehearsed charm to go back to whatever, or whoever, he was doing.
“Whoever the fuck you are, you are just a bitch to me,” said the girl, unfazed, as she flashed the genie a middle finger which was glossy with mink oil,
“Now what was I thinking... I had wanted to put it on my blog,” she whined as she rolled her eyes at the genie before she announced her recollections self-righteously, “oh yeah, I was just thinking before I was rudely interrupted... that I wish someone would rub mink oil all over my dead body when my skin's all dried and wrinkly.”
“Wow. The leather really feel so nice and smooth with this magic mink oil, it's so cool! I...”
And before she finished her thought, with a sudden poof, a genie popped out of the classic Chanel clutch she was rubbing and said formidably,
“I am the genie of the Chanel bag... I will grant you one wish....You have only one wish because you're a size six! If you were a size four, I'd grant you maybe, three wishes.” This was not true, the genie always granted one wish to anyone, even size fours; he just liked to make people feel bad about their bodies so that they would wish to be slimmer, and he could quickly grant that well-rehearsed charm to go back to whatever, or whoever, he was doing.
“Whoever the fuck you are, you are just a bitch to me,” said the girl, unfazed, as she flashed the genie a middle finger which was glossy with mink oil,
“Now what was I thinking... I had wanted to put it on my blog,” she whined as she rolled her eyes at the genie before she announced her recollections self-righteously, “oh yeah, I was just thinking before I was rudely interrupted... that I wish someone would rub mink oil all over my dead body when my skin's all dried and wrinkly.”
Wednesday, 20 February 2008
Sunday, 17 February 2008
The Romeo and Juliet
Once upon a time, there lived a couple of lovers quite like Romeo and Juliet. Their families were at odds with one another, and they were, well, both filial and cowardly such that they did not want to go against the wishes of their family and date each other, or hold each other’s hands. They communicated through letters, and the post system, and sometimes, via telephone. Boring stuff.
Love.
One moony night, as the owls hoot, they thought of each other, and both wished aloud to be birds simultaneously so that they could be together (so much for filial piety). The owls heard and told a fairy with the powers of such things and they were turned into birds.
Immediately, they flew off to be together, but alas!
When they finally learned how to perch, they realized that as birds they could not speak, but could only chirp.
They could not hold hands, or hug, or kiss, or fuck!
Well, actually, they fucked, but it was quick and unsatisfying. So, they hung their heads in sorrow and wept and sang a song in a bird language that meant,
“We should have waited to be together after our fathers and mothers were dead! Or at least have them changed into birds instead!”
They lived, regretfully ever after.
Love.
One moony night, as the owls hoot, they thought of each other, and both wished aloud to be birds simultaneously so that they could be together (so much for filial piety). The owls heard and told a fairy with the powers of such things and they were turned into birds.
Immediately, they flew off to be together, but alas!
When they finally learned how to perch, they realized that as birds they could not speak, but could only chirp.
They could not hold hands, or hug, or kiss, or fuck!
Well, actually, they fucked, but it was quick and unsatisfying. So, they hung their heads in sorrow and wept and sang a song in a bird language that meant,
“We should have waited to be together after our fathers and mothers were dead! Or at least have them changed into birds instead!”
They lived, regretfully ever after.
Wednesday, 30 January 2008
Silverfish Graveyard
As I was cleaning a corner of my room, I came across two dead silverfish on a cardboard box and did not fail to say “Yucksss” before wiping them off with a piece of toilet paper. After which, I took a closer look at the cardboard box, and discovered more dead silverfish.
It looked like a normal cardboard box. It used to contain industrial tape. I know because I got the box home from some company I used to work at. However, it must not be a normal cardboard box which I thought of it to be for there are so many dead silverfish on it. I could not bear to count the number of carcasses exactly, but 34 seems like a conservative exaggeration for you to share my disgust. I disposed of the bodies with care and repulsion and more toilet paper. It must be a special silverfish graveyard cardboard box. Befittingly, I threw it away, as well.
“Why are there so many dead silverfish in this corner of my room?” I asked myself. I did not know the answer immediately so I set out to investigate the matter.
Firstly, I took a book near the silverfish graveyard and tapped it against the ground to see if any more dead silverfish will fall out, or worse, alive ones. Luckily, there were not any. Therefore, I must force myself to conclude, for lack of better alternative, that all the silverfish in my room are dead and those alive are gone. They are dead and gone.
Secondly, I must ask myself how the silverfish died and went. With a gentle twitch of my imagination, I know that there can only be two possibilities, either they have evolved teleportation skills and abandoned their grandparents to die of old age; or they were all poisoned by a psychotic book loving silverfish, who thought that as long as the silverfish survive, they will eat and even though they can find alternatives now, one day, the alternatives will run out and they will have to eat books. After poisoning all the silverfish, it slammed its head repeatedly onto the cupboard box and died.
