Cheese, Urinals, The President and Chili

The other day I ate so much cheese I dreamt that dairy was bad for my body. 

—

Imagine a team of men put in charge of designing male urinals.  Imagine them in a boardroom discussing, in complete sincerity, how to avoid a design that splashes the urine back at the body of the people relieving themselves.  Imagine the test models derived from such discussions and then imagine the day that testers come in to give feedback on the amount of urine splash-back they experienced when using each model; the filling out of sheets: the distances; the angles; the estimated pressure of urine streams on a scale of one to ten; where the splash back occurred; where they were aiming at the time.  And imagine them being asked which urinal they’d use again—which was the most ideal, practical and easy-to-use one.  Which was the most comfortable.  Imagine the testers going home to their families after this day; the board members’ ensuing discussions in the about the results, the extraneous variables that may have affected the tests.  The men go home, some to their apartments, some to their families, and brainstorm ways of improving the urinal.  They tell their friends and families about their work.  They come back the next day and either agree ona  model, or redesign.

  Now, imagine a drunk man urinating on a tree.

—

What kind of toilet paper does the President use when he takes a shit?  Do you think he has the time or the privacy to masturbate?  Would images of the President partaking in either of these activities be highly detrimental to his reputation? and if so, why?  Imagine when the President first inserted his fingers into a woman’s vagina.  I wonder if it was in that moment he knew he’d be President.

     I’m the man, he might have thought.  I’m the man.

     Is the President a wholesome man who’s thoroughly well-read in all of the topics he speaks about?  Is that a believable notion?  Maybe there’s a presidential handbook that covers all the things the public need to hear from the mouth of a president.  When we speak of the President, or any powerful leader, do we have any idea what we’re talking about?  To question whether we have any idea what we talk about is a bit like admitting something—isn’t it?  You mean to say my vote might be something like arbitrary?  Maybe.

     If the President had to have a second preference in an election, who would he vote for?  If he answered this question, would he be admitting that he’s not really fit to be President?

     I often imagine the President peeling an orange, getting the juice all over his hands and shoving the dripping pieces into his mouth.  Hungry Mr President, licking all the juices from his hands and wrists. Gnom gnom gnom, gobble that orange Mr President.

     You’re the man.

—

Unfortunately, one day, which may or may not have been today, I masturbated without thinking about the chili I’d been cutting earlier and whose juice was all over my fingers.  My willy really, really stung.

     But I kept going and eventually, well, it felt kind of nice.

Is the story…true?

Going Inside

There’s a church before me with neon lights depicting what looks to be the actual birth of Jesus.  The flashing bulbs outline a child coming forth from a neon womb, with neon men gathered about it, receiving the child.

Where am I?

A priest approaches me and says excuse me, young lady, can I come inside?  He has a strange seediness about him, not to mention the traces of a questionable smile.  What does he mean?  He’s the priest.  Why is he asking me…

I want to come inside.

What the fuck, I think.  How young am I?

I stare him in the eye and eventually he proceeds into the church, under the neon scene and into big wooden doors.

I’m on my bike now, it seems.  The seat feels nice between my thighs—wait, that’s a euphemism.  The seat feels arousing rubbing up against my pussy.  Why did I phrase it like that?  This must be a dream.  But I can feel it…

I start riding away because I don’t want to go into that church.  There might be another church I could go into, but not that one.  Not with that man inside and the neon bulbs depicting Jesus’ birth.  Like some post-apocalyptic Christian diner.

I’m riding fast along a footpath, not on the road.  The seat is rubbing against me hard now; I think I’m pushing down on it, working out what feels best.  This is better than before.  I feel better, now, at this point in the dream—if that’s what it is—better than before, when I was regarding that church.  Come to think of it, it didn’t even look quite like a church.  Not the way I imagine a church.  Only the wooden doors, really, resembled a church.  It was made of red brick and had a roof that any old house might have.

