Tag Archives: Alphabet

THE ABCs OF A PECULIAR LIFE // O is for Obduracy & Orgasmic Oranges

The Soviet Astronaut had been mooning around the Moon since the late 70s. He’d been launched into outer space as part of a secret Soviet crewed lunar program with the express purpose of stealing the star-spangled banner from the Moon’s surface.

This Soviet crewed lunar program was so secret that the Soviet Government issued a special decree banning anyone involved from keeping any documentation of its aims and research results. Everyone who knew of the mission did what they were told and forgot everything immediately upon the Soviet Astronaut’s departure from Earth. Including the Soviet Astronaut himself. Back then, Soviet citizens were very responsible, making sure to execute Government decrees to a meticulous tee. Those were the days!

This is why when the Soviet Astronaut contacted a dispatcher at the launch control center (in order to familiarize himself with the details of his mission), the dispatcher was completely flummoxed. But, of course, the dispatcher was very experienced and up to the task. He told the Soviet Astronaut to continue his mission, to control the situation in outer space, and to report any suspicious objects that he might encounter. After this, the dispatcher disconnected from the server and the Soviet Astronaut was on his own.

One unspecified day, everything was going as planned. The Soviet Astronaut woke up, brushed his teeth, did his morning exercises, and then took position near a side-viewing window. He was keeping abreast of the situation, making copious notes in a flight log book. To be honest, it wasn’t very interesting. Nothing had changed outside the window for the last few months. The Moon, the stars and a withered space mosquito that had gotten stuck to the glass upon the vessel’s launch.

Sheer boredom drove the Soviet Astronaut to half watch a TV series on one of the vessel’s many small monitors. The space radio antenna had picked up the signal somewhere over the ocean. Ironically, it was a science fiction show about extraterrestrial beings, a time traveler, and his space adventures. Though the Soviet Astronaut didn’t understand a word, the show itself was pretty amusing. He especially liked the time machine that was masked as a blue British police box.

Everything had been going well when suddenly something bumped the vessel’s tail. The unexpected loudness of the sound made the Soviet Astronaut somersault in the air, but when he reached an operating panel everything looked as always did. He calmed himself down and was soon back to the show, engrossed and unaware that the vessel’s trajectory had changed by half a degree.

The next morning started as it always did. The Soviet Astronaut woke up, brushed his teeth, did his morning exercises and… what the deuce?! He almost bumped his brow on the window looking left, right, up and even a bit down.

The Moon was absent.

He tightly closed his eyes, then opened them and looked at the window again. The position of the stars appeared to be normal, and the withered space mosquito was present too, but the Moon was absent. It was completely gone. The Soviet Astronaut thought a bit and pinched himself, but this didn’t help. Alas, he wasn’t still asleep and it wasn’t just a bad dream.

There was background noise on the monitor—more evidence that the vessel appeared to be in the middle of nowhere. The Soviet Astronaut had a sudden flutter of fear. There could be no doubt. He was utterly lost in outer space.

No one knows how long the Soviet Astronaut sat there gazing out the window. It might have been an hour. It might have been a day. Or even a week. Who knows? He just sat there in a torpor. A blank stare. This is why when a strange fuss began outside the window the Soviet Astronaut didn’t immediately react.

However, after a little while the Soviet Astronaut woke from his stupor, and that’s when he saw it. He goggled out the window with great amazement. Two large oranges were floating outside interacting in a pretty strange way. Surely, this could be very important knowledge for Soviet science. The Soviet Astronaut grabbed the flight log book and started to make notes in a fever. Again, everyone was very responsible back then—even those who were lost somewhere along the way to hell.

The oranges were drifting away from one another, then drawing close, rubbing each other and sprinkling the window with essential oils. They were rocking and trembling, gasping and moaning… All of this made the Soviet Astronaut a little bit suspicious. He stopped making his notes, lost in thought.

(I think I need to make some explanations here. The thing is, the word ‘sex’ was absent from the lexicon of the citizens of the USSR, so they were unfamiliar with the process that this word describes. Nuts, but true. Poor, poor Soviet Astronaut! I wouldn’t want to have been in his shoes at that moment.)

So, the oranges were continuing to do what they did, and the Soviet Astronaut was sitting there with a thoughtful expression, the flight log book in his hands. Suddenly, a speaker box somewhere began to bark.