Thirdly, I researched on the internet to find that silverfish have existed for approximately thirty million years. Do you know how long thirty million years is? It is longer than I can imagine, and therefore, quite damn bloody long. And if the silverfish existed for so damn bloody long, and still look as creepy as they do, and still eat that shit (hair, dandruff, glue) that they do, I think teleportation skills should be quite low on the priority list. I deduce that the teleportation theory is unlikely. Therefore, I must incline towards the psycho silverfish theory, and mourn for two minutes for its tragic and bizarre death.
Then again, it was quite opinionated and presumptuous to poison everybody. It was cruel and incomprehensible. Could it have valued books something supposedly inanimate and tangible over life?
Isn’t life the most precious of all? Being alive, and staying alive. It is life that is of the highest order of living. Life and being alive are the crystallized sense of what living is. It is about being alive that we have a use for books: I use them to place on the shelves; the silverfish use them for food;and, the shelves use them for company. Of all the three examples, the most esteemed use for a book would be how the silverfish use them for food to sustain life itself. Sustaining life is the most fundamental, and therefore, the highest form of living. Now, we suddenly have the psycho silverfish who killed everyone else who might end up eating books... Was it for love?
There is no dilemma here. This is only irony. This is the stuff of war and protests (like for animal rights and human rights). This is the stuff of songs. This is the stuff of books.
I could kill myself to feed someone who is starving, but that would be disrespectful to my own life. So, I proclaim that I would gladly be killed by someone who is starving for food. Oh! I am so inspired that I would turn vegetarian if not for the fact that I can quickly agree that vegetables have lives too, so it won’t really make any difference, and enjoying eating good food is enjoying the highest form of living well, and that, makes me feel good about myself, that I am better than an psychotic book loving silverfish.
(sneak.)
It looked like a normal cardboard box. It used to contain industrial tape. I know because I got the box home from some company I used to work at. However, it must not be a normal cardboard box which I thought of it to be for there are so many dead silverfish on it. I could not bear to count the number of carcasses exactly, but 34 seems like a conservative exaggeration for you to share my disgust. I disposed of the bodies with care and repulsion and more toilet paper. It must be a special silverfish graveyard cardboard box. Befittingly, I threw it away, as well.
“Why are there so many dead silverfish in this corner of my room?” I asked myself. I did not know the answer immediately so I set out to investigate the matter.
Firstly, I took a book near the silverfish graveyard and tapped it against the ground to see if any more dead silverfish will fall out, or worse, alive ones. Luckily, there were not any. Therefore, I must force myself to conclude, for lack of better alternative, that all the silverfish in my room are dead and those alive are gone. They are dead and gone.
Secondly, I must ask myself how the silverfish died and went. With a gentle twitch of my imagination, I know that there can only be two possibilities, either they have evolved teleportation skills and abandoned their grandparents to die of old age; or they were all poisoned by a psychotic book loving silverfish, who thought that as long as the silverfish survive, they will eat and even though they can find alternatives now, one day, the alternatives will run out and they will have to eat books. After poisoning all the silverfish, it slammed its head repeatedly onto the cupboard box and died.
Thirdly, I researched on the internet to find that silverfish have existed for approximately thirty million years. Do you know how long thirty million years is? It is longer than I can imagine, and therefore, quite damn bloody long. And if the silverfish existed for so damn bloody long, and still look as creepy as they do, and still eat that shit (hair, dandruff, glue) that they do, I think teleportation skills should be quite low on the priority list. I deduce that the teleportation theory is unlikely. Therefore, I must incline towards the psycho silverfish theory, and mourn for two minutes for its tragic and bizarre death.
Then again, it was quite opinionated and presumptuous to poison everybody. It was cruel and incomprehensible. Could it have valued books something supposedly inanimate and tangible over life?
Isn’t life the most precious of all? Being alive, and staying alive. It is life that is of the highest order of living. Life and being alive are the crystallized sense of what living is. It is about being alive that we have a use for books: I use them to place on the shelves; the silverfish use them for food;and, the shelves use them for company. Of all the three examples, the most esteemed use for a book would be how the silverfish use them for food to sustain life itself. Sustaining life is the most fundamental, and therefore, the highest form of living. Now, we suddenly have the psycho silverfish who killed everyone else who might end up eating books... Was it for love?
There is no dilemma here. This is only irony. This is the stuff of war and protests (like for animal rights and human rights). This is the stuff of songs. This is the stuff of books.
I could kill myself to feed someone who is starving, but that would be disrespectful to my own life. So, I proclaim that I would gladly be killed by someone who is starving for food. Oh! I am so inspired that I would turn vegetarian if not for the fact that I can quickly agree that vegetables have lives too, so it won’t really make any difference, and enjoying eating good food is enjoying the highest form of living well, and that, makes me feel good about myself, that I am better than an psychotic book loving silverfish.
(sneak.)
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