How am I thinking, in a dream?

I ride faster and faster and once in a while I stand up and glide on the bike and the air resistance creeps up my legs and into my thighs and it feels like menthol on warm, wet skin and though my eyes are closed as I glide and moan I’m not scared because I cannot get hurt here.

I feel something like this during the daytime hours, too; I’m not going to die anytime soon, so it’s okay—I can take some risks.  I’m not sure how I know that.  Maybe I don’t’—but I feel it.  There’s things I need to do first.  Maybe this is a pivotal karma cycle or something; maybe I’ve been around and around for ages, learnt many things, but this cycle is where I become a Buddha.  Maybe I always was and this is just the end of a game.  Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Eventually I come to a school.  It’s empty and I see that it’s a girls’ school and realise, somehow, that it must be school holidays.  I’m disappointed because I want to see the girls in their uniforms, their little skirts and all that innocence that glows from them so exuberantly.  I feel hungry for something.

The school tells me that I can come inside, so I do.  I ride furiously about the grounds and all of a sudden there are people up against the fence that runs along the perimeter—lots of people.  I’m pedaling manically while they watch, amused; they’re like a rodeo crowd or something and although I’m conscious of them I’m not self-conscious of them; and in a way I enjoy having them there and go faster and faster, over the concrete basketball court, over the oval, around the portable classrooms—each place feels subtly different and I thrive off of the diversity of terrain.  Even the imperfections—especially the cracks and bumps in the concrete where tree roots are breaking through—send my body shivering.  I’m performing and it’s making me wetter for some reason.  But I can’t stop.  I have to keep going.

The crowd, I notice, have grown serious.  They are pensive, waiting.  Do they want to see me crash?  Should I have gone into the church?

Fuck it.  It’s too late now.  I can’t stop.  The seat feels like it’s drenched and what I’d normally experience as an uncomfortable wetness down my thighs I now find myself immersed in.  I think of wetting myself as a child and the distant feeling of not having to feel embarrassed for doing it; of almost finding a freedom in that feeling.  I think about waking up in a patch of cold, smelly urine, but dismiss the thought because it’s too late, I’ve already done it.  It drips away as I ride.  The people don’t react at all.

I imagine the girls coming back to school after holidays.  But they’re not learning, they’re not in classrooms.  They’re out at play, mingling and splitting into little groups.  The little chances they have between regimented institutional schedules, where what people call chemistry can flourish.  I was a girl like that, once.

I come to a stop in the middle of the school oval; I scream but nothing audible comes out.  I clutch the bike frame as it falls sideways and the both of us fall awkwardly to the grass, me clinging to it in ecstasy.  I am crying now, too.  I am neither happy nor sad; I am now dripping wet with tears and juices, but I desire nothing and have no fear of anything.

Even the man at from the church is a harmless memory.  Even his words: Can I come inside?

Maybe I’m understanding something.  Maybe I’m…

How lucid am I, really?

What is this?

Dogalogue (I)

