“The Name of Shame”
By now the sensitive reader of this blog will have sensitively queried herself (“her”-self because man-made society causes mostly chicks to be sensitive) (oh, and Queries) as to why (NOTE: Hypothetical Sensitive Reader “thinking” here) “WHY” ( she repeats) “does a highly evolved Missing Link Man like D.D.T” (i.e. me) “carry thoughts of revenge around inside his magnificent brain? Hm? Is it not the case that revenge is a dish better served up quick as a stir-fry, if not quicker? That way the gourmet revenger can gulp down and crap out his hatred fast, instead of letting it stick in his gut like a painful knob of co-co-ca-baa-baa.”
Hmm. She makes a good hypothetical point– but only because she hasn’t been reading this blog between the lines. If she had’ve been doin’ that, she would’a realized there is more (pow!) going (zam!) on (thwack!) here (see?) than she might actually read in the lines them-(BANG!!)-selves. I’m talking (of course) about Barely Audible Sound Effects– dramatic noises and base urges that are so discreetly (burp) hidden that even I don’t pick ’em all up.
And one of those Barely Audible Sound Effects is the letter “R”. In fact, a sound effect with side effects is what we call our chum, the letter “R”. Especially when it’s placed beside that other letter– “D”. Pause and considr: DRastic. DReadful. DRamatic. DRoopy. And many other draconian (there’s another one) terms. Yet perhaps the DReadliest of them all is a name– a mutant version of my name, no less. I speak here of “DRUNKEN DROOLIGAN” or (if you wan’a get even more crapological) “Drunken Drooligan THE TURD”.
Oh, how I’ve carried the shame of the Mutated Name in my emotional baggage lately! It proves that even the greatest, most aristocratic name in All of Ireland can still be smeared with Sassenach FILTH!!
“And yet,” (I hear the hypothetical reader sensitively query) “what, if anything, does the Mutated Name have to do with your DRiabolical DRevenge?”
Oh, just every-fuckin’-thing, that’s all! Because I laid the blame for the Name O’ Shame on a “certain someone” who has (on several occasions) made me go “hyook-p’TUH” (hawk ‘n’ spit sound) in disgust. You know the one I’m hawkin’ about: SMELLY-STARE DRIBBLE-KENANDA (get it? Rhymes with “Alistair Vivekenanda”. So… POW!! Cop that, him).
Here’s my explanation. When I first found out how Smelly-Stare had set me up for a spot of groin grossery with a certain old (wait for it) Kerry-An-TIQUE (yair, that’s right. The boy’s on a roll) I was filled with a rage of Ganoosh Family proportions. And yet I alone was (and am) not a family– indeed, even my family is not a family (or at least, not a real one. I mean where were they when I needed bloody vengeance, right? At “work”, that’s where). So my rage was lacking in those vital virtues of nurturing and love and psychotic violence that spur other non-Sassenach people on to leave the comfort(s) of their Housing Commission home(s)– together– and go on a pleasant family outing. With weapons.
But my so-called “family’s” lack of the vital virtues (and my own tragic lack of a bazooka) meant that my rage could not be fired up without the kindling of the kinfolk– and without such firing up it basically fizzled out. Therefore, in something less than a half-hearted way, say, a half a half-hearted way (or– mathematically-speaking– a quarter-hearted way) I set off on my quest for that thing called (weary sigh) “vengeance”… I suppose, I dunno…
So I ambled off to the airport. My plan was to stand on the tarmac, stick out my thumb, and hitch a ride on a D.C 10 (or “9”, I wasn’t fussy), hoping that said plane was heading somewhere in the ballpark vicinity of Thailand. But if I didn’t catch a plane, then hey. No biggy. The Man tried. I’ll just get my DRevastating vengeance when (and “if”) Smelly-Stare comes back, I suppose, I dunno…
Or so I thought.
And yet my quarter-hearted efforts at pseudo-revenge were soon given a tweak by the Fickle Fingers (and Fumbs) o’ Fate. Now, I don’t know if you’re familiar with air travel bureaucracy, but if you are then you would know that the would-be Air Hiker has to get stuff stamped and have things checked and even (shudder) “probed” (for illegal sausages, et cetera) before they let him stand on the tarmac with one of his digits hangin’ out. And I was no exception. I thought: “Okay. Don’t wan’a rock the boat down here at the airport. So I’ll do it their way.” At which point I dropped my trousers, bent over and shouted: “Make it quick, damn you!” To which an Airport Lady replied:
“Ahh… sir? This is not the Butt-Searching Zone, this is the cafeteria.”
“Well, how the FROG was I suppose’ t’ know that when you’ve got an X-Ray Machine right here??”
“That’s a Pie Warmer.”
Hmm. Perhaps that explained why most airline passengers’ internal organs looked like flaky pastry. Anyway, once all that bureaucratic snafu got sorted out and I waddled my way (with trousers– defiantly– still around ankles) to the real Butt-Searching Zone (instead o’ that phony cafeteria-lookin’ one), I stood there fully prepped for the hand-held metal detecting tool to work its wonders. But something was wrong. The person (or thing) behind me flung “its” barely-detectable tool aside (with an easily detectable clank) then started friskin’ me by hand. Worst of all, those Fickle Fingers (and Fumbs) found my newly begat nipples — an’ gave ’em a familiar squeeze.
“Well, well,” said an equally familiar Voice. “I’d recognize those Blossoms O’ Chest anywhere. They belong– if I’m not mistaken– to one DRUNKEN DROOLIGAN THE TURD!!”
Yes, Beloved Reader, now is the time when it all comes flooding back to you (I’m talkin’ about all that “sound effect” wordage I spoke before). Because the person who called me the Name of Shame was not the Alistair Vivekenanda of yester-year, but the NATHASHA DE NASHA of yester-DAY!!
(Actually, it was two days before yesterday, but… y’know… “yester-DAY” kind of impacted better… Drama-wise…)