Guminda

Arr Guminda woke up amongst his favourite cuddly pillows. There was Smokey and Pokey and Cherry. He sighed and burrowed himself deeper in-between the covers. This was life.

The provincial council votes would be coming in by now, Chief Minister here i come!

He stretched himself luxuriously

'SOMEY!? where was that butt less moron of a butler?

'Somey!!' dammit, this is what happens when you hire people from your mother's village, damn political obligations, Guminda thought. The twerp doesn't even speak proper English! Doesn't even know what the word 'butler' means even! he felt weighted down by the unfairness of it all.

He looked around his penthouse flat; the place seemed lonely these days. He found his thoughts being dragged to earlier times, happier times.

He missed her, when the nights were lonely. He missed her high pitched voice which always reminded him of his favourite movie, Bride of Chucky. He missed her baby eyes, which could always convince him that she was younger than she appeared, much younger, the way he liked it. But most of all he missed her boobs, those soft cuddly boxing fit boobs, those perky ripe apples of Shakespearean praiseworthiness except that he didn’t know any Shakespeare, he didn't read much really. It wasn’t really required in his particular line of work.

He found himself imagining her lying on the bed right next to him; he found himself imagining what he'd do to her. Oh how he'd crush those boobs between his massive hands. He loved the way they would come out in red welts after they had sex from where his numerous rings would cut into her flesh. He loved the way she squealed when he'd enter her and pound her missionary style letting her breasts bounce around like two demolition balls crashing around against each other in utter chaos. Sometimes, when they were really going at it and his hips were moving back and forth at a quarter of the speed of light, they would move so fast that all he'd see was a blur of motion.

He sighed. It was the boobs really, he'd thought he'd loved the girl, but he'd only really ever loved the boobs. At least, the only emotional attachment he could connect to her centred heavily on her chest area.

He sighed again and tut tutted. Fuck that, chicks with good boobs are a dime a dozen. Of course, now that he was Chief Minister, he could have all the pussy he wanted. He tried to cheer himself up, tried to shrug his shoulders and force that famous Guminda grin that made old ladies swoon in motherly euphoria and kids cry in anticipation of being eaten alive. But he still felt bugged.

Was it possible to fall in love with a pair of boobs? He wondered. He made a mental note to ask Somey about it.

Right, now for the affairs of the state. He thought about his campaign. He was rather proud of it actually. He kind of enjoyed campaigning, he was a born poser and no matter what they say about actual practicing politics, there was nothing like an exciting campaign to really make a guy feel like he's doing something important you know? He'd felt on top of the world these past few weeks. He'd just loved the attention.

Was there anyone who could even come close to his magnafacious brilliance! Ow! He was the only real man in the whole electorate. What was a leader if he didn’t have a body the people could be proud of? What was a leader if he looked as if he could not even defend himself in a fistfight? Arr G was all male, he was the man for the job. He was the silver stammering nimrod, he was batahira sulange yotha balakaaya, he was the bee’s knees and the cat’s meow he was in short the greatest political icon to ever enter the political arena in the world! Yes that’s right! Soon the world would see that a Sri Lankan president could be just as iconic as an American one, he would even show Obama a thing or two about style, he would...

Oops. He’d just thought 'president' hadn't he? Must watch himself. The incumbent doesn't like ambition. And that goddamn brother of his looks like he practices black magic anyway, what if he read his mind or something? No, it was too early. He must keep his ambitions to himself for now. He must wait.

He sniggered maniacally. There was a side to Guminda that the press did not quite see. And he meant to keep it that way.

Arr G sighed, again. Oh well, a city awaited his benevolence. There was no doubt in his mind that he'd sweep the polls clean. He knew he was the dopest most illest gangsta pollsta to ever hit this sunny island and that limping simple wackass ex cricket bat cleaner didnt stand a chance against his awesomeness. He'd even had a song written about himself hadn’t he? He’d been so innovative and just simply marketed himself beyond the competition. The competition wasn't even in his league. In fact there was no competition. There was only him.

He hadn't even bothered to switch on the television. To him, victory was a foregone conclusion.

Ah! now for some tea.

Somey?

Grrr.. thats it, that cross eyed bugger was going back to his village

SOMEY? hukannathuwa mata thei ekak geneng!! (quit fuckin'around and bring me some tea) he yelled.

Sometimes you just gotta make mofockers understand you dig?

Irrationalia

'Man is a rational animal’?

Whoever said that definitely has NOT driven through the traffic ridden streets of Dehiwala in the morning whilst being terribly late to work. A manic paranoia that my boss will call at any moment now to ask for that presentation I promised to polish up first thing in the morning had my earpiece firmly planted to my ear. There is a sound of someone knocking on a door. And no don’t worry it's just my sms tone. NOT a 'visitor among us from the 'other side''. And for a wonder, the usual 'news alerts' seemed to have dried up of late as well and the sms was from an actual person! Guess there are not many people dying, major disasters happening or a lot of ass kissing going on at Temple Trees. (I’m pro Mahinder, no really, I am! What? No I’m NOT crossing my fingers…)

I was having breakfast calmly at home (already 10 minutes late to work) when I got the message.

‘Boss in office’

Yelp! What the hell is he doing at work so early anyways? Goddamn. I remember a call at 8.30 last night

'You can give it to me first thing in the morning no?'

I wanted to say NO! You shmuck I… NO!

But I said yes.

And I could’ve given it really, no problem.

Except I was late.

So I pretty much drove poor old Angie like a maniac.

With ridiculously random thoughts running through my mind like,

"Why does no one ever Work on Labor Day?"

"Why am I so fucking horny lately?"

"Why are the morning jokes on TNL so dumb?"

"Why do I chill the hell out every morning taking my own cool time only to be late to work?"

"Why the hell am I working here?"

And the mood teeters on the brink of depression;

"I’m not made for conventional work"

"Don’t want to be a regular worker bee"

"I see no point in it, I’m not happy with my work".

Sure, I’m happy with my job. Now that’s a different thing. At this point in my life and times this is probably the ideal job for me. For reasons I shall allow to remain mysteriously unrevealed. I suddenly realize how much I’m riding on my dreams. And I get that feeling. You know, the one you get when an alien mother ship is about to light beam you into the bowels of its mysterious insides? Utter helplessness and loss of control.

Dreams, hopes, whizzing AC busses, waving cops, wrong side of the road, glaring drivers, hurt pedestrians (feelings feelings! not physically hurt. I usually respect pedestrians, ‘cos we’re all pedestrians at one point or the other), huffed tuk tuk drivers, busting AC that I keep having to switch on and off.

Delusional truck drivers who insist on traveling in the fast lane when it’s so fucking obvious that there are faster things like cars and push bicycles whose drivers are tearing their nerves up in impatience behind them.

The urge to stop and literally, literally beat-up the guy in the idling Camry eating a cheese sandwich slowing me down to 20kmph is overwhelmed by the urge to beat the ticking clock.

Finally the old girl and I got to work.

And now I’m chilling out writing a blog post about all this.

Did the best I could with the presentation, though my boss is the type of deranged dude who’d be perfectly happy with it one moment and then go completely berserk because the font size and background color creates sensory overload in combination with that little picture sitting on the side. Screw the actual content of the thing; leave that to the business world. Over here, we’re into politicking.