Ah, it’s morning.  Fuckin’ bright.  Who’s this guy?  Guess I’ll go get a pat off him.  Who is he, anyway?  A gardener?  Always people hangin’ round my yard, doin’ stuff.  Smell ‘em a mile away.  Bah—at least they pat me good.  Most.  The guys that do stuff around here give a pretty damn good pat, too; vigorous.  Not like that goddamn dog walker they pay to take me around the block.  Pansy pat.  No meaning, like the bastard’s just been built to pat and walk.  A robot man.  The doin’ stuff guys have better hands for it, more thorough.  Fuck me—my owners pay someone to walk me.  That’s love, ey.  I feel like an ornament sometimes.  Hey, buddy!  What’s up?  Doin’ the garden?  Cool.  I’m just hanging out.  Can I cuddle up to the side of ya like this?  Sweeeet.  Ahhhhh yeah, that’s the spot.  Cheers.  I love behind the ears.  This is where I live, this yard; but I don’t really like the people that live in that big house.  Ugly house too, ey?  You should see the kids.  No sense of anything but themselves.  They hug me like a doll, for ages.  I snapped at one once but then I had to go to this fuckin’ training school for ages, with this massive bitch getting me to do the dumbest shit.  Honestly.  Imagine if you had someone dealing food out to you to get you to raise your paw, like a human handshake?  Bye-bye dignity.  But you’re hungry, so ya fuckin’ do it.  Lame.  Humans Projecting Onto Dogs 101, they should call the course.  What ya doin’ there, gardener man?  Planting things?  Ah, taking out things.  I shit in there sometimes—sorry.  It’s not personal, but this is my space, ya know.  Gotta do it somewhere.  Alright, well thanks for the pat; lovely, as usual.  I might go over there and sit in the sun with my tongue out panting.  Mmmmm, such a nice day.  I hope those kids don’t come out here and break my peace, hitting that ball back and forth over that netted barrier.  What’s the point?  Don’t they know a ball is for fetching?  Much easier game.  Chuck, fetch, return.  Simple and fun.  Could do it for days.  My favourite part is not quite bringing the ball back.  Ha!  And they think you’re gonna drop it but ya just kind of go near them and keep it locked in your mouth.  Fantastic.  Who’s really fetching here?  Haha.  Silly monkeys.  Might go get some water.  Hope the old lady’s filled it.  Or whoever she pays to fill it.  Hmm, warm.  Ah well, it’ll do.  There she is; god, look at her.  She does nothing but administrate, mediate all the people she pays to maintain her stuff.  Even me.  Lucky to get a superficial stroke on the head from that one—in fact, I reckon she just brought me in here the beginning as a sort of display for the kids.  Made a family, better get a dog.  Shove him in the yard, get people to keep him alive and get on with your life.  At least the kids have innocent curiosity and a bit of love; she, the lady, is a cold one.  I never really see her mate, either.  The old guy.  Always away, probably paying for all this shit.  Probably got a few new mates on the go.  Can’t see this being the most romantic household to come back to.  The place looks like a fuckin’ space station.  No warmth at all, when it comes to human dwellings.  Though I guess that’s just my opinion.  I do live in there though.  Most dogs have a kennel, but these guys let me sleep in a room.  Not bad.  Still, I’d rather a more loving family.  Don’t get me wrong, I get the contact; but it’s sort of like having a whole bunch of friends, but not really being very close to any of them.  People like me, but they never wanna hang out for too long.  I’ve thought of running away, but I’m not sure I’d survive.  Too many threats out there; and of course they’d come looking for me.  Then they’d probably get sad.  Their toy has gone missing.  Probably just order a new one.  And I guess I’d miss the good pats, like from that gardener.  Such deep pats.  You can really feel the love; the good ones smile so much when they see me relaxing and enjoying it, too.  It’s mutual, that process.  Some people seem to get off on the idea that they’re giving something to dogs when they give a thorough pat, but they’re deceiving themselves there.  A good and proper pat is an exchange.  Watch a human giving a dog a good pat and tell me it’s a one-way process.  No way.  They love it.  That’s why the hugs can be so irritating.  Make ya feel like a static object.  I’m not a fuckin’ stuffed bear, kid, get off me.  Won’t snap again though.  Fuck that training school.  Next time someone asks me to shake I’m gonna claw their face.  Haha.  Not really, though.  I’ve heard bad things.  A cousin of mine once told me that a friend of his snapped bad at someone and they took him away forever.  Humans don’t quite get it; they like to punish, even if it’s a situation they can’t possibly understand.  Tough beings, they are.  Sometimes.  Maybe I’ll go back to that gardener.  Good guy.  Doesn’t take his work too seriously.  I reckon he’ll give me another good pat.  Maybe I’ll give him a kiss.

I reckon he’ll like that.

