February 08, 2006

# 42

WARNING: May contain traces of Jaa. If you want to get to the crux of this post, scroll down to "Why We're All Here," otherwise...

The Intro:

It is my contention that western society is a miracle within the not-so-miraculous evolutionary process of mankind. Am I alone in thinking this? It's unlikely as I've had to hire two additional secretaries to handle the vast loads of comments streaming into the site at regular intervals.

When one considers the probability (reaching around for a figure from the last part of my body to enter and exit a room; let's say one in a billion) that the micro-cosmos we're squirming around in is under the watchful eye of a divine entity whose means of entertainment could be to laugh from the belly with seismic repercussions in our own little round slimy blue world, then the point I'm about to raise may be more than mooted. It's likely that the arrowhead has already pierced the eye of the bull and is maintaining a steady path to its next target.

The Recollection of a Time in the Near Past:
T'was the weekend of last as Mrs Kaufman and I strained every fibre of our aging muscles within our sacred necks to hear the cacophony of dulcet tones as we savoured the tastes and smells in an Indian restaurant, one of life's few indulgences we cherish (the rest we generally don't), we frequent from time to time. We were in the midst of discerning whether the restaurant's horrendous music for the past few dozen minutes consisted largely of the handiwork of the Bryan Adams. I, having the self-proclaimed power to distinguish frequencies from other frequencies, much like a squirrel distinguishes acorns worth storing and accessing when all other rations have been exhausted from acorns worth eating pronto, said t'was not the soulless Bra-Bra but an impostor; a slapper of an impostor at that.

The Bit That Allegedly Backs-up His Qualification:
I owned Reckless by Bryan Adams at the same time that I owned a mullet and a pair of Australian Rules footy shorts (the male equivalent of a mini skirt). It doesn't matter what you think about that because A) I don't know you and B) Look in the mirror and tell me you weren't a different kind of weirdo when you were younger. I knew every song on that album. It was pre reference to Kevin Costner and American accents forming the basis to a famous English character in green tights.

Return of the Recollection of a Time in the Near Past:
None of the quote unquote songs we were listening to sounded much like the Bra-Bra, which I stated in as few words as talking with one's full mouth would allow. Mrs Kaufman countered with the plausible question that if it wasn't the Bra-Bra, then why would anyone perform an entire album of Bra-Bra's tracks, pretending to be Bra-Bra, when they obviously (according to my superlatively sonic ears) weren't?

Unfortunately, the plausible question led to shaking of the head and more consumption of food for I was at a loss for explanation and hungry to boot.

For the Sake of Skim Readers:
Let's reiterate: If the entire album was performed with horrendous conviction by someone other than the Bryan Adams, why was it so?

Suffice to say, we continued to enjoy the delights of the all-you-can-devour buffet lunch, washed it down with a glass or two of mango lassi, paid our dues and forgot we'd been, for the better part of an hour, listening to a schmuck undoubtedly making a decent living from someone else's talent (or words of that effect).

Confirmation of a Wandering Mind:
Until now. My reasoning is that western society has been trained to never question why and to accept almost everything at face value. 'It sounds like Bryan Adams,' the thought will establish a reference point, 'so surely, oh but so surely, it must be Bryan Adams.'

It isn't a giant leap and we tend to side with apathy over sympathy, especially when food which one doesn't frequently consume is concerned.

Why We're All Here:
It got me wondering whether there existed other scenarios to divert attention from a sense or two being sodomised during the chowing down process.

The results are in:
1. A belly dancer pretending to be a hideous reincarnation of the undead multi-headed beast of corporate cocksucking, Madonna, enters the restaurant singing Like a Virgin. Staff and customers alike wonder who the obese hag with retreaded tyres where her arse should be is. She continues to sing popular Madonna tracks, confusing the lyrics of many a song with belly dancing instructional sentences. She is urged to "Take it all off" by several of the male customers, who are busily emptying the bar of its imported, overpriced beers. During her transition from unwanted entertainer to fleeing rhinoceros the tubby-arsed belly dancer breaks an ankle in an effort to avoid the drunken men's sexual advances as she runs helter skelter towards the stairs and to her secret get-away vehicle, a horse ridden by Yul Brinner.

