An Oldie but a Goodie

No, Stolid...this not the end of this blog. But I have been so busy with the business side of being a writer in Guyana that I haven't had the time to do much updating. Fictions is only half-published by the way and I still have to do some polishing of the stories (I'm anal (in the [Tony Shaloub] Monk as opposed to [Catholic] monk sense) when it comes to my writing) as well some more fund-raising to get that volume out by late October. And then I have to do a limited edition complete volume of the book.

In the meanwhile, let me leave you with something I wrote three years ago while I was living in the British Virgin Islands, and no I did not find any virgins there, British or otherwise:


"On Killing My Third Rat

People often disagree with me when I try to convince them of the inherent evil within certain seemingly innocent things. Like, for example, when I try to convince them that Barney, Teletubbies, and Mr. Rogers are all agents of the Beast. The only ally I've found in my case against the Teletubbies is Jerry Falwell and, let's face the nauseous, belligerent, swindling truth here, that brings me very little comfort indeed. Even before modern children's television, Lucifer has been winning souls through many apparently innocuous devices. Like what is up with Georgey Porgy (which rhymes with orgy) and the whole sexual molestation thing? And little Jack Horner - the pun here would not be lost on the Trinidadian reader - putting his thumb and what? And that old woman in the shoe who couldn't keep her legs closed. And where were the RSPCA and those rabid cows at PETA when that little gem about the farmer's wife mutilating three disabled rodents was written, eh? This was the foremost thought on my mind the other night as I brought my broom down on the head of one of those friendly rats that have so graciously decided to choose me as their flatmate. Actually they don't live with me, they live somewhere in the acre or so of bush that surrounds my apartment but they drop in often enough through the holes they've bitten in my anti-mosquito mesh. Anyway, as I was viciously beating this rat to death - smashing his head in with my broomstick, and stomping him with my size-ten Timberlands - I took some time to reflect on my upbringing. I wondered, if I had not listened to those silly nursery rhymes - like that one glorifying gratuitous cruelty to one of God's creatures - whether I would have turned out a better person; whether instead of murdering this poor rat, and immensely enjoying it I might add, I would have been selflessly leaving pieces of cheese and bread out for him and his no doubt starving legion of progeny. I mean, was that nursery rhyme or one of its predecessors the cause, for example, of a teenaged Ivan the Terrible throwing live animals off of towers just for the sheer heck of it? I vowed, as I was mopping that rat's blood off of my floor - his body already thrown back into the bushes so his family could give him a proper burial or eat him or whatever - I made a silent, sacred vow. I have, regrettably, killed three rats so far. I will be far gentler with the next one that comes into my apartment. Instead of using the hard edge of the broom, I'll use the mop to beat him to death."