Hi there!
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Fofatlal Popatlal, Esq., at your service |
The folks at the Mutiny in their infinite wisdom have finally chosen a new permanent blogger. I was buffing Salman Rushdie’s cuticles the other day — oh yes, he’s quite the dandy, don’t let the jacket photo fool you — when up rolled a black Honda Civic with
a metallic Ganesh on the dashboard. Two brown valets built like
linebackers emerged and silently unveiled their cargo. Inside there was a hard-looking guy in
a pink tutu and
a flattop. Instead of a moll, this guy had fourteen. They crammed into the back seat, sitting on laps, alternating like checker squares, and my personal favorite, the layover. After the molls disembarked, the guy in the tutu put on a headlamp with
high-lumen LEDs. All of us were agape. The guy in the tutu looked coolly at me, snapped his fingers and incanted these magic words: ‘O no you di’nt!’ Then the big boss, the molls and the linebackers squeezed in and rolled away.
Three days later a strange transformation came over me. From dawn to dusk I had an uncontrollable urge to spew my thoughts about everything: current events, movies, bowel movements. At first I jotted down my thoughts hurriedly in red and blue, but I soon realized that out of one pen flowed only truth and out of the other only lies. In desperation I downed a fifth of Black Label and passed out drooling on my laptop keyboard. When I awoke I found that I had been typing frantically in my sleep. It was all half-baked gibberish which posted itself on the Internets.
You know what happened next. The Mutineers knew I was a perfect fit. I could no longer fluff Salman’s combover between bouts of obsessive blogging, so he fired me over the phone from South America. Padma left him for me because I had bigger glasses and he was too self-effacing.
One day the earth opened up and swallowed her whole. It all came out in the investigation: the mole-men operating the mole-machines drilling the last big tunnel in New York. In a city of fury, the gods must be appeased. The last instant of her life was captured by a photojournalist who happened by, a stricken Medusa-haired goddess teetering on heels, the pavement rent behind her. That photograph is all I have, a sepia-tinted fame, a palimpsest of privacy, her final words my name:
F-f-f-fofatlal! Continue reading →