The Harbinger of Nothing

Saturday, 16 July 2011

Presentation

Shamed out of my sleep by dreams, I awoke to find myself on a Procrustean bed of filth. I was in what I thought was a hotel room. I had a vague sensation that my name meant something but I could find no certainties. I had a less vague sensation that I had been here before. But for the moment my worldview was entirely solipsistic: I could not comprehend anyone else existing. I closed my eyes and urinated bliss through my underpants. Warmth, exuded and spread and I lost consciousness. 

A timeless period passed and I found myself in an auditorium with a backstage pass stapled to my forehead. And then... clarity: Allah had held a match to my pilot light and illuminated my world. I remember... I remembered the day I pawned my dignity and stepped onto this endless treadmill. This was why I was here today. I intended to give a presentation on Nihilistic Angst in the Children’s TV Programme Pingu. I had no knowledge of the subject yet felt fully confident to grant an ill-informed opinion and have it accepted as zeitgeist defining brilliance by London-based hubristic twat-nozzles.

The act before me was a TV nutritionist plugging her new diet book, Wank Yourself Thin. It entailed eating only smoky bacon crisps for 10 weeks and then masturbating the calories out through your genitals. A demonstration ensued, which I was only dimly aware of. As she worked herself into a state of pork ecstasy gush flap, in the wings I myself inhaled 12 bongs at once and bench-pressed gravity in anticipatory numbness. I then heard a name over the PA system and realised it was probably mine and that I should start doing something. I strode onto the stage like a cocksure tit and immediately began high-fiving invisible people who my imagination had created to keep me entertained. This lasted for about 15 minutes. The real audience thought I was being ironic and whooped like eggplants. I then stepped up to the microphone and blew some lung air across my vocal cords. Shrugging off originality, (a wheezing old carthorse) I larded my conversation with buzzwords cribbed from a Sunday Supplement article about non-floating Hasidic Rabbis. A surprising amount of overlap in each area. Reasons for this: small world shrinking to no hemisphere; words/experience declining likewise in proportion as existence condenses to a quantum singularity.

After enunciating this encyclopaedia of drivel, I unbox tautology and dandle a ventriloquist’s dummy on my knee (likeness of Unwin in spats), and hold court to the applause of idiots. We click together, Unwin and I. They ache for my words (and Unwin’s, but his words are mine). They are talent vampires seeking sustenance and I let them feed.

But on what?

I only provide milk placebos.

They still starve.

I am fraudulent. 

After mashing unbuoyant Jews and bolshy penguins into a steaming pile of inanity, I reached the shank of my presentation. This with straight face I state:

“Pingu is a sick fuck who shits bourgeois edification in a dish and pisses ennui up against a rapidly melting igloo.”

The igloo, I reveal, represents the melting of the polar icecaps (the shit in a dish lacks a precise referent). This was accompanied by a PowerPoint slide of the planet earth and underneath the words GLOBAL WARMING in 72-point Helvetica Bold. The audience loved this visual stimulus I provided. I am bukkakeing them with stupid and they gurn with pleasure as it lands on their faces.

They cheer me like I’m God.

In return I scream unintelligibly into the microphone for 20 minutes.

They cheer me for that, as well.

I continued to receive the adulation of the audience, for no reason other than stringing together impressive sounding polysyllables and wanking up a storm of fustian slag bonnets. I had finished dabbing paints at my tripe easel and now wanted to leave the building. Corner eyed, I noticed that Unwin had unsurprisingly come to life and had begun threatening violence in revenge for me boxing him up like a musical instrument and taking him on tour.  Tiny arms whirl pathetically in a sad tantrum. He looked like an angry 85-year-old toddler. Feeling pity, I promised to give him a backstory and royalties in return for blowjobs. Unwin agreed to this and climbed back into his box (little legs scrabbling for footholds). I then drew directions to the hotel on my face and lost consciousness.

I awoke sometime later in the same bed and the same room as before. Again I could not remember who I was. I had an uneasy feeling about what would happen next as a dam burst in my bladder.

“Life is a circle except when it isn’t” (ancient proverb)

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