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WEIRD SOUP





WEIRD SOUP IV: "SADNESS: AN INTERIM REPORT"

"So, we fuck the Mother Superior again. Repeatedly, in fact. We fuck her kindly. We fuck her insistently. We fuck from behind without anyone noticing. We fuck her like a group of bandits in the night. We fuck her and we fuck her. We fuck her even though her grasp of pornography and Art is fundamentally flawed. And still we fuck her. Madly on and on, fucking her whilst simultaneously designing arbitrary letterhead logos. Fucking her wearing only a sequinned G-string. Fucking her into mild contentment; like an American exile returning to post-war Germany to aid that country's rehabilitation. Yes, we fuck her, taking the side of non-realist literature in topical debates: later, using her backside as a low coffee table where we can read Crime & Punishment one-handed and fuck her some more... we fuck her to the music of Handel… we fuck her to the music of Slipknot… we fuck her until eventually we tire of fucking her completely and begin fucking various other members of the organisation."

by HP Tinker

COPYRIGHT © 2002, 3 A.M. MAGAZINE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED



i.

How do we avoid unwanted sadness? Is our sadness always unmitigated, ineffable, inevitable? Should we eat away at the very organization that has always happily stabilised our eye-catching lifestyles without complaint? Last year's optimistic eyebrows were paradoxical, with a projected overall Net return of 10%. ("Not enough!" exclaimed the President, a sprightly 60-year-old Chinese gentleman, tears retching at his eyes.) The mistaken shores of a fiscal year need to be re-balanced, certainly. Today's resources remain transcendental, restricted, moralised, divine, constrained (unfortunately)… and the methodical seduction of teenage boys… long the financial mainstay of our overseas operations… is now being subcontracted to Microsoft

Sadness is sweeping through the organization like a particularly toxic strain of influenza. Infiltrating every level. From half-cut French lieutenants to cutting edge lit-bitch receptionists. Several architects dreaming lazily in the lobby appearing confused, morally lost, tortured by maze-like thoughts of realist literature. In a desperate bid to boost morale, the President of the organization is emailing bad jokes to everybody else within the organization…

We can only email our nervous laughter back in reply…

Sadly, the once highly lucrative Retro Culture, Bohemian Travel, Erotic Food, Racist Sport, Ersatz Porn, Misguided Polemic, Naked Publicity, Contemporary Psychosis and Transatlantic Masturbation Divisions are waist-high in several shades of metaphorical crap. The Religion Manager is trying to inspire us to greater things by threatening to introduce highly competitive Mexican marketing forces unless we scrub our workstations to the correct degree of expected hygiene and cleanliness. His threats are having absolutely no effect… and the Anarchy Department are smoking South American grass languidly, talking about last night's television… the World Muzak Section refusing to maintain their free form Acid Jazz collections to the regulated levels. … while the saddest of all walk a razor's edge of unmitigated multinational indecision…

Outwardly, the President is projecting an aura of incorruptible confidence.

Which we, as card-carrying members of the organization, fully appreciate. However, our sadness has been noticed loitering wraith-like through the long, dark corridors of the William Shatner Incorporeal Mismanagement Training Buildings…

 

ii.

Today, bald mid-management meets covertly in the hyacinth gardens, where they elect to stop doing whatever it is they've been doing wrong. ("…Before it's too late, boys and girls" -- The President.) After a random lunch of spaetzle, eliche, fusili, chifferini rigati, fagiolini rigati, rotele, tofarelle pastas, their proposals are propelled forward with a drunken motion similar to intoxication. Instructed to assuage our feelings of in-house sadness, the Ancient DNA & Bacterial Chemotaxis team (currently midway into a ten-year probe into the private passions of Hanif Kureishi) come up with a new motto: "… the organization provides a two-pronged jump backwards into the same river twice…" Other measures remain in their absurdly optimistic, inchoate stages, however. The Blaxploitation Division are instructed to spray-paint selected walls with corporate graffiti, hoping to create a positive street vibe. The furniture is moved round. We are actively encouraged to grow small beards and produce Industry-standard poetry, to self-mythologise ourselves and start encoding our lifestyles accordingly. (The furniture is moved round again.) But will any of this help to dig us out of the hole we have buried ourselves in? Many here amongst us still feel half-shorn, semi-devoid of the requisite culture fix we require…

(Only we can't use this word "culture" anymore because it has been outlawed within the organizational marketplace by our Creative Legal Department, acknowledged experts in the famously knotty politics of the Deep South.) Meanwhile, we are secretly concerned about transmuting into penis-obsessed narcissists…

We ask ourselves self-lacerating questions.

Who are we exactly? What is it we do?

Don't we input? Don't we create? Don't we distribute? Don't we facilitate? Don't we operate as a form of self-sufficient artistic commodity? Don't we turn lost little boys into grown men who think the whole world is against them? Don't we re-arrange art into unconvincing pornography and hope nobody notices?

How did we come to join the organization, anyway?

Weren't we headhunted? Emailed artificially sweetened remarks? Weren't we flattered on a daily basis? Both locally and globally? Weren't we brought several servings of swordfish? Swordfish of such exceptional quality that we couldn't refuse? And to think, we only took up painting in our late 30s to avoid such unwanted reams of sadness… yet since that bittersweet moment of quiet revelation our projected rate of sadness has triplicated itself… several times already…

So, then.

