Monday, January 9, 2012

THE BEATEN GENERATION: The Dick Principle (A Novel)



by Dick of All Dicks & Poli Tico


NOTE: We'll start serializing a novel, our first attempt, interspersed with our regular articles. "The Dick Principle" means there's a point when delusions are no longer funny, thus unacceptable, so swatting time (reality) begins. This novel is essentially about the foibles of a beaten generation.


Chapter 1: Anti-Pretentiousnessism


2020, New York

There was a sudden jab of deja vu. It reminded Hsu of the old clips of the crowd views during the funeral of the last Dear Leader in Pyongyang. No better expression of anguish could beat these women lining the wide avenue, their sadness seemed like monsters struggling violently to escape from their breasts. They were beating their uniformly ample breasts almost synchronously, an eternal drum roll, goading the monsters of mourning to break free from their mammary caves. Their ululating wails had the right hysteria of desperate sorrow & their tears fell on cue. Real good director there, he thought. There were still competent French directors after all, he conceded. The last good French film he truly admired was made in the 1960's yet. They had a good casting director too. The women were all pretty & blonde, they wore the most stylist black suits imported from Moscow, the new fashion capital of the world.

The funeral procession he was watching in his 150" Haier TV in his penthouse above Fifth Avenue was not a live feed from Pyongyang. It was direct from the Champ Elysees in Paris. It was the funeral of the French dictator who was reported in the only Paris daily Le Homme as felled by an anarchist's bullet. Hsu knew the truth: the French secret service uncovered the deceased dictator was into bisexual relationships when he was young in the 1990's so he was gunned down by his deputy, the new dictator, ex-Vice General Secretary Jean-Paul Bardot. This one was a good actor too... as the camera closed up on him, he squeezed the handkerchief which he used to wipe his swollen eyes (good make-up artist, he marvelled). Hsu actually saw drips of water trickle down from the handkerchief. Really good props assistant too, he marveled again.

Suddenly his cellphone beeped.

"Hello, Hsu here..."

"Beloved Master, they are having a little riot here." It was his young blonde assistant from Minnesota, Tommy. "They need more of your boundless generosity, Glorious Master."

They always need more. Americans are despicable, he muttered under his breath. He came here to help them with their rampant poverty but he was seen as a source of endless dole-outs instead. They seemed to be unable to digest that teaching them to fish was a better way. That was the secret why China became the wealthiest country in the world. But these unfortunate hobos were always asking for the fish.

"Ok, I'll be there, Pupil."

"I'll be waiting for your exalted arrival, Dear Master."

He cast a last sulking glance over the TV. He missed Paris. Perhaps he'll go there this weekend. They have this regular Sunday spectacle they call "Egg Day". They line-up a particularly loud-mouth intellectual or politician before the Great Fall in a spot below the Eiffel Tower then pelt him with 1000 rotten eggs. 1001 if the crowd was really agitated, but not more, it would be against the new Resource Conservation Law. Otherwise, the violator would be guillotined for "pretentious wastage". The new French rulers were very big on what they call as Anti-Pretentiousnessism (they call it Post-Delusionalism in America). They believed it was the pretentious who brought down their previously dominant civilization. Ah, when he gets there, he'll catch up on the latest European developments on the new philosophy, the current rage in the West during the early days of the Chinese Century. Yes, he'll just delegate everything to Tommy, the young man has become a really good pupil.

Then a particular thought made him more excited. He remembered they have a really crazy philosopher on schedule this Sunday. This one was the most revered intellectual in France before the Great Fall. That's why they fell, he thought, they mistook delusional provocateurs for genius. This one has become the symbol of Pretentiousnessism. The first time he heared the French charlatan's drivel in a symposium at Peking University in 2011, Hsu thought this one deserved to see a pychiatrist. He'll bring ten really rotten eggs himself, he hated pseudo-intellectuals who became famous because they had connections to promote their mediocre hot air. He'll target the crooked mouth. He'll get even for that wasted hour in 2011 which would have been better spent playing Tetris.

He hated New York. When the Great Fall came, all the smart young people trekked to Shanghai, HongKong, Moscow, Vladivostok or even Sao Paolo. You have this dirty town with all these empty & rundown tall buildings littered with poorly-paid people who dressed shabbily. He wished he were someplace else but his godfather, a billionaire, was asked by the Chinese General Secretary to form a foundation to help the poor in New York. Good for the image of China, they told him. Of course, he knew it was just like the foundations used by the old American imperialists to pretend fighting for human rights elsewhere to subvert their enemies. They failed but the ruse was still worthy emulating nonetheless. He reminded himself the New York Confucianist Society will have a meeting tonight. He'll read the same speech he read in LA last month. That was very effective, they threw vats of roses on him afterwards. Damn, one very enthusiastic old lady even included the vase. It hurt a bit but that's how blinded these people were to celebrities. No limits to their adoration.

