Bemoaning Vanity: Book One

BEMOANING VANITY
BOOK ONE

I

What a pain does the mind feel as I keep the shadows at bay. For it was another misty autumn night, underneath a full and foolish moon that I decided I could never sleep again. My knuckles were cracked and buckled as I shook destiny’s hand, and as I tipped my hat at the cruel governess, she winked, for she knew that I knew something was afoul. But forgetting my bearings, I wept and guffawed at the timeliness of her cruel intentions. I did not want to die at this precise moment--it was not my time because I still had to do my taxes.
         As it were, I became a grump at the most astute of levels. As it so happened and as it were, I continued to bawl as if I were a babe at infancy when my favorite toy was maliciously taken away from  me. But it was not a toy this time, but my fantastic soul, ripe for the picking. Harvested if you will, by death, my fate chosen for me under circumstances out of my willowy reach.
         Time speaks little of me through the looking glass of yesterday. As a small child I looked at death as some sort of unlucky chance or punishment, for it was true that I believed I was an immortal! Like Zeus perched upon Mount Olympus, I believed I was an indestructible force, but it is not true, and it never was. This forgone conclusion is and was perhaps the most shocking revelation of my life, with the exception of finding out that my youngest child, Herbert was born with hooves. Herbert, yes, was born with hooves, leading me to believe to the conclusion heretofore that my beloved Chloe was, and is, in much cahoots with Lucifer himself. A strong admirer or his work, I was needless to say, frivolously put out and turned off by my wife schtooping the prince of darkness. Although I found myself quite inept in the hay, it was disheartening that I was so inept as to inadvertently and indirectly encourage sweet Chloe to birth the son of Satan. Shame on me, clumsiest of the clumsy! I curse the days I devoted more time to bird watching and nail biting than to my sweet unseductress, Chloe. Her blonde mane, and curvaceous under warmth were privy to quite the fair amount of neglect if I do say so!
              As for my older offspring, Charles, twenty-two and Evette, eighteen, they are the apples of my ever-dwindling eye (the devil-child, I fear and loath at the same time, for he has fire in his eyes, in addition to a penchant for setting afire a number of my possessions, including my erotic lithograph collection).
         Oh my dear children, daddy will be forfeiting God’s earth quite abruptly! In my exodus, remember this: your mother, despite her downfalls and pratfalls and her anti-quaint love affair with Satan, loves you very dearly, but not as much as she loves Satan. Her dark lord is as close to her perspiring bosom as a newborn to a mother’s teat; never forget that, my sweet ones. You cannot beat the anithero with horns a mile high, so never bother.


II


         My maladies exceed any hope that was thrust upon me during birth and through the next fifty-five years. T’was true that I was a happy child, I spent the summer months on holiday in Ecuador, and for the duration of the calendar year, I was constantly enthroned at Jesper Grammar Academy. Whilst in Ecuador, I learned the arts of horseback riding, the packing of fudge and pillow biting from my beloved mentor Jules Winslow. Upon my return to Jesper in the fall, I learnt the basics: proper English and writing skills, arithmetic, Latin, Greek and one of my favorite of activities, cock pushups. The basics of a cock pushups are quite elementary. Essentially, the key to a proper cock pushup is strong ankles, exquisitely beef-like wrists and as my instructor Dr. Isaac Burns so eloquently put forth, “gusto from here to eternity and verve, lots of verve!”
         I am pleased to report that I achieved the highest marks in cock pushups in the all of the esteemed history of Jesper. By graduation, I was doing cock pushups at an astounding rate of eighteen per minute, quite a gaudy number I must confess! Back patting ensued on all fronts, especially from Dr. Burns, who till this very eve remains a close comrade of yours truly, even at the shrill age of one hundred and four.
         Proceeding graduation from Jesper, I embarked on a journey only for those ensconced with wit, happenstance and a lucrative mind for tomfoolery. Fortunately for your humble narrator, those precise categories fit, well, your humble narrator!
         