2. A guy with a Michael Bolton hairdo enters the restaurant. The body of women who witness his entrance simultaneously faint. Quando, the only male member of staff, dives for the How To Handle an Emergency guide book, deep in the second drawer of a cabinet marked 'L.A. Confidential.' Following the instructions without falter, he turns on the fire sprinklers for a split second. Quando realises the guide book, on loan from his cousin, Tito, has paid for itself many times over. He considers keeping it as it will surely be an investment for time itself. He thinks of his cousin Tito's connections with the renowned bad boys of motorcycle gangs, the Headless Twats, and decides against it. Meanwhile, a gorgeous Asian lady with the body of a thirteen-year-old bulimic girl asks whether the guy with the Michael Bolton hairdo would mind singing a Michael Bolton track. He's never sung in his life, not counting the time in the winter of '92 when he yelled "Help, I need somebody, help!" while treading water and watching his catamaran sink below the water line. "Sure," he says, clearing his throat, and begins the opening few lines of Sitting on the Dock of a Bay. Quando, sensing the guy with the Michael Bolton hairdo is as daft as the naan bread is oily, throws a fire extinguisher from the blindside at his head, rendering him unconscious. "That's an Otis Redding song," he says, leaning himself against the pot of Goan chicken Curry, as the ladies admire the veins in his muscular neck.

3. A man, stripped of his natural hair bar eleven strands hanging to the curve of his back, enters the restaurant. "I'm dying," he announces, panting. A waitress, of Nepalese-Filipino extraction, rushes to be by his side. She's carrying a pitcher of water, which she pours elegantly into a wine glass. "Oh, thank you," the man says out of breath, sipping gingerly from the sacred contents of the wine glass as he does. "What are you dying from?" the waitress asks with a concerned look on her face. "Embarrassment," the man says, taking another sip of water. "I must find a suitable new owner who will provide shelter and food for my donkey, Pepe," the man says, pointing at his trusty steed waiting patiently by the front door, its wet coat glistening in the artificial rays of the three spotlights overhead. "But why are you dying from embarrassment?" the Nepalese-Filipino waitress asks. "Because when I was backing Pepe out of the car park downstairs," the man says, "we accidentally damaged a Porsche 911 Carrera. In my humble opinion as a carrot farmer, I'd say the damage is insurmountable. I want to trade Pepe with the owner of the Porsche for the damage we caused." The Nepalese-Filipino waitress nods. "That's my Porsche," a smooth-skinned man with a recent visit to a manicurist says as he stands to his feet. He wipes the corners of his mouth and throws down the serviette angrily. He walks over to Pepe and inspects him from head to hoof, raising his left hind leg as he does. "This simply won't do!" he yells disgustedly a second before Pepe instinctively kicks the smooth-skinned man in both cheekbones. He flops to the carpeted floor and bleeds profusely from several parts of his cranium. Fearing the worst, the man looks at the Nepalese-Filipino waitress and says, "Never mind. I'm no longer dying from embarrassment. Thank you for your kindness." He bids her a good evening and straddles his donkey, Pepe, patting him ever so manfully and whispering in his ear, "You've still got it, old boy."

4. A six-foot blonde bombshell walks into the restaurant. Her pink stiletto heels bear the brunt of forty-seven kilograms of the trimmest female body ever to grace the floor of the Yamuna River restaurant. Even the two kilograms of silicon parts don't go unnoticed as she bends down, looks at her pierced navel and says, "Testing, testing...one...two...three." She twiddles the nob of the piercing and continues to talk into what she imagines to be a microphone. Xavier, a third-year student of Aeronautical Engineering who's majoring in Political Assassination, is immediately captivated by the lusty blonde's assets. "What would you like?" he says suavely, setting the controls for the heart of the pelvis. "Testing, testing...one...two...three," the blonde repeats into her piercing. "Is this thing on?" Sensing he's a sure bet, Xavier says, "It's far too small. Would you like to try my microphone?" The blonde looks at Xavier for the first time since entering the restaurant. "Oh, yes, please," she says. "This one's cactus. I don't know why they gave it to me." Xavier unzips his pants and flops his wanger onto a white plate. "Here you are," he says, a sinister smile appearing on his face. "Oh, my!" retorts the blonde. "That is big, isn't it?" Without further ado, she speaks directly to Xavier's rising manhood: "The mule has taken the bait. Repeat. The mule has taken the bait." Nineteen-hundred and eighty-four tactical specialists from the armed forces storm the restaurant and cuff Xavier and his impressive schlong. Commander in Chief Colonel Sanders explains gruffly that the president's daughter and medical experts will be assessing Xavier's assets shortly to confirm or deny whether it was responsible for tearing several feet of tissue inside the president's daughter's reproductive organs.

