Being So-and-So (It’s a Secret! No Cheating!)

xx.xx AM.

I can find no clock-face, but the sun slices through drawn curtains with the firmness of a newly assembled LEGO Lindsay Lohan. I am on a carpeted floor. A naked woman’s arm hangs limply over the edge of an unmade bed. I cannot lift myself off the floor. I examine my legs. They are not there. Hm. I look around to find them, but only notice the neglected remains of a gutted mudshark next to the bathtub. On the wall above the tub, splashed in bright red, is a single word. I read aloud, “SEPP-,” tilt my stump slightly to read the rest, “UKU.” A soft hand appears from behind the shower curtain and draws it. A young woman hums gently under the racket of a cold shower.

I call out to her, chiming her first name without having realized that I am at all aware of her identity. My brain flushes immediately, and time tangles itself. An animal fear of the woman in the shower takes residence in my stomach, because I have no conscious awareness of her that I may act upon. I do not trust my instincts.

The woman on the bed is safe, I believe. Wrapped in cool linens, she will keep me loved. We will attend parties together and without apprehension. She will dance with other men, much to my indifference. We will cheat on each other wantonly and never mention it. No rules about eating in bed. Insurance fraud forever.

A cell-phone plays the theme music from Gentle Ben as I drag myself to the bedside. Only three feet away from the bed, I notice that my legs are now attached to me. Although relieved and emboldened, I keep my gaze clear of the bathroom. Must stay clean. I am on my legs in moments, but still hunched over from the pain of a supposed hangover. My eyes go unfocused, but I still notice the glow of the pure, white bed under unbridled sunlight with ease. I lurch forward and land with all my weight on one hand resting against satiny bed-sheets. I heave myself onto the bed and rest for a few minutes, eyes closed, basking in the light.

“What am I wearing?”

Without opening my eyes, I rattle off a list of accurate fashion industry terms for my deceptively simple clothes. A heartbeat later, I swear at myself, noting that it’s just old jeans, a t-shirt and a musty blazer. Nice shoes, though. No brand. Some East-European cobbler with hilariously long earlobes.

A violent patch of space swirls before me, marked with thick, purple highlights. Cardboard representations of my clothes float around disconnectedly.

“This is a game-show,” announces an invisible man in a blue-suit, “of cosmic proportions.”

A small cartoon man with measuring tape then arrives on the scene, welcomed with disembodied laughter.

I open my eyes just in time to watch a pigeon fly away with an old belt that I hadn’t brought with me on this trip. Am I home? No, I haven’t had a home since the internet sold its soul to the devil and married King Kong.

The bathroom door is closed. Scrawled on it, with a black marker, are the words, “Majestic Fag,” as if it were this Majestic Fag fellow’s dressing room.

I feel a strange presence beside me. It feels like a human mouth massaging my neck. It is. Angelina Jolie releases her oral grip on me as I turn to look at her. Then, it strikes me.

This is not Angelina Jolie after all, but a persuasive facsimile. I am not disappointed. I got to this one before Billy Bob did. And he can never have her. Ever. I notice that we are staring into each other’s eyes. I kiss her to break the tension.

I cleverly mention how I’m going to raid her tomb.

The bathroom door opens. I freeze for a second, but am assuaged by what I see - my fairy godmother, Matt Lucas, dressed exquisitely.



He stands there for a while, innocent, waiting for me to do something.

I nod understandingly, with a warm smile.

He mock-spits in my direction, and, with a flutter of wings, shoots out of the room through the window.

I look through the bathroom door now, without fear. It is an unlit amphitheater. Somebody taps me on the shoulder. I turn around and see a familiar face. David Duchovny shoves a script into my hands.

Looking over his shoulder, I ask him, “But where... where did she go?”

"Rehearsal starts in five, Billy Bob. Clean yourself up, will you, pal. You’re a fucking mess.”



THE END (go away now)

A great thing your way comes!

Today's Photoshop Phriday at Something Awful is part 2/2 of their "Misspelled Movies" double-bill. The above abortion is, however, Guavii's very own shame. boo hoo

More urgently, for our many ardent fans, I know that we've neglected this place for far too long, but Vogangha has taken ill, and the other guy is getting rich. I have no excuse.

