What Matters Most is How You Walk Through the Moss
As I looked into the lion's cold black eyes I thought how touching it would be for my blog readers. The lion looked back as if to say "Write about me. Tell the people the emotionally engaging truth about this place. Get Scaryduck to link to it on his blog". I felt a better person as I shot it to bits with an air rifle. Solemnly.
My guide looked on with a bored look in his eye. Although perhaps he wasn't bored, but rather thinking about all the thousands of other stuffed toys that must now lay about the town...
Once cherished toys and keepsakes, now death with an adorable plush face. As I stared into the remnants of the poor, tragic dead toy lion I began to dream. I was transported to a world of happy poor people frolicking in the rubbish fairground. They seemed so happy with their meagre, pathetic rides. It was tragic really. That they would never get to go on a massively expensive holiday to America to ride space mountain and would instead turn red and die from radiation and moss. Still, my blog would offer them comfort.
I looked into the babushka’s fat, wrinkly prole face. Her eyes were filled with sadness and crushing poverty, and probably also radiation. 'Can I buy your grandson?' I asked her. Our guide translated for her and then she replied, in the broken, poor quality English characteristic of someone who has had very little education, never mind been nominated for a (children's) BAFTA award, 'No'.I gave her a shove, partly out of my middle-class white Westerner's anger and frustration, but also out of kindness, because she needed to realise who really kept her stocked in headscarves and beetroots. I went back to the van and pissed on my hands to get the nutrigrains off them, and then waited, taking photos of my bellybutton.
But the woman would not relent. She approached the van and began babbling, close to tears and becoming hysterical. I feared there was something terribly wrong. That the dark secret of the radioactive moss was about to be revealed to me. I clicked onto my special holiday Marillion playlist on my iPod and looked for some crisps in my rucksack.
I made a fist at the sky and slowly released it, symbolising the futility of human strife.
We needed to go. Quickly. It seemed I had run out of crisps completely. But where were my companions? We waited for an agonising two minutes that seemed like an eternity of quite literal time.
It was no good. They had turned into moss by now. I wanted to save them but I was quite desperate for the loo by this stage. I imagined them turning red and gestured for my guide to drive on. As he did a small, tiny, round, circular, small tear formed in my eye as I thought of the tragedy.
I adjusted my scrotum and closed my eyes
[Posted 31/5/06 on Tired Dad comments by Anonymous.]
My guide looked on with a bored look in his eye. Although perhaps he wasn't bored, but rather thinking about all the thousands of other stuffed toys that must now lay about the town...
Once cherished toys and keepsakes, now death with an adorable plush face. As I stared into the remnants of the poor, tragic dead toy lion I began to dream. I was transported to a world of happy poor people frolicking in the rubbish fairground. They seemed so happy with their meagre, pathetic rides. It was tragic really. That they would never get to go on a massively expensive holiday to America to ride space mountain and would instead turn red and die from radiation and moss. Still, my blog would offer them comfort.
I looked into the babushka’s fat, wrinkly prole face. Her eyes were filled with sadness and crushing poverty, and probably also radiation. 'Can I buy your grandson?' I asked her. Our guide translated for her and then she replied, in the broken, poor quality English characteristic of someone who has had very little education, never mind been nominated for a (children's) BAFTA award, 'No'.I gave her a shove, partly out of my middle-class white Westerner's anger and frustration, but also out of kindness, because she needed to realise who really kept her stocked in headscarves and beetroots. I went back to the van and pissed on my hands to get the nutrigrains off them, and then waited, taking photos of my bellybutton.
But the woman would not relent. She approached the van and began babbling, close to tears and becoming hysterical. I feared there was something terribly wrong. That the dark secret of the radioactive moss was about to be revealed to me. I clicked onto my special holiday Marillion playlist on my iPod and looked for some crisps in my rucksack.
I made a fist at the sky and slowly released it, symbolising the futility of human strife.
We needed to go. Quickly. It seemed I had run out of crisps completely. But where were my companions? We waited for an agonising two minutes that seemed like an eternity of quite literal time.
It was no good. They had turned into moss by now. I wanted to save them but I was quite desperate for the loo by this stage. I imagined them turning red and gestured for my guide to drive on. As he did a small, tiny, round, circular, small tear formed in my eye as I thought of the tragedy.
I adjusted my scrotum and closed my eyes
[Posted 31/5/06 on Tired Dad comments by Anonymous.]
posted by Tired Dad at
9:40 pm
1 Comments:
I know.
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