5. Liam Gallagher enters the restaurant. "Oi, fuckface!" he says. "Where's the fucking grub, towel-head! Get us some fucking food now or your arse will feel the wrath of my fucking molars." Impressed with his brother's dental prowess, Noel grabs a man in his right hand and a woman in his left hand by the scruff of their respective shirts. "Fuck off!" he says, whipping the couple over his shoulders. He sits himself on the plush cushions and motions for Liam to join him. "What are you playing this fucking music for?" Noel says, aiming the jibe at Vishnamankari, the proprietor. "Well, Sir," Vishnamankari begins before being backhanded in the face by Liam. The two brothers fall to the floor laughing. They sing, in no particular key: "We're the greatest fucking rock band in-the-fucking-world," extending the last four words. From the confines of the men's toilet, Tony Jaa leaps onto the shoulders of customers heading for the exit. From his mouth he emits a sound reminiscent of wind rustling branches of trees as he speedily covers the terrain overhead. Ten metres from where the Gallagher brothers are seated stroking the bulges inside their jeans, Jaa's right foot leaves the head of a six-foot-four man, catapulting him through the ceiling fan's blades and directly in between the Gallagher brothers. With his legs stretched out as wide as they can, Jaa's return to earth is augmented by the sound of bare heels clashing with skulls, accentuated ever so noisily by the shredding of sinew, the grinding of bones and the incessant howling of two adolescents whose bodies have been permanently rearranged to resemble two bowls of fruit that's passed their use by date. "Thanks, Jaa," Vishnamankari says, extending his right hand to the worthy victor. Jaa grabs Vishnamankari's hand, shakes it firmly and nods knowingly as his steely gaze and the bemused corners of his mouth emit a sound identical to the German word for yes, jah. "Tony," says Jaa. "Call me Tony."

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reverendtimothy said...

I read the whole thing and... ahh... hmm.

The whole image of a Michael Bolton wannabe singing "Quando" is sticking with me.

Do you have the phone number of that bulemic? Nothing sexier than visible bones and rotting teeth.

Kaufman said...

Reverend! Welcome back to virtual reality (an oxymoron). It's funny you should drop by (a figure of speech) because I had a glance at your blog and immediately reached for the tissues (a double entendre) in anticipation of a major post to update the faithful clergy (a metaphor) about your recent adventures (a prelude to the movie without a name as yet).

My imagination has been rekindled, stoked and presently burning my retinas, which is why I haven't an answer to your questions. I'm no doctor, like Dog Chop, but it could also have something to do with swimming countless laps in the pool I filled with habanero sauce.

I'm anticipating an update of Andre the Giant proportions.

Ultra Toast Mosha God said...

Tito is working in one of my salt mines.

On his weekends he is writing a new manual. A manual none may speak of except me and he.

It's a manual about how karaoke singers are destined to take over western civilisation. Their deft chameleonic prowess will eventually be turned to politics when their verbal assault on the music business fails.

Eventually realising that individualism is the only true means of an assured legacy in the pop world, they will epiphanise that politics is there true calling. Politics is merely refining existing motifs, and revolution is merely evolution with an r on it.

This will spur them onto great heights and a deep sense of satisfaction and wellbeing when their work is finally done.

Tito smells of bricks

HORNY said...

andy k have you gotten fatter?

your mo needs a little trimming too.

and oh, you should fire your editor.


you don't have an editor?


no wonder your posts are so long.

Kaufman said...

UTMG: I know nassink about politics. I know a fair bit about the entertainment industry and I can see close ties and resemblences between the two. Watch your back with Tito. He has ways which I cannot speak of or write about. Suffice to say he's aware of what really happened with JFK and instigated the whole Milli Vanilli-Grammy Awards fiasco.

Horny: Christ, man. You try living in another country where you don't speak the language and tell me there's a better way of purging thoughts which build up inside your head until you don't know what to do. If it weren't for this site (and previously sharing a virtual headspace with DDC), I would have done something to get deported. This is therapy, gringo.

For the record, nobody's paying me for what I do at my site, which is why I write when I feel the need rather than when my non-existent publisher tells me to, in the remote chance that I'll clutch onto the last thread of sanity I have for a wee bit longer. Hopefully, six months longer.

I know your comment was intended as tongue-in-cheek, which I duly recognise and applaud, but I've never written with the intention of pleasing an audience because I get absolutely no gratification from that.

Thanks for taking the time to leave a comment. It's more than most have managed.