Now, run along, jive-turkey.

McDonald’s Review! - McHorsie with Cheese

ATTENTION: DON’T MISS THE BEGINNING (BECAUSE THAT IS WHERE THE STORY BEGINS)! NEVER-BEFORE-SEEN TWIST ENDING! IT WILL KEEP YOU GUESSING FOREVER!

I wandered the burning streets, listless, seeking the embrace of a meal or perhaps a helpless and defenseless woman to save and, of course, you know... (bone).

In the glowing cocoon of a ravenous sun, hunger becomes a cruel bedfellow. It did not matter to me that vast numbers of people were performing unnatural vaults and contortions about me as their skin gave way to reveal their internal organs to the great menacing orb that plowed into the now infinitely bright horizon. Let it burn, I thought, let it burn, with no thought of anything but quelling the disturbing voice in my stomach and entertaining my unnaturally dry tongue.

For the first hour of my quest, an enormous clown stumbled around at the corner of my left eye, his fiery dome burning the sky itself and his massive feet crushing office buildings and residential complexes alike. I periodically gnawed at a rat seasoned with dijon mustard for this period.

By the seventh hour, the clown had set upon me and my newly acquired comrade, Wobbles the Windowmaker. Wobbles fought fiercely, but fell. Considering that he was now already dead, I kicked him in the side repeatedly, in an attempt to win the clown’s trust. For a moment, the colossus stood silent, his monolithic figure a formless silhouette under the flaming clouds. Then, with no warning at all, I died.

I died, of course, in a metaphorical sense, that is to say that the above is simply a dramatic pause and I did not literally die. In fact, I felt fine, except for the heat that had already burnt my shirt off (but not my Scooby-Doo tie). The dramatic pause ends now.

The world disappeared in a flash of heavenly light. There remained only the clown and me. Me and the clown. The Clown. Me. Me. The Clown. We were one, but I could see him in front of me. And not just his hands, but even his face when he leaned down to tell me that I’d been a bad boy and that I should eat at McDonald’s. He said this with the most charmingly plebeian smile I have ever witnessed - his was the joy of a Walker, Texas Ranger LARPer, a sub-human to be loved for all its pitiful wretchedness.

Ask for the McHorsie Special Combo D’light, he said with a fond realization of his ultimate purpose. And just as soon as he had entranced me, he sprouted enormous angelic wings, flapped them, lifted off the ground and exploded into tiny particles of light that seemed to whisper love me love me love me love me.

I do, I replied, with all my heart.

The light faded and I found myself amongst a sea of enormous, glowing burger buns. The aroma of crispy meat and warm puffy bread hung in the air like a chandelier. I investigated the bun closest to me and saw it to contain the remains of acclaimed one-panel wonder Gary Larson, his toasty ribs interlocked with that of a grilled polar bear.

McFarsi, snapped a generic-looking robot hovering at the apex of the humungous burger pile.

You may think you’re impressive, pal, but I’ve known better, I heckled.

6.99, it continued, unperturbed.

Cheese? I countered.

Extra, 1.00, it explained.

‘k, one, no cheese, I thrifted.

Minutes later, the absurdly named preparation was inside me (in the manner of standard nutritive ingestion). This burger, while enjoyable, lacked the simple palatability of what I craved. And thus began the Bun-Hunt.

Minigame: “Bun-Hunt”

I waded through a veritable sea of burgers ranging from so-so to eh to bwah. Some were even stuffed entirely with trees and nuts. My endurance was truly being tested. The supplementary helpings of Coke and fries did not help much, although there was a certain comfort in the distraction they provided from all this surrealism.

But comfort is unimportant in the ultimate work of one’s life, unless one is wise enough to choose comfort itself as a life-goal. Which is pretty good advice, folks, take it from a guy who has waded knee-deep through the dead. IDKFA, homies.

Just as my gut came to burst, a strange odour fell upon mine nasal passages. Instantly recognizing it, in spite of never having experienced it before, I leapt to my feet and made a beeline for the source of the smell.

WINNER! Play Again? n_

And thus ended the Bun-Hunt.

I came to a halt before a bun that was not the largest bun. It was not the prettiest bun. Heck, it wasn’t even the softest bun. In fact, it crumbled very unpleasantly. Aside from this, it was perfect, for it contained the remains of a pair of copulating thoroughbreds, charred beyond cosmetic repair and pulmonary revival.

