God is on the TV
I rub my eyes, yawning. The effort makes me dizzy, so acute is my fatigue. As per the ritual, I try the door again: locked, as expected. With nothing more to do, I take a seat amidst the shrapnel debris of corn infesting the couch. The television flickers not unlike tamed or distant lightning, whilst it blares at fever pitch - perpetual cacophony.
I train my reluctant eyes on my sole companion whose name I’ve never bothered to learn. His fleshy fingers, like fat and hairy caterpillars, delve down for another helping of bottomless, butter-stricken popcorn, the true source of which I have long ago given up pondering (since that inevitably highlights further anomalies that solicit investigation, dunking logic face-down and neck deep into the slick fish bait that writhes within this veritable Pandora’s tin can.)
Dripping-hot, waxing his slavering mouth and colossal chins, the fistfuls of tired looking snack are crammed into his gaping jowls. One handful after another of the goop goes in, without a single sign of depletion from the cardboard container that it sprouts from.
He giggles and jiggles at the parody playing out on screen, looks speculatively over at me and mumbles some remark saturated with what would pass as witty banter at any given trailer park.
I, however, am absorbed by a jewel droplet of yellow ooze dangling deftly from his second chin, like a pilgrim hesitating on the shore of an un-mapped lake. Its surface is reflecting the sickly light stemming from the “magic picture box”. For a fleeting moment as it congeals, I am fixed in horror, seeing a perfect miniature image mirroring the unfolding plot televised in front of us dancing on the curve of that morsel.
Above the incessant blabbing of the TV’s sound-scape, I am sure I can hear the gurgles and grunts of his jelly-belly resonating through his bulk, amplified by blubber. The humidity of the environment seems suddenly to peak as I catch an unwanted whiff of the odours emanating from this man. I can’t help but gag.
He glances in my direction; dough eyed, and offers me a globule of tortured corn. I clear my throat to dislodge bile and appease my nausea, looking away to mask my discomfort and shivering despite the sweltering heat of the room. I peripherally sense a tidal shrug as his attention is turned back to his viewing.
The Tele shows an angel slipping on a turd…
This elicits a robust guffaw from my partner in this space. It feels as though the entire room is at once alive with the deafening racket and as per usual, my head starts to throb. One would think that in death you’d at least be spared from headaches.
Once more, and with the usual strain of reluctance cocktailed with defeat, I settle down to contemplate what atrocities I could possibly have committed throughout my life in order to deserve what I am going through.
At times like these, the assurance that one man’s hell is another man’s heaven is firmly understood.
Currently, God is making an entrance for his fifteen minutes on air…
I train my reluctant eyes on my sole companion whose name I’ve never bothered to learn. His fleshy fingers, like fat and hairy caterpillars, delve down for another helping of bottomless, butter-stricken popcorn, the true source of which I have long ago given up pondering (since that inevitably highlights further anomalies that solicit investigation, dunking logic face-down and neck deep into the slick fish bait that writhes within this veritable Pandora’s tin can.)
Dripping-hot, waxing his slavering mouth and colossal chins, the fistfuls of tired looking snack are crammed into his gaping jowls. One handful after another of the goop goes in, without a single sign of depletion from the cardboard container that it sprouts from.
He giggles and jiggles at the parody playing out on screen, looks speculatively over at me and mumbles some remark saturated with what would pass as witty banter at any given trailer park.
I, however, am absorbed by a jewel droplet of yellow ooze dangling deftly from his second chin, like a pilgrim hesitating on the shore of an un-mapped lake. Its surface is reflecting the sickly light stemming from the “magic picture box”. For a fleeting moment as it congeals, I am fixed in horror, seeing a perfect miniature image mirroring the unfolding plot televised in front of us dancing on the curve of that morsel.
Above the incessant blabbing of the TV’s sound-scape, I am sure I can hear the gurgles and grunts of his jelly-belly resonating through his bulk, amplified by blubber. The humidity of the environment seems suddenly to peak as I catch an unwanted whiff of the odours emanating from this man. I can’t help but gag.
He glances in my direction; dough eyed, and offers me a globule of tortured corn. I clear my throat to dislodge bile and appease my nausea, looking away to mask my discomfort and shivering despite the sweltering heat of the room. I peripherally sense a tidal shrug as his attention is turned back to his viewing.
The Tele shows an angel slipping on a turd…
This elicits a robust guffaw from my partner in this space. It feels as though the entire room is at once alive with the deafening racket and as per usual, my head starts to throb. One would think that in death you’d at least be spared from headaches.
Once more, and with the usual strain of reluctance cocktailed with defeat, I settle down to contemplate what atrocities I could possibly have committed throughout my life in order to deserve what I am going through.
At times like these, the assurance that one man’s hell is another man’s heaven is firmly understood.
Currently, God is making an entrance for his fifteen minutes on air…