How can we avoid unwanted sadness? Is our sadness always unmitigated, ineffable, inevitable? And then there are other things too. Should we eat meat? How do we know the world isn't virtual? Where are we? Are we real? Where do Right and Wrong come from? Things like that. And the buttocks of the Mother Superior in motion: a most thrilling sight, it cannot be denied. Once witnessed, they are hard to put out of your mind. So, then. Do you hear those voices calling you, constrained by all the complexity? Do you hear those voices? Well, do you?

 

iii.

Now, it has been noted by Dr Rasputin, Project Leader of the Internal Self-Promotion Focus Group, that we appear wan, the wannest of the wan: hopelessly wan, lost, morally confused, tortured, diverted… Wounds are being opened. New wounds. Old wounds. Unhealed wounds. Bloodied wounds. Wounds of innocence. Wounds of experience. Wounds of blighted youth. Wounds of careless middle age. Psychic wounds. Psychological wounds. Psychosomatic wounds… and we turn to the Mother Superior for succour… for comfort… for homespun wisdom…

Together we share a feast of snails and end up fucking enthusiastically in the elevator. Afterwards, we feel slightly bad. The organization is not best pleased either.

The organization raises its steely eyebrows momentarily…

Then lowers them again…

The organization stands firm behind us. (Just as the organization will stand firm behind any member who operates independently as an abstract index of poetic morphological function.) The fucking of the Mother Superior in the elevator was an enthusiastic act, they say, one to be encouraged, applauded, promoted through the various ranks of the organization. ("Such enthusiasm will take you places…" -- the President.) So, we fuck the Mother Superior again. Repeatedly, in fact. We fuck her kindly. We fuck her insistently. We fuck from behind without anyone noticing. We fuck her like a group of bandits in the night. We fuck her and we fuck her. We fuck her even though her grasp of pornography and Art is fundamentally flawed. And still we fuck her. Madly on and on, fucking her whilst simultaneously designing arbitrary letterhead logos. Fucking her wearing only a sequinned G-string. Fucking her into mild contentment; like an American exile returning to post-war Germany to aid that country's rehabilitation. Yes, we fuck her, taking the side of non-realist literature in topical debates: later, using her backside as a low coffee table where we can read Crime & Punishment one-handed and fuck her some more... we fuck her to the music of Handel… we fuck her to the music of Slipknot… we fuck her until eventually we tire of fucking her completely and begin fucking various other members of the organisation. Fucking the English lounge lizard. Fucking the karmic masseuse. Fucking the old French maid. Fucking the Ezra Pound look-alike. Fucking the bad soap actor. Fucking ourselves astringently if (and when) needs be. Fucking the President of the organization in the rear of his private quarters, with extra tenderness, like he is our own small adopted child…

Romantically, the organization is more than happy for us.

In-house sexual assignations have always been welcomed. (They are furtively videotaped then relayed monthly on large screens in the fully licensed WG Sebald Karaoke Bar.) Although not everybody seems quite so happy with recent developments. We receive several complaints from unknown women posing as Jean-Michel Basquiat. (We swiftly threaten them with legal action.) Then a South African typist (who once tried to seduce us with timid poetry readings, just outside Antwerp Cathedral) slaps our wrists harshly and says, "We do generally try to avoid this kind of thing! While you were perfectly within your rights to fuck the Mother Superior enthusiastically, you then went too far by fucking almost everybody else within the lower echelons of the organization. Could you please give people a false postal address in future and just say you don't want to fuck them anymore? That would be great."

(Meanwhile, naked and alone, the Junior Co-Manager of Skyscrapers elects to abandon his paper thin ego… to leave the organization in lieu of the President… to become assistant editor of Asian Babes and launch a challenging range of South Sea perfumes for himself and other romantically bruised heterosexuals.) At last, it seems, the overwhelming tide of sadness has been stemmed. But for how long? we wonder. The question of potential long-term sadness is to be re-opened, re-housed, re-negotiated, re-investigated. For the time being our sadness is individually packed in 0,500 kg BOPP polypropylene film bags. It will be stored in closed cleaned, aired, disinfected rooms, and transported when necessary by covered, dry, not-infested transportation means. Having only relatively recently rediscovered the virtues of ladies' hosiery, finally we are ready to envelope ourselves within the luxurious shell of our own existential principles…

 

iv.

In this new self-controlled climate, our castration fears have essentially vanished:

  1. Quiche is openly encouraged.
  2. Humming happily is mandatory.
  3. Token light-heartedness will soon be provided.
  4. Avenging angels are being recruited from New Orleans.
  5. A more informal atmosphere is to be gradually implemented.
  6. Tax-free stress arrives early each morning, along with buttered croissants.

Our sadness now complies fully with official STAS 756/1-85 regulations (soft-surfaced, no striations, translucent, glassy when broken, punctiform, maximum 0.5 cm arching, golden-yellow, no moulded taste, elastic, max. 3.2% acidity.) Glancing sideways at the pertness of our individual breasts, the President is (perhaps) pleased, (almost) smiling. He assures us that one day soon we will be paid for our efforts on behalf of the organization ("Soon," he says. "Not now… not yet… soon...") Until then, bootlegged copies of the Archimedes palimpsest are freely available in the lobby. Tickets to see Kevin Spacey in Chicago are pending. In the event of terrorist attack, emergency asparagus will be provided.





ABOUT THE AUTHOR
HP Tinker, 32, is Cheshire's best kept secret. For more information visit The Swank Bisexual Wine Bar of Modernity.






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