I gazed upon it for a single moment. My eyes flitted about the bun-hill, ultimately settling on the hovering robot. It clicked, as if becoming aware of my gaze (in reality, this was a cinematic accentuation to emphasize its nature and relevance to the on-going narrative - thank you, Clint Eastwood for dream-talking to me).

McHorsie Special Combo D’light, said I with the angelic clown’s face superimposed against mine.

A hand and a leg.

Come again, I replied, dumbfounded.

A hand and a leg. Special offer: Fat George Clooney action figure.
I was sold.

Through severe bleeding, with Fat George clutched between my remaining toes, I shoveled the McHorsie into my face with my remaining fingers.
With a final sip of Coke, the last of the McHorsie slipped down my worn gullet.

And then I woke up.

It was all a dream!, I exclaimed with great excitement and joyously lashed myself for dreaming of modern things in the secluded village that we created to get away from being shot and tricked and things. We must all do our part to keep the secret under wraps and protect our own from telemarketing and pinheads.

I also recommend that you do not eat the McHorsie Special Combo D’Light because it is a roaming phantasm that collects the saliva of hungry men as they slumber and pools all of it into the Revlon factory in Malaysia.

I give it 2 1/2 unwitting ghosts for effort.

Fools Watch Movies

Nobody as intelligent and terrific as the messenger of Lord Vogangha watches movies. I am the TRUE Revolutionary and not some shrink addicted person who needs therapy.
Why do you need to watch movies when you can watch dogs fighting for left over cola being produced by evil corporations like Coca-Colas and Mc. Donald’s. The scum of society. These evil people want to trick people into drinking dirty black poison and eating burgers filled with heart attack causing fat.
Movies are also supported by these evil people. Most of them are white in colour. The white people are mostly related to evil ghosts like Casper the Devilish Maniac and George Bush the Texan Horse.
I don’t care if you feel insulted you nimwits and morons. I am a sophisticated person from the I-pod generation who likes to insult dimwits and morons like YOU.
Yes YOU – you sick person! Join the LORD NOW! I shall make you feel better.
Spread the religion of the Lord!

Movie Review! - Cidade de Deus (City of God)

This is going to be the first of many reviews that will show up over here, so make an effort to suck in some culture, peasants.

Before you read this, I should point out that I made it a point to particularly avoid seeking any details about this film prior to watching it. It might help if you watch the film first and then come back to this if you feel like exploring the movie’s subtext further and adding to my minor attempt at reading into it. I think it’s worth going into the film unaware of where it’s really leading you.

Cidade de Deus (City of God), Directed by Fernando Meirelles and Kátia Lund (2002)

Plot: A housing project (Cidade de Deus) is overrun by a group of unrestrained, armed kids - high on coke and marijuana - while all the adults hang around just outside the frame, usually behind a locked door, cowering in a corner, or dead. Meanwhile, one peace-loving youth tries to take award-winning pictures and leave the City of God to lay some honies and smoke a lot of pot.

Sometimes, when I watch, read, or listen to something, I wonder why it is given a certain name, and if, perhaps, the name is simply one of convenience. Once in a while, I get lucky, and understand what I’m being told. I think.

City of God is an outrageously violent movie with only the thinnest sliver of remorse to its credit. Then again, it doesn’t need to be remorseful, because it does not attempt to judge itself. The slum bares all to the audience and forces us to personally draw the line between right and wrong. In the course of the movie, I found myself loathing and symphathising with practically every character I encountered, with the exception of the hateful cops that show up somewhere along the way, and that’s only because I never had an opportunity to get to know the immoral flatfoots. If I had more insight into their lives, I probably wouldn’t have anybody to hold in particular disfavour. The inhabitants of Cidade de Deus are so fleshed out in their presence and the locales are so authentic that it is difficult not to understand how agression transpires. It is also demanding to feel a healthy animosity towards bands of misguided, unfettered youths in a place the likes of where they live. To loot and assault is as natural to them as running around in a playground was to us. And that is precisely what the slum turns into - a playground. And gang-wars are but games in which one may earn recognition, riches or ridicule. