The merry andrew

I painted my face white, wore mascara and my clown nose, and set out in full motley. I never earned a dime entertaining the people I passed by, and they often insulted me or beat me senseless. But I loved the job.

Before I prattle on how satisfying the work was and how it assuaged my tormented psyche, I need to talk about what got me into it. What drives a man to become the laughing stock and squeal in masochistic delight when leather boots stomp down on him or fists pummel him? What makes his blood throb each time he makes an off-colour joke? What sets his putz on fire whenever he intersperses his garrulousness with burps and sharts?

Is it madness? The Jungian shadow unsettling consciousness and making a man feral? Is it cocaine or skag or whatever the fuck is the in-vogue drug? Is it porn addiction, tainting the mind with obscene images of coprophilia and sodomy? Is it possession by a vengeful deity keen on making a man deprecate himself? Is it a religious experience filled with remarkable visions of small, grey men with yellow pubes? Is it horrifying dreams of scaly, ten-horned, fifteen-testicled abominations that lick you with myriad tongues?

No! It isn’t, doctor! People like you always look for surreal explanations when the answer is ordinary. It’s the quotidian routine of life that wreaks havoc and makes a man transform. Now that metamorphosis is a double-edged sword. The man becomes a deplorable pariah but also sees clearly. He’s enlightened. And no longer bound by the shackles of conformity, caged in the abyss of pleasing people, or trapped in the nadir of status and power, he roams the world, urging people to see the silliness of it all. “Life is absurd, and meaning is no meaning, and you’ll find beauty in crypts, dusty attics and filthy sausages,” he says, but they think he’s a madman, doctor! Imagine that! A lunatic!

But the road to transcendence is difficult. It’s gruelling, painful, and requires epiphanies and a touch of genius. It isn’t Jungian individuation, where a person stops wearing his public mask, starts communicating with his true self, and creatively uses the shadow when he dresses in drag. No, it involves seeing and not seeing at the same time. You see the world for what it is, and you stop seeing yourself as a part of it. It involves understanding and not comprehending at the same time. You understand that life is ludicrous, but you become willfully ignorant of the rat race or chasing the cheese or whatever the fuck it’s called now.

But my prior statements only touch the surface of becoming enlightened. First, a man must understand that he’s been fucking himself in the arse for a long time. He’s been pulling that putz and twisting and curling it before sticking it into his sphincter. That’s his hamartia. He’s been living a lie by meeting the standards some external, non-quantifiable force called society has been imposing on him. He’s in a spiritual malaise and doesn’t even realize it! The poor schmuck! Second, he needs to take a dump and then talk about the ocean to remedy this. Perhaps that sounds like a non sequitur, but I assure you it’s not! I speak figuratively! He needs to purge himself of society’s dogma and reflect. He needs to introspect. Third, he must stop obfuscating his authentic self from his loved ones, despite the consequences. This causes acute distress because they’ll never accept the enlightened him. But chronic masturbation helps! I say, whack that shlong at least fifteen times a day until your balls turn greenish-blue! You might lose your potency and your wife, but enlightenment demands sacrifice.

The man must then do things perfunctorily. He doesn’t have to bathe, wipe his arse after a shit or brush his teeth. He needs to become a devil in his workplace. A stinky one too! This will make his employers fire him. This again is painful, and I’ve found that pegging helps. There’s nothing like having a bossy, powerful woman giving you a punitive buggering. Trust me! It’s true!

This capitalistic world is all about transfers and quid pro quo. But an enlightened man gives freely. He loafs and speaks his truth expecting nothing in return. He never spews vitriol but only points the world to the Banyan Tree, which is also the cursed fig tree. He’s a free man who follows no one and doesn’t desire sycophants. Anyhow, I digress. I shall now return to the original trajectory of my thinking. But wait! There’s more I need to say, doctor! The enlightened man doesn’t engage in mimicry. He’s no mime! Yes, I dressed like a clown, but I was not staging some elaborate play that was fantastical yet grounded in reality. My life wasn’t a fucking novel that deployed verisimilitude! People don’t know actuality. They think they do, but they’re nuns on a carousel of orthodoxy that spins round and round and doesn’t go anywhere. Oh! Blinded Sheeple! When will you learn?

Finally, I return to my first line of thought. The fourth stage to becoming enlightened is catharsis. The man needs to overcome his angst and paranoia and repeat to himself that all sense is nonsense, that all being is non-being. Allow me to explain: The man now realises that he has nothing left to lose. He then realigns his ramrod; makes sure it doesn’t reach his arse; forgets and forgives the wife who left him; snorts a little cocaine for extra relief; spends time with hookers and wears motley. Now, the motley is symbolic. It represents the asinine jester, who is secretly wise. The man is now a merry andrew who knows life’s meaning. People will not take him seriously, but that’s the bloody point! He doesn’t take himself seriously because he knows we’re living in a garbage dump of materialism, greed and lust for power. So, what’s the point in wearing a three-piece suit and becoming an ‘inspirational speaker’ or even a nihilistic philosopher? True prophets of meaninglessness don’t only reject the noble prize. They deny themselves and treat themselves like shit!

The fifth stage is spreading awareness. Enlightened men aren’t selfish. They don’t keep the ‘light’ or ‘energy’ or whatever the fuck they call it now to themselves. They wander the streets and talk in rhyme, scream, or whisper while they fart and burp. Before they leave the house, they must eat potatoes, though. And swallow a few Imosecs. Caffeine helps too. All this creates the noisy, putrid fart or the smelly, sour burp. I don’t mean to boast, but here’s an internal rhyme I composed: All life is no life, and once you realise that, you’ll have no wife. As you see, I don’t use meter or forms. The conformists do that shit! I also often deploy parataxis because I hate conjunctions, which traditionalists use. Here’s an example: Minnie mouse knew truth, Mickey didn’t, Minnie left, he chokes for her.

The final stage is enduring persecution. Yes, doctor! We’ve reached the end! An enlightened man must brave blows, kicks to the balls, pepper spray, police brutality, slaps, painful butt grabs by gay bears, stabbing and even death. I’ve found that a leather-wearing dominatrix with a whip helps. A few lashes and those buttocks will be raw and ready to roar! Once this is complete, Voila! The man is free from an authoritarian society! He’s ready!

And yet, here I am, doctor. In this mental hospital in a bloody straitjacket! Diagnosed with many mental illnesses when I only sought truth. I’m once again society’s pawn. I’m not even allowed walks in the garden because they think I’m a threat. They don’t allow me to converse with the other patients because they think I’ll make their condition worse. Tell me, sir! Please! Is this fucking fair?

7 responses to “The merry andrew”

    • I think it would make a good title for a modern memoir too. You find all sorts of memoirs today ranging from eating and crying in a supermarket to get over grief to really self-indulgent ones about Prozac and depression. So beating the putz to transcend is coming. Mark my words!

    • Yeah it’s a darkly comical piece that stems from pain. Ultimately you reach a stage where you laugh at the suffering and the pointlessness of it. I guess the narrator has reached such a stage but is punished for it because society expects you to behave in accordance with its rules.

      • Yeah, I know, I understand. But it’s amazing how you control the word flow despite the emotional subject. Keep up the great work! 😊

      • Thanks! I try my best. I think if I wrote directly about pessimism and nihilism, it would drain me. Which is why, crafting a story and coating the bleaker aspects with ribald humour helps. That way I can control the narrative and keep myself from bleeding on a page.

  1. Yeah, it’s a good strategy. We often write journals addressing a second person even though it’s an interaction within ourselves. Distancing it does make it more controllable.

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