“Earth to the Soviet Astronaut, do you copy, over? Do you… come in… over…”

The Soviet Astronaut jumped in surprise, making another somersault in the air.

“Earth! Earth! It’s the Soviet Astronaut! I read you, over!”

“Where are you? The vessel has disappeared from our radars!”

“I don’t know. Perhaps the vessel has changed its route?”

At that very moment, the oranges outside the window started to shake uncontrollably and groan. Then the glass was covered with a mixture of orange juice and peel. Suddenly, something bumped the window and a hush fell over everything. If the Soviet Astronaut had looked at the operating panel at that moment, he would have noticed that the vessel’s route had indeed changed half a degree, but for obvious reasons his attention was focused on other things.

“Earth to the Soviet Astronaut, do you copy, over? Don’t panic! The Soviet Government never leaves its citizens to their own devices. We will get back to you shortly to give a status report.”

The speaker box went silent. Suddenly, the Soviet Astronaut felt extremely tired. He recalled the wise words of his late grandma. She’d always said, “Tomorrow is another day. Go beddy-byes under any strange situation, sweetums. Just sleep.” The Soviet Astronaut decided to yield to this wise advice. He retired to his cuddy.

When the Soviet Astronaut woke up next morning and looked out the window, the Moon was there. And the stars. And the withered space mosquito. Even the science fiction TV show was playing on the same small monitor. Everything had a cozy and familiar look. The Soviet Astronaut heaved a sigh of relief and took up his flight log book.

He was pretty surprised when he reread his jerky notes from the prior day. Outrageous oranges in outer space? No way! This never happens! The Soviet Astronaut thought a little bit. It had obviously been a bad dream. Maybe he’d bumped his head on the glass a little too hard. He reread the notes again. It was doubtful that these notes would be of Soviet science interest. So… he made a decision.

He tore several pages out of the flight log book and shoved them under his bed. Then a moment later he pulled them out, balled them up, and popped them in his mouth and swallowed—just to get them out of harm’s way. After this, the Soviet Astronaut was back to his TV show, and there wasn’t a happier person in the whole Universe.

P.S. By the way, somewhere at the beginning of 2010, American scientists made a statement that one of the moon flags was missing. It’s a well-known fact, not merely my fancy. But this is a completely different story. Turn your beams to me and stay tuned, dear readers.

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2017

THE ABCs OF A PECULIAR LIFE // V is for Valenki & Vanitarianism

The pursuit of vain things. That’s what Austin the Arctic Fox was all about. What was the point of having this lush blue coat of full-bodied fur if one couldn’t flaunt it on a regular basis? Big and puffy — that’s how he liked it, and that’s how he wanted the rest of the world to see him.

“Could you please get rid of these stinky valenki? By the Great Frost Daddy, I’m tired of stumbling over them every goddamn time!”

“But…”

“Don’t argue. Please just do what I say!”

Disgusted, Austin the Arctic Fox kicked at the valenki with the pointed toe of his finely lacquered boot. His Mother clearly didn’t understand him and his need to be trendy at all times. How could he possibly bring himself to commit fashion suicide? Austin the Arctic Fox proudly clicked his tasteful heels toward exit of the igloo. It was time to get out of there.

It was the middle of a lovely polar night so warm and gentle. Only minus twenty-five degrees! Positively comfy! All the penguins and polar bears would be green with envy at Austin the Arctic Fox’s resplendent splendiferousness once they laid eyes on it. Eat crow, peasants! (Well, there were no crows around here, but still…)

So, anyway, Austin the Arctic Fox strutted his stuff. He primped, he preened, and he swaggered about like he was on a New York catwalk. He was making sure everybody knew that he was something, that he was someone of note. And, yes, everyone gawped at him, jaws all dropped and dragging in snow. Even the penguins and polar bears… and a hunter’s wife.

It wouldn’t have been so very serious if yesterday the Hunter had come back home sober. But he hadn’t. He’d bar-hopped half the polar night away, spent the whole family budget for February on drink, and lost his left mukluk. Then he’d walked through the door, hugged his Wife, and puked over her shoulder onto the sealskin rug in the hall. And so the Hunter’s Wife was less than impressed. And so he needed to do something extraordinarily romantic to win back her affection.

And so it was that the Hunter found himself out in the elements, his hands trembling quite a bit, and sporting a very sore throbbing head. He was in all of a muddle. He felt like death warmed over a cold stone. He had to find a way to get back inside and into bed where his Wife’s warm body would be.

