sub-kamikaze
17-05-2005, 06:11 AM
So, here's a little something that might make you chuckle...hopefully, digits crossed...
Fiona’s Epitaph, Obituary, & Sing-a-long Demise Ditty:
(The Priest’s interior monologue)
“As we gather here on this fateful saddening day…”
No. That won’t do. One can’t be too presumptuous in matters like these. What if there is no dancing death throng…no wailing mass? What if a nasty case of compounded conjunctivitis and nasal inflammation dictates that, no matter how the audience try, they can only stand there, eyes closed, swaying gently in the wind, resisting the urge to make a noise akin to a faulty dog whistle?
You’re being paranoid. Relax. Breathe. Take another swig from that bottle of whisky that kind Mrs Doshright left you. A thoughtful gesture from such an elderly lady. Yes, it was an unusual donation - the collection plate normally constitutes of little more than a few meager copper coins, but it was welcome all the same. And it was a fair sight better than Senile Simpkin’s offering of a baked Haddock with Mustard-Tarragon Marinade. The poor man even provided the cutlery on the strict instruction that I wash them afterwards. That had been a few weeks back…and, well, I’m sure he’s not the first to take such a thing literally. Note-to-self: Must remember to change the name to Collection Pouch…but I digress…back to the job at hand…
Whisky.
Just a little tipple.
It’s getting late. I must try and get this done. The clock is mocking me.
“As we are present on this day…”
It’s far too formal and rigid. I don’t want to come across as too morbid a character, do I? I’m wearing a white dress, for goodness sakes - the two elements would clash. I need something that conveys the sadness of the situation but also celebrates the life she led. How did she die? Let’s have a look at the file here…
‘An unfortunate photocopying accident’. Yes. I see. A little more than a paper jam. At least they didn’t need to wonder how she died…there were plenty of copies of the event…in fact, if you put the papers in the right order, you have quite a neat little cartoon flick-book…
Stop it. This really shouldn’t be that hard. The clock is calling me funny names. One more Whisky to settle the nerves. Right. Just put pen to paper and write…
“Red lorry, yellow lorry.”
Profound. But not what we are looking for. How hard can it be to write a few simple sweeping statements? I’ve seen countless episodes of Casualty with the generic Priest presenting the generic speech to the generic crowd - this is done all the time. Oh dear, I forgot to set the VCR. Not that it would have made much of a difference, having never understood how to set the blasted things. VCR. Video Cassette Recorder. A surprisingly misleading name given that it implies the novel coffee coaster could actually record onto a cassette. A far more apt title would have been Timer Ineptitude Trial – like Krypton factor, but far more exciting. Ok, let’s try again to focus and on the subject this time.
“Hers was an exuberant, passionate life. She lived it much in the manner as she died…”
What? With her head up the jacksey of a giant Xerox? Did it say anything in the file about this being a popular recreational pursuit? Damn it man, will you just write this speech?!
Right. Something tactile and sensitive.
“Today is one of mixed emotions and sublime memories – a time to remember her life, her actions, and her strange fetishisms involving heavy machinery…”
Right. Another Whisky. Just one more to invoke the spirit of the Muse.
And one more in honour of his wife, Mrs Muse. What an unfortunate name. The clock is now giving me the evil eye and making inflammatory remarks about my Mother.
What if nobody shows up to this girl’s cremation? What if it’s a macabre three?: her father, mother, and that strange pyromaniac who never fails to request that the curtain be kept open in the interests of ‘entertainment’. What if the only on-lookers are a large fax machine, a slide projector, and a fork-lift who claims to have ‘known her well’? It could rain. They’d rust. It would be a disaster. And anyway, there’s the sheer impossibility of writing an epitaph that appeals to all,
“As we* are brought* together on this* moving* day*…”
*you *forced *that *Dead-as-a-Dodo
*Afternoon/Late Evening.
It’s ridiculous. How did I get talked into this sado-masochistic venture in the first place? I even had to go out and buy a new vestment which set back a few bloody bob. It’s not like I get much in the first place. And for God’s sake, do you know how hard it is to wash Haddock out of a five pound note? Three cycles in the washing machine. Three. Note-to-self: Cancel first Note-to-Self and replace with current Note-to-Self ‘Do not change name of Collection plate to Collection Pouch.' I do not want some stupid loopy Australian giving me any form of creature, let alone one that would drive me hopping mad.
That was quite good – ‘hopping mad’. I might use that at our next parish bridge game..
The clock is smirking at me and…actually, no, where is the clock? Oh yes. Wrong wall. There we go. Yes, it is positively smirking at me with its little curt sloping moustache.
I must finish this speech. Or rather start it. I wouldn’t want to corpse on stage. That’s better. I’m flowing now. Another slight tipple. For luck. Back to work, full creed ahead. Creed. Chortle.
“It’s getting late and the table is spinning. I think this really speaks true of her life.”
It’s getting late and the table is spinning. I think this…déjà vu. Hmm. This oak table is surprisingly sturdy. And painful. Yes, definitely painful.
Definitely.
The finished Article found on the desk the next morning:
Fiona was a small figure,
With her finger always on the trigger,
She jammed her head,
The next she was dead,
And now a hole we dig her.
Her face was always so bright
It resembled a lighthouse’s might
She took off her balaclava,
Made a palaver,
Causing a mass loss of sight.
Some called her ‘butch’, others so ‘wee’,
None of these terms suited she,
Silence was best,
And a Kevlar vest,
For nothing could match her fury.
She wasn’t one to speak proper,
And her words often came a-cropper,
She’d say inertia
Then she’d curse ya,
And the parent’s wondered where they got’er.