I'm Sorry. You're Fired.

I’m sorry, Fred.  You’re not really fitting into the role.  We’re going to have to let you go.

Look Samantha, we’re sorry, but we don’t think you’re the right person for this position.  Your employment will terminate after the next financial quarter.

Bob, we’ve known each other a long time and you should know that this isn’t easy for me. After a long and thorough series of talks, the committee has decided that you’re not fit for our company and the tasks it demands of you.  There’s no need to come in next week.  I’m sorry.

You’re ugly Sally.  And now you’re also fired.  Please leave.

Look, buddy. We don’t get along.  You know it,I know it and the whole goddamn office knows it.  I can either fire you, or you can just leave.  I’ll even give you a reference.  How about it?

Anthony, you’re a misogynistic jerk-off.  I don’t really know how else to put it.  You can’t grab Kelly like that and after so many clear and explicit rejections, no one really understands why you still leave pseudo-anonymous notes on the company fridge inviting her into the janitor’s closet for a "romp".  Do you really expect me not to fire you?

Ted, pack your stuff.  Ya fired, mate.

Amy, this is a very difficult situation.  We understand your condition and that your needs are not as easily met as most employees.  But when we said to stop seducing our male employees during work hours, we sort of meant the women too.  And the desks.  Our office just can’t go on smelling like this.  You’re fish.  I mean fired—you’re fired.

Attention team, could Bryan please come to the Director’s office to be relieved of his position.  Thank you.

Mick, you’re not a very nice person.  That glare you have just screams hate for the world and that’s not something we here at Kids’ Stuff can really work with.  As the face of the marketing team, you’re constantly frightening the kids we’re meant to be hooking into our products.  They just don’t need to know about your ruthless take on evolution and survival in modern society.  Nor do they like cigarette smoke.  Sorry, mate. You might want to pack your stuff tonight; you’ve already been replaced.

Maria, you’re fired because someone else told me I had to do it.  Please let’s stay in touch.  I’ll never forget those Latin thighs and the nights you spent playing maid for me in the CEO’s office.  Adios, mi bonita.

Adam. After some thought and a few simple social tests, we’ve come to the conclusion that you’re actually mentally challenged and probably not fit to organise the party’s immigration policies. We’ve contacted the loony bin and it’s being wheeled down as we speak.  You’re fired.

Angelo, all you do is talk about yourself.  You work hard, but no one cares about all this stuff you’re saying. They have a constant stream of thoughts too, but often as humans we filter through what we want to say and what we don’t feel the need to say.  You probably need to look into that.  Good luck finding further employment.

Betty, you’re so damn fine.  But we can’t keep you, baby.  The company just can’t sustain such fine legs as those.  And you’re driving us into bankruptcy with those calves, too.  Sorry sweetcheeks.  See you in heaven.

Willy, you’re a bit stiff.  Our company’s image is all about limber, flaccid.  Either correct your posture or we’re going to have to free you.

Good evening, Krystal.  No, look, put those away; we need to talk.  Krystal, this is serious.  Baby, not now.  The company’s trying to—oh, please, take it out of there.  You can’t talk to me with that there.  Krystal!  You’re still fired.

Our company, Mr Henderson, has decided that your worth does not correlate with our expectations.  Simply put, you’re just not good enough.  Statistically, socially, physically—you don’t make the cut.  I hope you can find another job that has far lower standards. Good day.

You’re fired.  I’m looking into a mirror and relieving myself of my own position.  How is this experience rationalised?

As heavenly beings, we cannot accept demons into our marketing kingdom.  We’re soul traders, you see.  See you in hell.

Carol, you ain’t nothin’ but a hussy.  Sit on this, before I fire you.

Boss? You’re fired.  I dislike the way you reign over everyone else just because of a fairly well-embedded power structure.  So I’m firing you now.  Get the fuck out of my office.  Ya cunt.