What can melt even the frostiest heart? Of course, some new duds and yet another oath to stop drinking might do it. The Hunter thought a moment. It was probably best to start with the easier option. If he played his cards right the Wife would soon forget the second part of deal. And so the Hunter went hunting, a pounding skull, crooked hunting rifle, and wounded pride his only companions.

It wasn’t long before he stumbled upon the Austin the Arctic Fox who just so happened to be smugly parading himself before a waddle of starstruck penguins. The Arctic Fox’s lush blue coat of full-bodied fur was truly a sight to behold! Big and puffy was how the Hunter’s Wife liked it, so it was clear that he was going to have to kill the Arctic Fox. Right now. This instant. Snuff him and skin him. And then romance would ensue.

It’s a funny thing but only his first shot was close to the target — just two meters higher and a smidge wide to the left. Then after this… well, the longer the Hunter tried aiming, the worse his attempts were. (Even a Soviet astronaut somewhere had to change the orbital path of his vessel.)

Austin the Arctic Fox began to realise something was up when the third or fourth bullet came back down, nearly aerating a poor penguin’s brains. At first he thought it was hail, but then quickly remembered that hail was almost unheard of in the Arctic region. He whipped his head round, saw the Hunter trying to yank a rifle barrel out of the snow, and took to his heels. (In both senses.)

He ran like never before. He was falling, rising and falling again, scrambling like blue blazes to get away. Finely lacquered boots aren’t jogging shoes, you know, especially with heels. One heel broke off pretty quickly though, so that was a small mercy. The second got stuck in an ice crack. It was at this point that Austin the Arctic Fox got a terrible sinking feeling and his whole silly life flashed before his eyes. The last frame of that reel was him dangling from the Hunter’s Wife’s shoulders with a protruding tongue and plastic eyes.

With a renewed urgency, Austin the Arctic Fox howled, discarded what was left of his boots, and ran on all fours like the sorry fool he was. He scrabbled and scrammed all the way home, his blue fur matted and dirty from his furious flight. Sweaty and panting, he collapsed on the floor of his igloo and wept openly. Holy fucking ice grenades! He could have died because of those goddamned boots!

“I was wrong,” he said to himself between ragged huffs and puffs. With shaking paw, Austin the Arctic Fox reached over to the bureau and took the valenki off the footstool. “Never again…”

And what did the Wife say to herself when the Hunter solemnly presented “Amazing new boots just perfect for Paris” to her? Boots that were scuffed and scratched and broken? Alas, we should withhold this information. After all, this book could be read by children.

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2017

THE ABCs OF A PECULIAR LIFE // D is for Dugongs & Decidophobia

Little Dugong was very talented. He actually was, and not only because his Mommy Dugong thought so. (Every mom thinks their baby is the best. I once even heard a holbrookia boasting that her daughter had an exquisite ear for music, but I preferred to break no squares with another quixotic mommy.) Anyway, let’s return to our muttons… or, rather, dugongs.

Yes, Little Dugong was very talented. He painted with watercolors in the Biedermeier style. He painted an ocean, ships, topless sea-maids and sunken treasures. His forelimb was free and easy, his eye was sharp, and his imagination went above and beyond. Little Dugong would have a great future as an artist.

This year Mommy Dugong decided to prepare something really special for Little Dugong’s birthday. She woke up very early, quickly supped up morning kissel, put on her best tilt-bonnet, gave a peck on Little Dugong’s nose, and went to the city. In a few hours she was back with a big package; it was gift wrapped with starfish and chamomiles. Little Dugong was bursting with curiosity as to what this could be, but he knew he would have to wait until the festive dinner.

Finally, that long-awaited moment was upon him. Little Dugong impatiently droned, “Many happy returns!” then snuffed out the candles and with bated breath unfolded his precious gift. Holy mackerel! It was a drawing book!

It was covered with smooth emerald-green leather and had acid-free cold-pressed pages with a pleasant ivory hue. There was even a wide elastic band to keep the book securely closed to the nosy beaks of curious gulls and the beady eyes of elephant fish! It was the best drawing book in the whole world!

Happy Little Dugong fussed over the drawing book for the entire evening. He was opening and closing it, caressing its flawless sheets, sniffing its sweet-smelling leather. He even licked it once or twice while Mommy Dugong was busy with the dirty dishes. When Little Dugong got between the blankets later that night, the drawing book rested cozily beneath his pillow.