III
         
         My dear children, fear the youngest of your clan, Herbert! His eyes, along with his soul and mind, breath smoke, much like his red-eyed, and black and blue-souled father. Do not be swayed to join forces with him, even if he lures you in with a twinkled-eye wink; fear him, because I tell you the truth. Herbert will tickle your superficiality with misconceptions and misdeeds. At first, his deeds will cause salutations climaxing from orifice upon orifice, but beware! It will only be a short fortnight before he, to you, my dear Charles rectifies the sweet nothingness that lies within. Beware, my delicious Evette, for he, to will shake your very foundations down to your very foundations, encapsulated to none higher!
         I am finished with you my darlings.
         As for my transition into adulthood, t’was a buttery smooth one at that. It was a titillating thrill for your writer: bordellos in Paris, asioerotic whiffle ball in the East Indies and potato farming in Idaho. The bliss that I endured was what makes jealous men jealous.
         
IV

         Humming to a listener’s tune, I began a thought process that would have most men believe false. By tomorrow, the wind will change and head toward another direction. Today, however, must make sense for me, because if we do not wake up, what is there? Sweet merciful God, if I die without just once listening to my music, please take my breaths away now, because I do not deserve them. Without the sunlight of music, I feel nothing, and fear everything. A sun swept nothingness dawns over me with a haphazard only I can witness and feel. Damn, damn! At this time I write in a most delirious manner, the only cause of course is the sweet nectar, yes nectar, of Sir Anheuser himself!
         This illicit of feelings are unbecoming of such a stout fellow as myself. But, as it so happens, your young (at heart) writer is overcome with audacities and discomfort, a trait that is only know to the overborne. Perhaps a phase is dumped, DUMPED among yours truest of trues. Detestable as it may seem, no one knows but I, how detestable it might become. I only hope that a virtuous helper may come upon me, be it from above, or from a sweet solicitor of Hades.
         I hope my children take into consideration the amount of debauchery that be will be thrust upon them, here to there, and there to here. A lesson is the only important item you should take from me. Please disregard my lithograph collection, and all of my knives. Please disregard my palioerotic WHAM! Collection, for I was young, and not quite up to speed on the utter responsibilities of George Michael. Take them if you must, but I urge you, burn those 45s! They mean nothing to me, everything to Mr. Michale, and a whole neopolitical jargon-bargon to you! Have your feisty canine Rhubarb fetch the forgottens and be gone with them!

V

         Looking outside on this musty, musky day, I observe quite candidly a row of houses northward, yes, northward!  Each house,exquisitely developed in patterns that would make Frank Lloyd Wright unload unearthly passions in his trousers, dominate the landscape. The house that becomes first, a four-story vision of beauty and erectile circumference overtakes me with such emotion, that I proceed to vomit. But this is not a vomit filled with angst, no! but a vomit that takes me back to my days and minutes of jolly--my days with mumsy.
         Mumsy, Vivian to her peers and bar crawlers, was a handsome specimen. Standing six foot seven,with hands that could only be made personally by God, or a cheap imitation God. Elegant and silky, while still maintaining the raw vigor of a skilled archsman, mumsy was truly a sight! Her wavy locks of auburn hair perfectly complimented her fair pale skin, but she did unfortunately have two lazy eyes. Not crossed peepers, mind you, but two lazies. T’was unfortunate, for I never knew if she was addressing me or my shoulders.
         But the aforementioned vomiting reminded your writer of the time when mumsy and I undertook one of our favorite activities: clock watching. The basics of clock watching are quite rudimentary. You watch the hands on an above-facing timepiece and watch as the time actually advances before your very eyes (or in mumsy’s case, before her two very lazy eyes!)! As clock watching would wind down (it is true, I devised a pun!) I would be so exhausted from observing that I would vomit, very, very violently. It was breathtakingly obscene for the weak-minded, but I never fretted, for I was violently vomiting to and fro! With mumsy by my side!
         A tragedy amongst tragedies! At the age of eleven mumsy left me, a victim of a freak drinking and walking accident. It so happens that mumsy, on her way to the local pub, felt the need to cross traffic, and was maliciously overrun by a carriage, which oddly enough was transporting ale and other occupants of mirth to HER local pub! Irony of ironies!
         At her wake, dadsy, eulogized his dear Vivs. I remember quite vividly, my heartbroken father uttering these words: “God, what a shitty way to die. She sure was, uh, tolerable. Amen.” A tear is brought down upon me whenever I sink a pint of ale, or whenever I come across a freakishly tall woman with two lazy eyes, which happens more than one might like to think.