After the prolonged outbreaks of riots in New York, especially the attacks on intellectuals & homosexuals (which the Chinese Central News TV America, the biggest cable TV in the whole Americas, called The Backlash Wars), he was determined to help the rabble learn how to respect authority. Confucius could teach them a lot there. There's only one way they could learn to walk tall again.

The Chinese way.



2020 Los Angeles

The shoes cost too much, almost half her monthly salary. She will just have to borrow from her sister Peggy, she could even not repay her like many times before. Just served her right for marrying that rich dork. How could Peggy be having good sex with that garlic-breath buffon? At least, he's good at earning millions but did he even care women had to have orgasms too? Pity her backward sister, she was easily contented with living in a twenty million-dollar mansion, but at what cost? She remained a slave of her selfish husband just like their mother & all the sad women in her ancestry who never had the courage to fight for their dignity & rights. Well, she was her own master. Always has been. Always will be. She's almost sixty & not once was she under the thumb of any man. Marriage is sexist & no way would she allow herself to be oppressed. She didn't have to wed Alfie's father, she could raise her child herself & she did. It was too bad Alfie rebelled against the poverty but at least, they had their pride intact. But her child inherited his father's lack of pride. He ran away, he's now living in his father's ten million-dollar yatch & won't call her. Poor Alfie, he got his father's fascist genes. She could feel her beloved child will become as sexist as his miserable father. Well, no need to feel guilty, her life was dedicated to serving mankind & damned him if her own son won't appreciate her bigger sacrifices.

Once more, she checked her make-up in the rear-view mirror then she got out as sophisticated as she could from her car. She was wearing her new 3-inch stiletto heels which she was sure was the most expensive on the road that very moment in a hundred-mile radius. She knew she still walked like a model so she imagined herself sashaying in a fashion ramp as she trudged along the dirty gravel paths leading to the rundown bungalow. How could a famous singer live in a dump like that? She guessed this one must be perennially stoned, he probably never noticed rattlesnakes would want to move in with him anytime soon.

Well, it appeared this one needed some lessons. Big-time. She pushed the doorbell daintily, making sure the angle of her elbow to her index finger was just right, convinced that was how a queen would do it.

The singer himself opened the door. She was right, the idiot was clearly stoned.

"Good morning, Mr. Crawford. I'm Tina Ford from the Human Rights Protection Monitor." She didn't bother to hold out her hand, the human trash before her was dumpster personified.

"Can... I... help... you?"

"We sent you a letter about your holding a concert in Burma, a dictatorial country which doesn't respect human rights, we need your public apology." She tried her best to sound very formal (like a queen, she was sure) but the guy's breath really stank, it took all her might not to puke."You know we could complicate matters for you if you continue to offend the sensibilities of civilized people." She decided to lay down her cards right away there, she needed to get away fast.

"Burma? But I did no concert there recently?"

"Don't confuse me, Mr. Crawford," She raised her right eyebrow as high as she could, thinking that was how a billionaire's wife would do it to a particularly hicky underling."You did!"

"When?"

"September 10, 2012." She smirked sure that was how that British croak Margaret Thatcher did it." You were paid a million dollars to sing in the inauguration of the new dictator."

Suddenly, the singer looked as if the effects of the drugs evaporated away & stared at her sure she was crazy.

"It would be for the interest of everybody if you return the money, or give it to charity," she smugly persisted, pointing her gnarled nose into the air, feeling she was indeed a queen." Just to atone for your cavalier disregard for a civilized society's sensibility."

"You're really crazy, aren't you?"

"No need to be impertinent, Mr. Crawford." Again, the Thatcherite smirk. She's loving it.

"I remember you sent me a letter the minute I returned from Burma in 2012 yet & I told you to spare me your politics. That money was mine. Why return here again now? The Burmese are very big investors in Hollywood these days. Didn't I hear all the human rights organizations have been disbanded already five years ago? So what brought you here? You're nuts. You came straight from the asylum, didn't you?"

The brute was laughing at her face. This one won't ever learn how to respect the sensibility of civilized people. When she's angry, really angry, she would lose control of her hand. She felt it grip the cold knife inside the front pocket of her skirt. But she could understand the principle. Some people needed to be taught the proper way to respect.

The next thing she knew, the knife was already stuck deep in the singer's heart. Justice, she smiled sweetly feeling like an angel.


Next: Chapter 2: Post-Delusionalism



Sin ti no soy nada- Amaral (Spain)


Pazzo di Lei- Biagio Antonacci (Italy)



My favorite Italian song of all time below:

Quattro giorni insieme- Loy & Altomare (1974)