Stop Talking To Yourself

by Tim van den Oudenhoven

  ‘Oh, ha-ha! He fell on the floor!’

  ‘Nurse Janssens, are you drunk again?’

  ‘Ha-ha! FUCK YEAH!’

  ‘Get me a drink too! You know how much I love my vodka!’

  ‘Okay, pick him up and slap his butt until he wakes up!’

  ‘Can I slap him this time?’

  ‘Be my guest!’

  I wake up an hour later, feeling dizzy and disoriented. It’s like my mouth is filled with puss or something.

  THE BIRD IS THE WORD

  Statues, standing side by side, exchanging glances, pondering in the night, questioning why they were constructed there...

  ‘I cannot move,’ one of them said.

  ‘Neither can I,’ the other one replied.

  ‘Oh, cruel fate, why did you erect me next to this nitwit?’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing. Do you know that we are supposed to be put here eternally, but generally, statues only survive one or two generations?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’m just saying; we are constructed as shrines and tokens of appreciation, and even though in your case, I wonder why, it’s still kind of cruel that we will just rot away like our flesh versions once did... It’s like we get to die all over again, only now we can witness our own process of decay...’

  ‘Oh, you melancholic bore! Try to be happy that someone decided to honour you with a statue in the first place!’

  ‘It’s easy for you to say! You only got your statue because you made the Guinness Book of World Records for putting the biggest amount of rabbit faeces in your mouth before throwing up! You’ll be forgotten the day some other lowlife with dysfunctional taste buds gets the better of you!’

  ‘Like what you did was so great! They put you next to me, didn’t they? That means you and I achieved the same amount of success in our lives.’

  ‘First of all, I’m not the only statue made from me, there are others! At, I think there are. There must be.... And second of all, they gave me a lustre wax finish; you just got some cheap varnish that will soon disappear when some pigeons choose you as their toilet!’

  ‘You’re an asshole, you know that? At least I’m grateful.’

  ‘... We’ll see how you feel when you’re covered in pigeon shit!’

  ‘We’ll get cleaned, right? I mean... even in the last days of my life, people cleaned my bottom for me... they’ll do that here as well right?’

  ‘Don’t count on it - once a month, if you’re lucky. But what do you care? You ate rabbit shit! If anyone deserves to be shat on, it’s you!’

  ‘Actually, it wasn’t rabbit poo I put in my mouth...’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone this, but they were bits of chocolate I had shaped to look like rabbit poo...’

  ‘You cheated??’

  ‘Kind of...’

  ‘HAHA! That’s rich! I remember those thousands of people who took you as an example of determination and courage, cheering you on! Hi-la-rious!’

  ‘You won’t tell anyone right? Or they’ll take me away from here...?’

  ‘Nah, not just yet, I’ll just use you to make me feel better about myself.’

  ‘Ah, well...’

  ‘Did you know that if we were really valuable statues, they’d put us in small wooden boxes during the winter?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t think we’ll ever get any of those.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Well, they made me look fat, for one thing...’

  ‘Dude, you were fat near the end!’

  ‘That’s it! NEAR THE END! Couldn’t they at least have bothered to look at older pictures of me? It’s like they wanted to fail!’

  ‘Jeez, you’re such an angry person! It’s going to be a long eternity standing next to you, man!’

  ‘I TOLD YOU IT WON’T BE ETERNITY!’

  ‘Alright, alright! Calm down!’

  ‘...’

  ‘Want to play ‘I spy’?’

  ‘Alright then...’

  ‘I spy, I spy with my little eye, something beginning with... P.’

  ‘...errr...’

  That instant, two pigeons circled overhead, and almost synchronously, voided their bowels, hitting our protagonists full on the head.

  PARALLELS

  ‘Hello, my name is Timmy...’

  (all:) ‘Hello, Timmy!’

  ‘...and I am fat.’

  ‘Well, Timmy you’ve taken a big step in coming to us. Here at Losers United, we’re working together to get rid of all the excess weight obese people like you and I have.’

