Sunday, January 20, 2008

Paint it black

What's that song you're humming.
Early Stones. Called "Paint It Black."
I am not surprised. My guess is that the elation you were feeling a day or so ago has passed and the grim spector of abject failure is clanking its chains around like the ghost of Christmas Past.
Something like that.
Senior Buendia is going to kick your ass when he sees this painting.
Who the hell are you, anyway? And where's the Greek Chorus?
They asked me to step in. My name is Remedios.
Really? And that would mean what to me?
Suffice to say, you ignorant gringo, that I'm a friend of Sr. B. And he's going to shoot you with his musket when he sees that picture. Man, that is one scary chick, Senior.
A little bit, yes. I have to admit. But if Sr. B shoots me with his musket, who's going to finish the painting. I mean, he won't want it like this.
He's gonna shoot you from a close distance, just to send you a message. The bullet will pass completely through your body, miraculously missing all the vital organs. Then, in order to keep you alive, he will dip a length of rope in iodine, poke it through the hole in your chest, I will grab the other side and we will, together, Senior Buendia and I, run the rope back and forth, sterilizing your wound and reminding you that he is not a man to be trifled with.
Crikeys, that sounds unpleasant.
It will hurt like a motherfucker, you ignorant gringo.
Is there anyway to avoid such a scenario?
I'm sorry, I don't follow.
How about making the painting look like the person you are supposed to be painting.
And you think I haven't been doing just that?
Not as near as I can see.
Okay, how about this one:

Hey, where are you going?
I am going to load Senior Buendia's musket.
Wait. What about this:

Hmmm. You may be on to something with the raccoon eyes. Although I think the eyes themselves may be too widely spaced. Still, on the strength of this, Senior, I will not mix salt in with the buckshot. But as I am still loading the gun, I would describe your timeframe as limited.
Has anyone ever told you that you are really, almost excruciatingly attractive.
Ha! I was warned of such an eventuality. I was warned that the gringo would attempt to exercise his considerable charms on me.
Perhaps you'd be interested in having your portrait painted.
Nothing I've seen so far makes me interested in that, I can assure you.
Your skin is the color of ripe olives.
Really? And is that a double chin or has a small dog attached itself to your neck?
You are really the most unpleasant person I've met in a while. And, for the record, you're not that hot. Look at your stomach. Ever heard of a sit-up.
I'm pregnant.
And where, just out of curiosity, is the Greek Chorus. I think I like them better.
They are at a local union meeting. They're thinking about picketing "Sweeney Todd, The Movie." Which is not without irony, since your most recent version reminds me of Helena Bonham Carter.


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