For the last six months I have posted very little; this is largely due to the fact that I had temporarily descended into the Hell of non-smoking and sober practises. All that bullshit is over and done with now, praise the Lord. Where the fuck have I been.
Now the last you heard, my father the Brando-sized “Tom Jones” aka Archie Shitsville had recently returned from the dead, a new but still very old sad man; my idle cousin Francis Garland was slowly but surely drinking himself into a wheelchair (he now lives in the garret, occasionally calling down to me something about the heebie-jeebies), and the knee-high Louis heeled boots of the effervescent Nancy Sinatra could be heard echoing all over the polished wood floors of Shitsville Ranch day in day out. What happened next can only be recounted if I stifle the gagging reflex: Nancy and Archie hooked up for the 17th time since 1967, and the frenetic slurkslurkslurk sound of geriatric love could be heard resounding from the bathroom at all times of the day; the water roared, hot begonia-scented steam crept out from under the bathroom door and filled the living room with a fog so thick I couldn’t see the TV three feet infront of me, and the fishtank in the wall overheated so everything but the most exotic fish turned over and floated to the top.
For months and months the halls were strewn with soggy clothing, crashing, slipping, slurping, and mein pater’s vigorous cursing and profanity-laden endearments, “Hot damn, you are wetter than a mermaid!”;“Steamier than the hot springs!”; “Sexier than a gaggle of presenting negresses” and so on, and so forth, gag gag gag to infinity all the live long day. Then when Nancy was gone I would hear him in the shower singing Lana del Rey in that thundering voice that could move mountains:
‘Will you still love me when I’m no longer young and beautiful… Will you still love me when I’ve got nothin’ but my aching soo-oullll… I know you will, I know you will, I know you willlllllllll…’
(this last word often seemed to blend in with the sound of him gurgling from the shower head.)
I’d never seen the sad fat man happier in his life, except possibly on the day he discovered there was a website that would send you free underwear… and then the inevitable happened. Nancy Sinatra’s high heeled boots clattered along the corridor one last time and were heard no more; in fact it was I who had to drive her down the side of the rainy mountain while the monkeys threw banana skins, geranium heads and empty bottles of cocoanut oil after us.
It was raining solemnly, and I was squinting over the steering wheel to see. For the longest time Nancy said nothing but sat puffing Menthols. At last I stopped the car next to the only payphone on State Highway 71 and before she swung her boots out onto the flooding gravel she said, in her sweet girlish gin-cracked voice, “Honey, I once thought your father was the love of my life, and sobbed every night like a broken whore when he left me for your mother; but I’m saying to you right now that I would have to be demented to ever go back to that burnt meringue of infected sperm and ingrown toenails; I’ll shoot myself before I do. Hell, damn and goodbye.”
That was the last I saw of her for a while, calling one of her legitimate sons from the pay phone, while the windows steamed up, and a group of ravens shook the water from their wings and dropped cat carcasses from the power lines.
Continued here: Will you still love me when I’m not beautiful.