Fiona’s Epitaph, Obituary, & Sing-a-long Demise Ditty:
(The Priest’s interior monologue)
“As we gather here on this fateful saddening day…”
No. That won’t do. One can’t be too presumptuous in matters like these. What if there is no dancing death throng…no wailing mass? What if a nasty case of compounded conjunctivitis and nasal inflammation dictates that, no matter how the audience try, they can only stand there, eyes closed, swaying gently in the wind, resisting the urge to make a noise akin to a faulty dog whistle?
You’re being paranoid. Relax. Breathe. Take another swig from that bottle of whisky that kind Mrs Doshright left you. A thoughtful gesture from such an elderly lady. Yes, it was an unusual donation - the collection plate normally constitutes of little more than a few meager copper coins, but it was welcome all the same. And it was a fair sight better than Senile Simpkin’s offering of a baked Haddock with Mustard-Tarragon Marinade. The poor man even provided the cutlery on the strict instruction that I wash them afterwards. That had been a few weeks back…and, well, I’m sure he’s not the first to take such a thing literally. Note-to-self: Must remember to change the name to Collection Pouch…but I digress…back to the job at hand…
Whisky.
Just a little tipple.
It’s getting late. I must try and get this done. The clock is mocking me.
“As we are present on this day…”
It’s far too formal and rigid. I don’t want to come across as too morbid a character, do I? I’m wearing a white dress, for goodness sakes - the two elements would clash. I need something that conveys the sadness of the situation but also celebrates the life she led. How did she die? Let’s have a look at the file here…
‘An unfortunate photocopying accident’. Yes. I see. A little more than a paper jam. At least they didn’t need to wonder how she died…there were plenty of copies of the event…in fact, if you put the papers in the right order, you have quite a neat little cartoon flick-book…
Stop it. This really shouldn’t be that hard. The clock is calling me funny names. One more Whisky to settle the nerves. Right. Just put pen to paper and write…
“Red lorry, yellow lorry.”
Profound. But not what we are looking for. How hard can it be to write a few simple sweeping statements? I’ve seen countless episodes of Casualty with the generic Priest presenting the generic speech to the generic crowd - this is done all the time. Oh dear, I forgot to set the VCR. Not that it would have made much of a difference, having never understood how to set the blasted things. VCR. Video Cassette Recorder. A surprisingly misleading name given that it implies the novel coffee coaster could actually record onto a cassette. A far more apt title would have been Timer Ineptitude Trial – like Krypton factor, but far more exciting. Ok, let’s try again to focus and on the subject this time.
“Hers was an exuberant, passionate life. She lived it much in the manner as she died…”
What? With her head up the jacksey of a giant Xerox? Did it say anything in the file about this being a popular recreational pursuit? Damn it man, will you just write this speech?!
Right. Something tactile and sensitive.
“Today is one of mixed emotions and sublime memories – a time to remember her life, her actions, and her strange fetishisms involving heavy machinery…”
Right. Another Whisky. Just one more to invoke the spirit of the Muse.
And one more in honour of his wife, Mrs Muse. What an unfortunate name. The clock is now giving me the evil eye and making inflammatory remarks about my Mother.
What if nobody shows up to this girl’s cremation? What if it’s a macabre three?: her father, mother, and that strange pyromaniac who never fails to request that the curtain be kept open in the interests of ‘entertainment’. What if the only on-lookers are a large fax machine, a slide projector, and a fork-lift who claims to have ‘known her well’? It could rain. They’d rust. It would be a disaster. And anyway, there’s the sheer impossibility of writing an epitaph that appeals to all,
“As we* are brought* together on this* moving* day*…”
*you *forced *that *Dead-as-a-Dodo
*Afternoon/Late Evening.
It’s ridiculous. How did I get talked into this sado-masochistic venture in the first place? I even had to go out and buy a new vestment which set back a few bloody bob. It’s not like I get much in the first place. And for God’s sake, do you know how hard it is to wash Haddock out of a five pound note? Three cycles in the washing machine. Three. Note-to-self: Cancel first Note-to-Self and replace with current Note-to-Self ‘Do not change name of Collection plate to Collection Pouch.' I do not want some stupid loopy Australian giving me any form of creature, let alone one that would drive me hopping mad.
That was quite good – ‘hopping mad’. I might use that at our next parish bridge game..
The clock is smirking at me and…actually, no, where is the clock? Oh yes. Wrong wall. There we go. Yes, it is positively smirking at me with its little curt sloping moustache.
I must finish this speech. Or rather start it. I wouldn’t want to corpse on stage. That’s better. I’m flowing now. Another slight tipple. For luck. Back to work, full creed ahead. Creed. Chortle.
“It’s getting late and the table is spinning. I think this really speaks true of her life.”
It’s getting late and the table is spinning. I think this…déjà vu. Hmm. This oak table is surprisingly sturdy. And painful. Yes, definitely painful.
Definitely.
The finished Article found on the desk the next morning:
Fiona was a small figure,
With her finger always on the trigger,
She jammed her head,
The next she was dead,
And now a hole we dig her.
Her face was always so bright
It resembled a lighthouse’s might
She took off her balaclava,
Made a palaver,
Causing a mass loss of sight.
Some called her ‘butch’, others so ‘wee’,
None of these terms suited she,
Silence was best,
And a Kevlar vest,
For nothing could match her fury.
She wasn’t one to speak proper,
And her words often came a-cropper,
She’d say inertia
Then she’d curse ya,
And the parent’s wondered where they got’er.