Efficiency &
Ripov
by Albert Russo
It was one of those days
when, no matter what you did, the world seemed
ready to crunch you up, in that slow ruminating
way that pushes to the edges of madness, then
relents just so you retain the illusion you've
never stopped being lucid, then bong! And the
cycle is on for another, umpteenth turn.
Having burnt his thigh with
steaming coffee, worn a pair of socks that just
happened to be of coordinated colors, then
brushed his teeth using the tube of neutral shoe
polish - at first, he believed the nauseating
odor of rotten fish came from the neighbor's
kitchen - Ripov scowled at himself in the mirror,
mouth viscous like a horned toad's, and croaked
amid alligator's tears: "Thisssh nonsenssh’l
have to sshtop right now or elsshe!"
To prove to himself that he
could ward off the chain of mini-disasters which
was looming no farther than the tip of his nose,
he resolved to start the day all over again,
though not before he rinsed away the foul mush
from his mouth.
Ripov thus went back to bed
and studiously repeated his gestures. While he
did this he realized that at least two-thirds of
his movements were a mere waste of time and
energy and, worse still, that some of them led
him to uncontrollable acts of self-inflicting
violence. At this stage, it may be necessary to
warn the reader that Ripov had done away with
Freudian theories, letting, in the fashion of the
Great Flower Revolution adepts, instincts and
intuition sort things out, with, if need be, the
intervention of the Great Arbiter, Ripov Hisself.
As he was about to slip out
of his sheets once again, Ripov accidentally
tickled his heel and found out that stroking the
sole of his foot then gently massaging his toes
one by one put him in a pleasant mood. Though
trusting less the astrological profession than
the soothsayers, he vaguely remembered that one
of the Pisces' most sensitive spots was his foot.
The French saying 'to get up on one's wrong foot’,
suddenly came to mind and Ripov made sure his
right foot touched the ground first. As he got
dressed, he also realized that, contrary to his
habit, he felt more comfortable donning his shirt
before his socks and his pants. He tied his laces
only once he'd slipped into both of his shoes.
"Ahh does it feel good!" he yawned,
stretching his arms voluptuously like a Bali
dancer. Maybe, he reflected, he ought to
discipline his every muscle and sinew by
performing tai-chi or yoga. Trust those Orientals
for exercise and mental hygiene! Yes, efficiency
could be indeed a voluptuous affair.
In mid-yawn, however, Ripov
was nudged by a sudden and terrifying vision.
When he was small, his brat of a cousin, Emily, a
doomwatcher if ever there was one, told him she
knew exactly how he was going to die - a wasp
would get into his throat and sting him right on
the epiglottis. In a fraction of a second all of
Ripov's ideals - ecological in essence - turned
through some weird alchemy into a horde of stoned
wasps and plummeted down his esophagus after a
memorable bout of tongue thrashing and twisting
during which he almost choked. He ran to the
pantry to get rid of his coughing fit and
swallowed a pot of honey-tinted glue.
|