As soon as the next day broke, Little Dugong hurried to the shoals, climbed onto a big stone, and opened his treasure. He imagined all the beautiful things that he would paint, and this sent his heart fluttering with delight and joy. Little Dugong decided to start with a charming mermaid that he had met a day or two ago near some random rock.

However, once he raised his limb to a pristine sheet, a wormling of doubt started to gnaw inside his mind. After all, the mermaid wasn’t so youthful; her breasts were a bit faded and the pearls in her hair were kind of wishy washy. No! She wasn’t worthy to be in these pages! Little Dugong decided to paint something else.

An ocean! He would paint the illimitable ocean. It was deep, green, and full of mysteries and lost ships. Then Little Dugong dropped his eyes and saw a white plastic bag swaying on the waves. Yuck! No, he couldn’t spoil his flawless drawing book with such an imperfect thing as an ocean! He simply had to pick something else, something ultimate and picture-perfect.

The time ticked by… Little Dugong was still sitting on his stone with his untouched drawing book. He didn’t hear his Mommy Dugong calling him for midday meal, he ignored his friends who ran off to play hurlbat, and even disregarded a youthful sea cow who gave him a playful wink. Of course, he hadn’t even noticed a sea gull who sat not too far away and was looking at Little Dugong with malevolent curiosity.

The sea gull got off the ground and made a slow circle. Then another one… and another one… then it hovered right above Little Dugong… and shat all over the drawing book with much relish.

What happened next? Of course, Little Dugong howled like a jackal and ran to his Mommy Dugong. He was just a child after all (though he weighed more than a metric centner). The spoiled drawing book stayed on the stone and its smooth emerald-green leather gently shimmered in the late afternoon sunlight.

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2017

THE ABCs OF A PECULIAR LIFE // F is for Fallow & Freckles

Kamil had been cultivating freckles all his life. It was a respectable family-run business. His father, his grandfather, and his great grandfather before him had all been freckle growers of considerable renown. Their freckles were the pigmentiest of all freckles, and as such beyond compare.

Of course, the business had had its ups and downs throughout the years. They’d almost gone bankrupt in the Victorian era. The skinny, pale, society bitches had shown a preference for frills, power-cleavage and arsenic rather than healthy, non-GMO, organic freckles. But then freckles went gangbusters in the swinging sixties, and the advent of flower power and nude love-ins made everything better. Freckles staged an unexpected comeback.

The golden age of hippiedom returned hope and prosperity to Kamil’s family, and so they dared to buy extra hectares of arable lands. They began growing new varieties of freckles, the more popular ones being shaped like horseshoes, others that twinkled like newly pledged promises, and even more that could be removed and placed elsewhere on the body at will.

Soon, everyone who was anyone was lining up to buy freckles to adorn their bodies with. It got to a point where such luminaries as Mark Zuckerberg, Prince William, Ron Weasley and even Peppermint Patty were counted among Kamil’s most elite clientele. And although negotiations with Leonardo DiCaprio and Garfield regrettably fell through, the demand for freckles was so great that their loss was barely felt.

Of course, the word ‘fallow’ should also be remembered at this point. Growing freckles depletes the soil badly, and after every harvest it’s recommended that the land be left to rest for a period of at least twelve months. If this is not adhered to then instead of freckles only polka dots for panties will grow. But who wants to wear polka dots on the face? No one, that’s who! And that’s why Kamil failed to become a gazillionaire. Alas!

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2017

THE ABCs OF A PECULIAR LIFE // G is for Giraffe & Geniality

My neighbour is a giraffe. She’s just given birth to two little babies. Well, they’re little as far as she’s concerned, but big as far as the rest of us are concerned. It’s a matter of perspectives, I suppose. And ladders.

Sometimes my neighbour forgets to put on her maternity bra. When she comes over for afternoon tea, she accidentally lactates all over my fresh clean tablecloth. I know she can’t help it, and there is such a thing as postnatal depression, but still…

Look, no one likes to be rained upon—that’s all I’m saying. Now I’ll have to put the Royal Doulton teacups through the industrial grade autoclave. And, well, she’ll be visiting again tomorrow…

I hope she doesn’t cry. The leaking is bad enough, but the emotional fallout? I don’t know what to do with that. How many times can she keep forgetting? How long must I play the hospitable host?

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2017