Sunday, February 02, 2014


There's nothing wrong with me, I just don't like sports. No, it's not some weird Eury anti-American thing, it's just that beefy men wearing spandex don't roil my kettle, no matter the hue of their tastefully tight booty-garb.
 And I cannot understand what the rest of you see in them.
Given a choice between watching the Superbowl and playing with a discarded Barbie doll, I would unhesitatingly choose the doll.

"What's that, headless Barbie, you really like the smell of my manly tobacco?

"Why yes, strange perverted adult, it reminds me of Old Spice!"

"You have excellent taste, little biologically inaccurate plastic figurine. Here, let me put you up on the fifth shelf, next to the tins of Brown Clunee and Hall O'The Wynd, which are both very fine aged Virginia tobacco products from Rattray's, manufactured in the present age by Kohlhase & Kopp in Germany. I think you'll like it there."

Then, while she inspects the finely matured flue-cured ("mmm, such restrained label art!"), I would fix myself a cup of strong tea and grab a cookie. Unlike rampaging male sports-fiends, I can trust her in the teevee room. There will be no loud F bombs with her present.
Nor jumping up and down, or screaming.
No overturned chips and dips.
Or spilled beer.

In reality, I do not have a Barbie Doll, headless or otherwise. But I do have two creepy clay and straw voodoo dolls, that hang from a peg close to the Aṣṭādhyāyī of Pāṇini. A book in eight chapters of which not a single paragraph expounds upon the 'Great American Past-time'. It's on the sixth shelf of the previously referenced bookcase, above an impressive selection of pipe-tobacco in sealed tins.
The seventh shelf contains bulbous ceramic jars and two Sek Wan incense burners of identical shape but different glazes.
Plus cowrie shells and a goat.

The ceramics are one more reason to permit a Barbie Doll entry to the apartment, but NOT a rabid sportsfiend. Truth be told though, I have my doubts about Barbie. She looks too suburban and bourgeois. She probably has a Louis Vuitton purse, drools over Jimmy Choo shoes, and if she smokes at all, chains-huffs Virginia Slims. In between chewing gum to hide her addiction, because good young ladies who aim to marry prosperous business men do not smoke.
Untill after the marriage, when the stress of being pregnant with his mutant broodling finally gets to them.

I think I'd prefer a small snarky intellectual, instead of Barbie. Not, necessarily, a smoker -- though having been surrounded by tobacco products all my life that obviously isn't an issue -- but certainly not a shoe-fetishist, purse collector, Hello Kitty creepazoidette, or fashionable consumerite.
There is no beer in the apartment at all. Nor flavoured vodka.
Just the fixings for coffee, tea, and cocoa.
Quietness, peace, and warmth.
No football.

I don't think a small snarky intellectual could fit on the fifth shelf. She wouldn't be comfortable. But I'm sure I can come up with something.

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