  ‘I know, right? It’s like every time I look in the mirror, I tell myself ‘yeah, you’re a fatty fat porcupine, aren’t ya? You eat that third piece of cake, because no man is loving you, and you can’t even see your feet when you look down, let alone somethin’ else!’ ‘

  ‘This is what we all feel, Timmy. We share the same pain.’

  ‘It’s embarrassing you know. Last week, I was in Paris you know, and before I knew it, I was in fashion week, walking as a model, but you know why they hired me?’

  ‘Tell us, Timmy.’

  ‘Because they needed a fatty to laugh at! I mean, maybe they all want to be PC about weight and everything, but when push came to shove, I was the one they hired to be the laughing stock of skinny people. And then all the desserts. They kept pouring them down my throat. It was horrible, because I couldn’t say no! And there I am, weighing 67 kilos, almost twice my ideal weight according to my Anorexic Guidebook!’

  ‘People can be so cruel. You see, people, this is why we, fat people must overcome our fears and fight back. And how do we fight back?’

  (Timmy:) ‘With exercise and carrots?’

  ‘NO! With AK-47s and Kalashnikovs! We will take over the world by force and install a new world order, a fat world order!’

  (all but Timmy The Tim Tim:) ‘One of us! One of us! One of us!’

  (Timmy:) ‘Oh taketh me!’

  *group takes AK-47s and Kalashnikovs and fires madly into the air*

  THE TEN MILLIONTH MAN IN CHAOS

  Chaos around me, thousands of one-and-and-a-half metre long Chinese are running and screaming because of a doughnut company’s giving out of free samples, they take a couple of boxes, orgasmic screams echo in my head. I observe breathing in this chaos. I walk on, have just stepped off the boat to get from Hong Kong island to the Kowloon area. Bewildered and tired, I stumble on in the soaring heat. Somebody comes to me, darker than most Chinese here and says to me without introducing himself: ‘You are worrying too much at the moment. I see two things you are worrying about now at the moment.’ I look even more bewildered because, in my tiredness, I realise this man is absolutely right. He continues: ‘But I can also see three forms of happiness coming to you.’ I stammer, like I said, I am tired. ‘Look, I can tell you, I am a genuine fortune teller.’ ‘No... no,’ I hesitate, ‘I’m sure... I’m sure you can, but I don’t really... care.’ I turn my head and walk on, man I am tired.

  I need to get to Nathan road here in Kowloon. When I get there, after some struggling, I don’t know where to go. More people notice my bewilderment: ‘You need accommodation?’ ‘You need guesthouse, 150HK$, nice room, nice room!’ ‘You want Rolex, Breitling or Tag Heuer?’ ‘You want massage in traditional Chinese way, yes?’ Nobody asks ‘Do you want to be left alone? I see you look tired.’ And to my questions they only ask more of the above questions. Even if I’m asking where I can find a public toilet.

  16th floor of Chingsung building, the Lonely Planet said there’d be a hostel here. The only one I can find appears to be for Nigerians only. I didn’t really mind. Luckily, I find the third floor and a regular hostel and I fall asleep for 18 hours.

  URBAN STYLE GUIDE

  ‘Emergency centre, how may I help you?’

  ‘Oh hello, is this 112, my favourite call centre for late night philosophies?’

  *sigh* ‘Sir, do you
have an emergency?’

  ‘YES, I most certainly do. Something most horrible has happened, both here and in Japan.’

  ‘We don’t send ambulances to Japan, sir...’

  ‘No, I know, I know, it’s just that over HERE, I got an emergency as well!’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You see, coming home this evening, I noticed something horribly wrong here. I fell to my knees, hurt them, and cried out ‘WHY, WHY? WHYYYY?’ but of course, to no avail.’

  ‘You will be fined immensely if this is a prank call, sir.’

  ‘Prank call, schmank mall! NO, I was so shocked, you wouldn’t believe it!’

