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Op zoek naar God?
Only fools come in

You might know me

I am a tall, red haired man.

Unfortunately, I lost my eyes in the Laos war. My tongue was teared out the same day.

My ears ran away when I was four years of age. It happened in the middle of the night.

I possess cheeks, lips nor teeth. In fact, I don't have hair either.

My chin is of a very special kind. A non-existing kind, if I may say so.

I realise that none of my words will be heard; nor are they spoken.

I am a proud man; however, unjustified.

In fact, I am nobody. 

 

15:33 - 5/1/2013 - comments {0} - post comment

Everyone gets what he deserves

I crossed the street and hit the toddler who stood there leaning against a lamppost so hard, that he will never forget what came over him that day. But if I then knew what this all would lead to, I might have thought twice and acted differently... But why would I complain about things that happened. In the meanwhile, the toddler passed away. Shortly after I beat him up, he got tetanus, which made him sufferer horrible pains and eventually he died a terrible death.

The moral of this story is that the mother of the toddler, whose husband I knew quite well - it was my brother, after all - died of bitter grief and she took her husband  with her. Does this make me guilty of fratricide? Of course not, that bitch of a woman killed my brother. If I ever meet her again, I'll hit her between the eyes and when I'm done with that I'll beat up her only child so bad that he'll never forget it. Sooner or later he will feel sorry about his deeds. It's the age, I suppose.

15:52 - 4/1/2013 - comments {0} - post comment

A quite special event

I wake up and find a knife in my left eye. I’m still a bit tired and I could use some more sleep, but just on time I realise that there’s a reason for that knife sticking in my eye. Of course it causes a terrible pain, and the blood is gushing out my head. But what I have to do today is so important, that there’s no way I could forget it. Sleeping off was no option, I thought yesterday just before going to bed, and so I stabbed the knife in myself, to wake up on time. Sharply I look at myself in the mirror. ‘Good heavens, is that me?’ I ask myself bewildered, ‘then it’s worse than I thought’. But it’s no mirror I’m looking at, it’s a wardrobe. Quite a bliss, I must say. First trying to get rid of the knife then. With a short yet accurate arm movement I pull it out. ‘That’s not too bad’, I mumble while I inspect the eye and somewhat relieved I muffle it back into the reddish, empty hole in my face. The eyesight is lost unfortunately, but, more important: it looks quite good on me, the eye, and after all I’m awake now.  

With the point of the knife I try to camouflage some nose hairs, but I tear my nostril. Cursing of the pain I cut myself in the arm and between the lungs. But now I’m digressing, I have to move on. Forward. At least away from here, out of town. Now I can’t help but remembering everything that happened yesterday evening. All of it. The old man, his limping dog, the river. Of course it wasn’t deliberate, but I’m afraid I’m the only one who knows that. Well, at least the flaming dog is alive, I tranquilise myself, looking at the corner of my room, from where I’m gazed at by two friendly eyes, belonging to the two-feet-dog they are attached to. Squealing of malicious pleasure I laugh at the funny sight. ‘A dog with two feet, just look at that!’ The dog keeps silence. Me too. I kick the dog in his ribs. My lips are dripping with spittle. The dog keeps still. A bit confused I look around. Everything is looking just the same as yesterday. Now I have to get away as soon as I can, I think while I peek into the corridor. Nothing. Everyone is still sleeping. On my toes I walk to the front door, the dog (or better, what’s left of him; now the stupid little bugger lost his tail!) held firmly on my back. I reach the door. I sneak out and without making any noise I shut the heavy, wooden door behind me, my hand tightly holding the copper handle to prevent any sound. Still very alert I descend the stone stairs, until I reach the footway. I cross the street, heading for the tram stop, but I get run over by a vehicle. I die instantly. In the mortuary I get covered with the mouldy blankets I enwrapped the old man in. The most notable stains of vomit and excreta are removed by the concierge. No music is played on the funeral. Three more children die. That’s the way these things go.

15:39 - 4/1/2013 - comments {0} - post comment

First class

I am a man with very strict manners, of which I am very proud. Every day exactly the same things happen to me. I always wake up at 6 o’clock, usually still feeling a bit drowsy. After drinking a glass of three raw eggs with lemon juice and olive oil, I turn to the windows of my bedroom in order to open them, in the meanwhile singing The times they are a-changing (except on Sundays; on Sundays I don’t sing at all, or at most a very modest devotional hymn. My favourite is the one with… But nothing… What am I doing?... I am wasting my time here with very non-essential information, merely of interest for those who are so well-known with these kinds of pastime that they even could guess the particular hymn that I’m chanting (a quite enjoyable activity, I have to say)). After finishing my singing, I go downstairs to get the newspaper from my housekeeper Sonia. I never read newspapers, by the way, but I enjoy myself deliciously with looking at the death notices. Doing so, I can’t help but praising and blessing myself for my outstanding health. In a very confident mood, I like to dance around the breakfast room three or four times, before being obstructed by Sonia, who then promptly reminds me of my tight schedule. But wait… Am I boring you? Do I see you yawn, reader? Well, well.. What about a little story then? Here it is, you spoiled little presumptuous chap:

 

I was travelling by train for some weeks, when I stood up and walked up to the conductor, in order to cut his cards. But to my dreadful amazement, the conductor had already sold his card and, much worse than that, bought a two-year-old mare for it, which he had abused so badly that two legs was all there was left of the poor animal. Reluctantly and with a new card in my hand, I walked up to the administrator, who was just busy nailing the shoe smith’s new hoofs to his feet. Screaming of fierce pleasure, some (uncut, but yet) cards flowed from his mouth, until all at once the train came to an abrupt stop. A horse, I would say it was about two years of age, with golden teeth and cut ears, ran home screeching. What a misconception! But I’m glad nothing serious happened to me.

 

I never saw the conductor again in that train. I presume he ran off, but I’m not sure about that.

15:38 - 3/1/2013 - comments {0} - post comment

A visitor

I just nestled myself on my cosy bench, when suddenly the bell rang. The bell rang another time and a third time and I decided to stop the bell from ringing by opening the door. What I then saw was a man who half looked like a dwarf and for the other half like a rat. 'What are you coming for?' I asked annoyed. 'I'm coming to get you, my son', the unsightly little man said, gnashing his teeth, followed by a scraping, laughing sound. 'I want you to come with me, we need you'. He silently sneaked past me through the long, wooden corridor and started to arbitrarily muster some of my belongings into a large leather trunk (handmade, with accuracy that's so typical for the Persians). During this labour-intensive work, he repeatedly held still for a moment, looking up to me and viciously muttering 'Yes yes ha ha ha come with us my son. No choice for you'. Disgruntled by this unexpected visit, I wasn't able to do anything but just stand there with my back against the oaken bookcase (colonial style) I inherited from my sister who died of typhus, watching more and more of my precious belongings disappearing in the trunk. In the meantime I was secretly thinking of a way to get rid of the strange, frightening creature that interrupted me so aggressively. I decided to set the house on fire. The flames and the heat will make the dwarfrat flee, I argued, and if not, the fire might. Since I was – and still am, but I acknowledge that very few of you know me personally if not for this story – a man of my word, I waited no longer and set fire into the house. The fire spread very quick and indeed, just as I expected, the little man took a fearful flight. ‘Well that’s that’, I said, quite pleased about my decisive actions, and with a satisfied grin on my face I plumped down on my cosy bench again.

15:19 - 3/1/2013 - comments {0} - post comment

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