(pictured above: Them)
I was trying to write a new post for
the blog, to improve on slipping standards, when in trundled
The Mother and started staring at me. 'Ah now don't be distracting me
The Mother', I said to The Mother, 'can't you see that I'm trying to
maintain our existence on this plane by creating a narrative that
makes up for the heavy handed analogies and scanty wee posts that
have featured on fugtheworld.blogspot of late?' But The Mother just
continued to stare at me with eyes that looked a tad
...mournful.
'Now Mister Fugger', said The Mother,
'you've said all you have to say and there's no point repeating
yourself or saying things just for the sake of it. If you do that
you'll end up no better than the telly. The time has come to cease
blogging. It is even evident in the lacklustre
and relatively LOLless way this very post, the one we are in right now,
is written'. I was a little astonished. Not by what The Mother had
said but by the fact that she had called me 'Mister Fugger' and used
a shitey word like 'cease'. This indicated her seriousness and I knew
that it must be the end, a moment that had been prepared for. 'Are
They here for me The Mother?' I asked The Mother. 'They are indeed,
They are in the kitchen Mister Fugger', answered The Mother. I put
the laptop aside and went to meet Them. The Mother followed.
There They were in the kitchen,
standing by the backdoor, waiting to return me to my own world, a world where
there is nothing to say because there is nothing happening because
there is nothing to do but at least you're not wasting anyone's time
or your own. I turned to The Mother and thanked her for the
interesting discourse she had provided over the years and I
complimented The Mother on the grace she had always shown when bested
by my superior intellect. I think The Mother may have rolled her eyes
but it was hard to tell as we were soon hugging and she was patting
me on the back. I found it hard to break from The Mother's embrace
and realised that this was because she had
been decommissioned. They approached The Mother, wrapped her in
tarpaulin, and placed her frozen form in the cupboard next to the
ironing board.
'Do I really have to go?' I asked Them.
They nodded. 'Won't I be missed?' I queried.
They shook their heads. 'But what about all the poontang I'll be
leaving behind', I pleaded. They laughed heartily and shook their
heads again in mirthful resignation.
They escorted me to the
LOLevator that stood in the centre of the garden, a beam of light
from above, and shoved me inside, kicking me in the arse as They did
so. 'Hey!' I protested but They just laughed and muttered something
about poontang.
I LOLevated up and away through the
tropo strato meso and other spheres and into deep space. Then I
zoomed beyond deep space and into the outskirts of shallow space
that gradually reduces to non-space that results in the great
zilch that resides in the nowhere zone that sits in the mouth of the
ultra-void that isn't even there because nothing is there and there isn't even a 'there' for there to be nothing and there isn't even
nothing because nothing is a concept and concepts need to be
perceived and to be perceived there has to
be something to do the perceiving and all there is is me and even I
am not here an...y...m...o... ... . . .
...so long and thanks for all the fish.