I’m fired. See, I’m burning all over.  Ouch.

Helen, we’re retrenching you.  You’re free now.  Go forth and enjoy what’s left of your life,with a small but seemingly generous sum of money to see you to the grave.  I hope your arthritis holds up so you don’t have to spend the remaining years limping to the supermarket and back just to survive day-to-day. Neeeeeext!

Andy, the higher-ups keep telling me to tell other people things that I have little to no understanding of.  I’m supposed to be “terminating” about six people today.  Where the fuck is the office terminator?  What does it all mean?

Rob, let’s face it: you don’t want to work here.  And we don’t want you working here.  You feel my drift?  See you at the pub.

You’re just fucking fired, cunt.

Cancer (I)

“You have several tumors growing inside of you, Mr Well.  Though we cannot say for sure, I myself doubt that they can be reached through surgery.  They are not benign and will likely leave you with a limited amount of time to live.  I am—“

    The doctor suddenly grows slightly awkward.  Side-stepping slowly across to his desk, he pulls a sheet of paper over and eyes it discernably.

    “—err, deeply sorry to have to inform you of this.  If you need any psychological assistance from here on, we can refer you accordingly.”

    The patient holds his hand to his brow in a dramatic display of grief.  A little over-exaggerated; like a stage show.

    “But doctor, this is not meant to be,” he says.  “I am supposed to live for at least another twenty years.  It was told to me, by an other-dimensional being.  It came to me—no, wait, has come to me—several times, in several different forms.  It is the Earth Mother in all of her guises.”

    The doctor’s eyes shift about the room; the sheet of protocol he’s been looking at suddenly seems rather impotent.

     I wasn’t trained for this…

     “She came to me once in the form of forest-dwelling hags of Russian mythology—you know, like old haggard women?  When I was a child, they would come through my bedroom window, figures of white with black outlines, against a white background, like drawings.  And they strapped me down with belts of some kind and tickled and tickled me.  My laughter eventually turned into ecstasy and I screamed and screamed.  I was so ticklish and being restrained made it worse—I couldn’t quite stand it.  They came and went, over years: a recurring dream, you see.  I am to live for some time, they would say—I have things to do in this world.  The tickling was like a foreboding; a test for the future.  I’ve had to endure, you see.”

    The doctor has backed away toward the door.  He is sweating and moving his head about in discomfort.  The dying patient, from the doctor's perspective, has become manic.  Some piece has come loose, fallen down his body into a place it isn’t meant to be.  And now his words drool out as streams insanity.

     The door…how do I reach the door?

    In the pause after the patient’s first oration, the doctor takes the chance to attempt to regain control over the situation.  There are no more patients today and this could lead to troublesome consequences; he can’t just leave things in this state.  It would be unethical.

    “Uh,” he stutters, forcing action. “There are things in life that seem to be…what they’re not, Mr Well.  Sometimes, when people tell you things—even different types of people—they’re just not telling you the facts.  Maybe it’s to do with, uh, hope.  But I think that—“

    Mr Well goes on, hearing the doctor, but seeing no relevance in his words.  The interruption is more like a continuation than anything intentionally rude.

    “I had a first love that told me this, too.  You see, doctor, your profession is flawed.  It is a profession, how could one expect it to be whole?  It’s been thousands of years since the medical profession considered the whole human.  I am not a robot, doctor.  I am a divinity and what I have experienced relates directly to your prediction of my death.  This is all connected.  It’s no co-incidence that you’re here in this room with my right now.  Your discomfort,too, is a necessary factor.  Try to be calm and patient; I need to tell you more.  You need to hear it, too.”

    He eyes the doctor, quite serious now. The atmosphere has changed.  Mr Well has the doctor in his grasp now and he knows this; he knows the doctor cannot leave.  It would be unethical and perhaps more importantly, generally unacceptable, for the doctor to walk away from a man now facing his own demise.  A man in a state of release.