  ‘So what’s wrong? What do you need?’

  ‘Well, what happened was this: I fell to the floor and notice that in my street, an oak tree is standing right next to a post-post-pre-structuralist parking metre. I mean, HELLO? Who came up with this brilliant combination?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Look, you don’t use a very classic oak tree and put it right next to a brand-new parking metre. It’s like buying tomatos and using them as a urinal.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s anything like that, sir...’

  ‘Well, did you ever pee on your chair?’

  ‘Can’t say that I have sir, can’t say that I have...’

  ‘You should try it!’

  ‘Sir, what is it you want us to do? You’re lucky it’s a slow night here at the emergency call centre, so I can take my time to talk to nitwits such as yourself.’

  ‘Well, I want you to send someone here who can rectify this situation. The least they could do is replace the oak tree with some kind of concrete tree, something more durable that also highlights the slim design of the parking metre.’

  ‘And what if I don’t send someone, sir?’

  ‘Then I guess I’ll have to take matters into my own hands, and I can assure you; it won’t be pretty!’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Well... let’s just say I know how to work a Kalashnikov...’

  ‘... I’m sending a police van your way, but it will be to arrest you.’

  ‘That’s what you think! But what you don’t know is that when I fart, I turn invisible!’

  *farts*

  TRYING TO BECOME A REPORTAGE PHOTOGRAPHER

  Shivering I was wondering about what it was I was seeing, what I was supposed to be seeing. All I could see was a dreary uninteresting suburb with confined spaces that was overpopulated with close-minded people with colds. I don’t talk to the people there. I’ve got nothing in common with any of them. A voice of prejudice says that, I know. But I can’t pretend interest. It’s not something I do. I am meant to ask people to come inside their homes with them, that’s what a true reportage photographer does – faking interest and building a career on the misery of others.

  In a manner such as this:

  ‘Hello, hello!’ I would cheerfully spit out of the rainy corners of my mouth.

  ‘What?’ a suspicious reply would sound like.

  ‘Don’t be afraid, I’m not a black man, nor am I a terrorist, a debt collector, a vacuum cleaner salesman, a Jehovah’s Witness or any other stereotype people such as yourself might have problems with!’

  ‘What?’ the creature would repeat itself, which would lead me to conclude (because of my astonishing people skills) that he is somewhat put at ease but that he still needs some more explanation to let me ask my question.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ repetition seems to work for him, ‘I have come from yonder far away to show a fake interest in the life you lead in this uneventful neighbourhood that reeks of waste and exhaust.’ Here I would opt for the honest way out, but I’d say it in such a smiling manner that the beast would be confused yet strangely compelled.

  ‘Really? And what is it you want from me?’ his reply is truly interested. He has never been the centre of attention. Now could be his 5 minutes of fame.

  ‘I’d like to follow you to your house and take pictures of you in your natural habitat, to study your behaviour so that we could later laugh at the pictures with our whole class.’

  ‘Oh, and why me?’

  ‘Because you seem like a real loser we could laugh with.’

  ‘That’s just what my dead wife said when she married me after I got her drunk!’

  ‘See! There’s no such thing as a coincidence!’

  At this, the creature would invite me to his home and I would follow him, pretending curious and hiding my face as much as possible so that none of my fans (all three of them) see me walk away with this nobody.

  ‘Come in, come in! Is there anything you’d like to drink?’ The stench of dead wife would meet me, as I’d step in the hallway up to his living room. The floor would be covered with a mixture of dirt, rubbish, banana skins and animal and human faeces. I’d put on rubber boots and an oxygen mask. One can never be prepared enough.

  ‘Err... no thanks, I think your standards of hygiene are harmful to my still intact body.’ As I speak these words, the man - a fan of obesity and repulsion - finds a slice of pizza on the floor and devours it like the beast he is.

  ‘So... is there anything you’d want me to do?’