VI

                Herbert comes into my quarters on a nightly basis, giggling at me.
         “Daddy, let us play,” requests Herbert, his eyes glistening with quiet desperation; he desperately wants approval.
         “Exit!" I bellowed at the boy who had spawned from the fiery loins of Satan. “Your presence shan’t be requested at this moment, the door in which you entered can be better utilized as a source of exiting, proceed!” I shouted at the hoofed four-year old.
         “Daddy, it is quite unbecoming of you to be burdened with such sadness,” said Herbert.
         “You must stop referring to me as “daddy,” young one, for I am not. The one who breathes smoke and is endowed like no other, the one who shakes hands with murderers and rapists, the one who embraces hate and shuns humanity is the one you should call father. Please leave the room, I am ill and feel faint-like. I must go poo,” said I, cringing with a bowel-inducing grimace.
         “Yes daddy, shall I read to you while you squat?” asked the curious lad.
         “Never!” I was becoming irate.
         Herbert left the room nonchalantly, but not before he declared with a certain self-ardor that he will without a shadow or a shadowy doubt return later in the eve, confident that his “daddy” will play with him. A foolish child-like being he is.
         After enduring seventy excruciating minutes in the lavatory, it was now time for slumber. My nightly routine leading up to slumber was foolishly filled with idiosyncrasies and idoms that as far as I know are unprecedented. However meticulous this endeavor seems, it eases my internal and external woes on a nightly basis. My countdown to the land of decadent dreams or mind-crushing nightmares begins promptly at the stroke of nine. At this time I began a nightly facial, which includes strawberry oil, brass monkey and grape leaves, which are beautifully transfigured into one: this face of faces will be protected for at least one more night. Following this, I, who must keep in shape despite my impeding death, ritualistically partake in a binge of foodstuff: glazed duck, loaves upon loaves of chocolate bread, aged Italian wine and a bag of pork rinds. Following this unhealthily healthy adventure, I finish with a quick northwardly stargaze and recite my very own haphazardly put together haiku:

                   I sleep with no one
                   Blasted itch between legs
                   Damn you syphilis!

When I am finished with my rituals, I effortlessly segue into slumber for the next fourteen hours.


VII



         The following morning, I sense a brisk and bold occurrence knocking at my doorstep, is it death?
         T’isn’t. It is merely Terrence, a chum of olden days, a comrade who was at my service during my days and nights at the bordellos of Paris.
         “Greetings, Terrence! What brings you about, are you feeling flinty? Shall we adhere to a game of chance of let’s say…Scrabble?”
         “My regrets William, but I come about not for play, but for sorrow,” said my loyal friend.
         “Well, out with it fellow!” I fumed impatiently.
         “William, the bank notified about…about…”
         “Out with it, the days around here come short, speak out, Terrence!”
         “…About foreclosing on your homestead, your carriage, your erotic lithograph collection, and William, it pains me to say such cruel words, but your fanciful wines, meats and cheeses. Please forgive me William, how I dreaded being a messenger of such acidulous remarks," Terrence said, nearly in tears.
         “Oh! ‘Tis a shameful morn! But I shall gain strength, because with these superficial possessions I was a man, weak with torment, but now I am free. A man free of delicious cheeses and wines, a man free of meat, sweet goat meat! A man free of a house, suitable transportation and animated erotica! Nooooooooooo! Those gobblers of cock shall meet my cruel hand of vengeance without prejudice! Quickly, Terrence, fetch my cane and roller skates, we must head eastward to the bank!”
         "Ho, ho!” said Terrence with a giggly giggle. "I merely jest with you, dear WillIam, the bank has not called! I come to you with good humor, sprinkled with mirth, how jovial of a reaction you have, praise!”
         "Terrence, you funbugger! What brings you here!”
         “Only intentions of good cheer, good friend,” said the man of the minute.
         “Well, do come in, I was just coming out of slumber. Please, join me for my morning fruit and brandy.”
         It was truly a momentous occasion that Terrence paid me a visit. I have not seen him in many moons, he was certainly a welcoming site to a man of such grave conditions.