There was a time when I waited for Sunday. After a week of work, and I worked hard, a day of rest was very welcome. I loved to sleep. I am not an atheist, and I go to church maybe once a year for midnight mass on Christmas eve. So I'm not a churchgoer basically. Therefore Sundays did not mean that I was seated in the pews in church listening to the pastor's sermon. The pastor, in fact, would not recognise me until my sister, who goes more often to church, introduced me as her brother after Christmas Eve mass. I also had a problem sleeping and would lie awake at nights trying desperately trying to fall asleep. I tried counting sheep and it never worked. I also tried those sleeping videos on YouTube. I listened \ and felt bored. They were not music I was familiar with and they kept my eyelids firmly apart. Even a safe tranquillizer that my doctor prescribed did not have any effect. The on...
I was alarmed at the loud cries I heard from within as I knocked on the politician's door.
"Boo! Hoo! Give me your shoulder to cry on," he said unlocking the door for me.
"What's wrong?" I asked genuinely concerned.
"What's wrong?" He exclaimed, "They have taken away my greatest treasure!"
"But I thought all your ill-gotten gains were in Swizz Bank deposits," I said surprised.
"No, no they are trifles to what I have lost," he cried beating his chest.
"Don't do that," I said alarmed, "or your heart beat will go up."
"Let my heart, liver, stomach beat about the bush for all I care!" he howled inconsolably.
"Shall I call the doctor?" I asked not knowing what to do.
"No, there's nothing he can do," he shook his head dejectedly.
"There's always hope," I said soothingly, "At least he can recommend that you be put in the I.C.U. as he did when the Income Tax chaps raided you."
"I think I need to be in the I.C.U.," he said.
"Shall I call an Intensive Care Ambulance?" I asked hopefully.
"They have flashing blue beacons, don't they?" the politician asked.
"Yes they do," I replied puzzled.
"Oh! I will not survive this," he moaned.
"Be strong, everything will be all right," I said.
"Two wrongs do not make a right," he wailed.
"Which right are you talking about?" I asked.
"My fundamental right," the politician said crying helplessly on my shoulder.
"Fundamental rights can't be infringed! Shall I call your lawyer?" I queried.
"There's nothing he can do," the politician said miserably.
"You don't need a doctor and you don't need a lawyer," I said mentally crossing off the two options.
"Shall I call her then?" I whispered.
"Who?" he asked.
"Your latest mistress," I said in a low voice.
"Don't," he said in horror, "she will be livid when she hears about my loss."
"You pawned her jewels?" I asked brightly, "that's not a problem; you can take another bank loan and redeem them easily."
"No, no it's my fundamental right!"
"Taking bank loans despite being declared a defaulter is a political right," I agreed.
"We certainly have rights!" the politician thundered, "My fundamental light has being violated!"
"You mean right?" I asked.
"No, I mean light," the politician underlined pompously.
"Your political light?" I asked bewildered.
"That's what makes the common people sit up and gape when I pass by," he said.
"People are always doing sit-ups and stretching exercises after elections," I replied.
"They sit up when I pass by and stretch out at my feet when they want a favour," he said emphatically.
"Exercise is for the public good," I nodded.
"But the public will not like what they have done!" he shouted.
"The voice of the people does not need hearing aids," I agreed.hearin
"They will avenge this injustice done to me," he said turning livid.
"What is it, sir?" I asked not comprehending.
"It is the red light," he confided.
"Keep your voice down, your constituents might hear," I interjected hastily.
"Why what is wrong with red light?" he demanded.
"It's legal in Denmark, Finland, Costa Rica, Argentina, Canada...," I said hastily reeling off geography, "And you can always take a government funded all expenses paid trip to these countries to study climate change."
"That's not the red light I am talking about," he howled, "They have the gumption to remove the red flashing beacon from a politician's car!"
"Yes, but the court said so," I regretted.
"The court said no!" he sobbed hysterically.
"Look at the brighter side," I said delicately, "you could use a yellow beacon or even a green one."
"But I'm colour blind to yellow and green," he whimpered.
"We can get a man with a trombone on a handcart to clear the way ahead of you," I suggested.
"Imbecile!" roared the politician.
"Or someone with a foghorn," I said meekly.
"The people are already fogged with all the politics going around, think of something else," he barked.
"Why don't you ask for a couple of police dogs?" I asked brightly, "they could nip their way through any crowd and you will not require tear gas either."
"Are you suggesting that I teargas my voters?" he demanded.
"But you gas them all the time," I pointed out.
"Gas is God's gift to politicians!" he said blithely.
"The Nazis also used it on Jews!"
"Don't be racial!" he snapped, "Politicians can't do without gas these days as they can't live on the gift of the gab alone!"
"They also need flashing red beacons," I remarked.
"An essential commodity for politicians," he replied pompously.
"But they are no more," I said sadly, "Death where is Thy Sting?"
"I have heard of The Sting, he played with The Police at one time," the politician said thoughtfully.
"The police?" I asked surprised.
"It's a band," the politician pointed out graciously.
"Then that's what you need," I said joyfully, "A proper, goose-stepping, police band with sirens going ahead of you, and booting your excitable constituents on their unholy bottoms during a parade, vintage car rallies and on Baby's Day Out!"
Comments
Post a Comment