  I take out my camera, the man quickly asks if ‘this is gonna be on TV?’ I look at him, suppressing the urge to correct his bad grammar and dryly comment: ‘does this look like a video camera to you or are you even dumber than you look?’ He seems to like the abuse, and it’s all that keeps me sane.

  ‘So, maybe I could have you posing in the midst of that pile of dog shit and maybe you can empty that full ashtray over your head, because that’s so totally YOU, you know?’ The man takes off his shoes and I hear a squirting noise as his toes crush the droppings of his presumably diseased dog.

  I take some pictures, but I find that I am not entirely pleased with what I’m seeing. Something’s missing, I’m sure of that. I look at the pictures while the man starts talking about some memory that interests nobody on the planet and I smile and nod and ultimately ask him to shut his trap so that I can concentrate. He obeys and looks away confused. He’s spitting out some ash as I think of something that could make the picture more interesting. I take my tripod out of its bag and smash the metal against his knees, making the man fall down in agony, crying out as his face hits the ground with a loud bang. I take some pictures of this scene and the man looks at me with watery eyes and a look of misunderstanding.

  I look slightly more pleased with the pictures, but not entirely, so I work the tripod some more on the beast’s body until the man stops moving. Unconscious or dead, I don’t really know and I haven’t the time to check. I’m a busy boy, so I snap some more photos and these look absolutely perfect: there’s the man’s pain, the feeling of abandonment, the wet tears in his eyes that show he’s not been lying there for a long time. This picture tells a great story. Also, because he’s lying on the ground, I get a clearer view of the dilapidated state of the man’s house, now you can see it all. Even the blood tells a story on its own. The man is lying down motionless, allowing me to install my now slightly damaged tripod and take a picture on a very low ISO speed for highest quality. But don’t worry, I saw the man’s wallet there, I can take the money in it to buy me a new tripod.

  Totally pleased with the photos, and myself I say thank you to the man who completely seems to ignore me. Bad manners, nothing else, these poor people at the border of society (though he had a good 150 quid on him, more than I had hoped for). I tell him goodbye – I don’t need to let my good mood be hampered by him, right? – and I show myself out, the man still asleep on his shit covered floor.

  And that is why I don’t ask people if I can come into their houses.

  THE WEIGHT OF THE WORLD

  ‘Hello? Is this the helpline for restless long-haired blond boys with bad eyesight who don’t like calling people?’

  ‘No, this is the helpline for people who have a phobia for their own toenails.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yes, really.�
�

  ‘Well, why did it take 35 minutes for someone to answer my call? Who’s afraid of a toenail anyway?’

  ‘Sir, the condition of clavophobia is a very serious one and its roots can be traced back to a traumatic experience, such as spilling milk (and crying over it).’

  ‘Ok, well, sorry that I offended your kind.’

  ‘Oh, but I’m not clavophobic myself, those people are freaks!’

  ‘And you’re supposed to help them?’

  ‘Oh no, not really, I’m trying to sell them prosthetic limbs if they amputate their own feet. It’s a booming business, I can assure you.’

  ‘Smart, so any advice about Life I ask of you will involve prosthetics?’

  ‘Basically, yes, but not only prosthetic feet, I can give you a whole prosthetic body if you want. I’ll even throw in a 5 percent discount if you order in the next 5 minutes...’

  ‘But I don’t really need a prosthetic body.’

  ‘Sir, once you notice the numerous advantages of our range, you won’t want to live without them any more. Tell you what, I’ll throw in an extra orifice if you decide now!’

  ‘Look, I’m not interested in buying something, okay?’

  ‘Sure, but our anti-privacy system has found out your address and we will be sending you a welcome package of prosthetics.’

  ‘You are not helping me get over my disliking of calling people...’

  ‘Prosthetic ears are what you need! Our range has been popular and stylish ever since Van Gogh!’

  *hangs up*

  TOO MUCH CHOICE

  ‘So yeah, I’d like to buy this new laptop, is this a laptop?’