I have an announcement to make. I have stopped reading and writing fiction. Make-believe just doesn’t interest me anymore. Except when I lie, of course. And I lie when I write sometimes. But that’s not fiction because I lie about things that I see and I just embellish them. Just don’t take anything I write to the bank, that’s all I ask.
Like if I start something with, “Now this really happened, y’know…” or “You won’t buleeeve what I just saw taday…”, please know that I am lying.
But if I start a piece with, “You might think I am crazy, but…” or “Honestly, the things that I have to tell ya….” or “Did I tell you what happened to me the other day? Oh what’s the use, you won’t believe me anyway…” then I’m speaking the truth or at least I am unaware that what I am saying is untrue, like Donald Rumsfeld did, often.
Take Kenny for instance. Now this really happened, y’know. Remember Kenny? If you have been paying attention to my blog, he is the guy who is addicted to sex. 44, still single, concerned that age is catching up on him, even though he is fit as a fiddle and looks like the offspring of a Greek God who had shtupped an Ethiopian nymph. Kenny has a mind that runs on a single track. He only begins those ‘projects’ that shall end up in a bed or a couch or even the back seat of his Explorer.
For those of you who haven’t met him yet, Kenny is a dear colleague, 75% black and 25, white. Somewhere in the distant past, some plantation owner shtupped his great great great grandmother, or so he says. Kenny has a funny bone so big that if he had been found buried on a hillside in Calgary, he would be worth a million at least.
Kenny was looking a bit morose when he came in this morning.
In summer, Kenny goes berserk. After work, you’ll find him at one of those singles bistros on St Denis street, chatting up a Hungarian or a Peruvian or Fijian or even a Malian broad. Race, caste, creed, they don’t make any difference to Kenny.
“What’s the matter, Kenny? Why the Bengali ‘5’?” All my immediate colleagues have picked up a smattering of Bengali. Kenny knows that the term ‘Bengali 5’ means being in a melancholy mood. The number 5 looks in Bengali like this: ‘৫’. Doesn’t it look like when a guy is miffed about something? So, there.
“Met a girl at the Bistro d’Azur last night. We had a whale of a time. Brazilian. She is here for a climate change conference.” Bistro d’Azur is a popular blues music theme café here that has bands playing live all the time.
“So, did you get to the jigir migir?” (jigir-migir is Indian for shtupping) I asked what was on everyone’s mind, including the girls’. Charlize was listening in. She was always listening in on everything.
Kenny shook his head ruefully. “It got real late. Couldn’t go up to her hotel room, after. Said she was sharing her room with another female colleague.”
“How long is she in town? Maybe you can meet up with her today?”
Kenny’s face grew dark. “Don’t know which hotel she’s stayin’ at,” he bleated. Jesus, the young these days. In my time, I would have had a printout of her DNA in my pocket. I would know exactly which amino-acids turn her on.
“Christ, Kenny, you spend a whole f—in’ evening with a broad and never even ask her where she is stayin’? What kind of a shmuck are you?” that was Stephane who was listening in from the cubicle to my left. I detected a faint gloating in his voice. Like Kenny, Stephane too is single and in his 40s.
Oh yeah. This continent is filled with single folk, men and women, who simply like fooling around with no commitments. They’ll gym, they’ll party and they’ll shtup. Mmmmmmaybe they have it all figured out… just sayin’….
Kenny bristled and looked murderously at a paperweight on his table. I figured he was going ta chuck it at Stephane.
“You know her name, dontcha? Try Facebook or maybe Linkedin. You might get her cell number..” That was Charlize, wanting to be helpful.
Kenny’s face took on an aggravated Bengali 55 twist as he bristled and seethed like a pressure cooker that’s about ta blow.
“Let’s see now, you don’t even know her name, right?” Stephane, who else?
“I do too!” Kenny almost screamed,” Fernanda Pentagrandé.”
Stephane was now up on his feet, leaning over, his elbows on the cubicle partition, a nasty grin on his face. Stephane and Kenny always find themselves in competition over chics. You should see them when an unknown girl enters our department. They’ll saunter up to her like they were just passing by and try to engage.
“I’ve heard of Fernando, but Fernanda? Never heard that one. Brazilians sure have funny names. And Pentagrandé, huh? Must be hot as hell. Ooooh!” I rolled my eyes. Actually I was just egging him on.
Stephane moved in for the kill, “Maybe she’s transsexual”….pregnant pause, then…”Kenny met a tranny, Kenny met a tranny, Kenny met a tranny,” he sang out loud, his huge head bobbing from left to right in rhythm. Heads began to turn.
“Forget it, Bozo, she has no bulge down there. And hey you should get a load on those jugs on her, man,” Kenny was barely able to control himself, so pissed off was he at Stephane.
Nurse Ratched came in at that point and the conversation was rudely curtailed. Don’t know Nurse Ratched, do ya? She’s the boss. If you come across someone in a burnt-out bat-infested castle, who’s flatter than Saskatchewan and more manic than Manitoba, it’s her. Don’t try to establish contact.
I have to go now. NR wants the report on the bird-hit that turned the insides of a PT6 on a single-engined Cessna into kichdi. Don’t know what ‘kichdi’ is, do ya?
Just pray you weren’t on that plane.
Note:Watch out for an update, more appropriately, shtupdate, on Kenny and Fernanda.