WARNING: Harebrained piece of prose follows… Proceed at your own peril…
I am being held at gunpoint and forced to write this. At the trigger (or is it a rifle loaded with buckshot?) stands the exalted royal heir to the Dept. of English throne, ordering me to type faster and meet the deadline for the wall magazine, ready to blow my brains (if any) out. I have been asked to provide a piece of prose that should be ‘cynical, funny,’ and ‘will be appreciated’. Déjà vu. Reminds me of the last St. Valentine’s Day when my then-girlfriend asked me to gift something that could serve as a cellphone and a PC, and which ‘wouldn’t be too heavy’ on my pocket. I handed in my resignation…Allow me a moment of self-pity, dear reader, as I wipe away the last remnant of those sentimental times, meandering down my cratered face. But then again, I digress… Am I not supposed to be writing something fulfilling the above criteria?
Right, so here we go. Cynical… umm… A rhetorical question stems from my dull, earlier heat-oppressed and now chill-numbed brain… (hooray it exists!) Can one be cynical when faced with such a predicament? Reminds me of the clichéd phrase ‘Catch-22 situation’, which is often used for such a circumstance, and yet, inexplicably, its etymology is never elucidated upon. My captor is giving me a pretty mean stare right now, which means I better get back to the point… Err… Which was?
Oh yes the promised prose-piece… Now lets see… Funny… Oh yeah I’ve got something to write for that category… Ever wondered why obscure, sometimes unknown people scrap you on that maniacal, addictive, waste-of-time website called Orkut, just to pass their time of day? Sometimes I feel that Orkut is a wonderful advertisement, post-mortem, for Mr. Samuel Beckett and his Waiting for Godot… At the very least, it seems to be a more ‘constructive’ way to pass the time than those poor existential-double-bound tramps… Err… You didn’t find that funny, did you? Well, what do you expect! I’ve got a (insert swear-word here) GUN pointing at my forehead!
I seem to have reached the end of my wits (and the end of my tether too). Exhausted by the effort of trying to cook up a piece as commissioned by my captor, I now resign myself to fate, hoping the eternal hope that at least the third criterion, which lies in your response to this, shall provide me with an epitaph… Goodbye everybody… {GUNSHOT}
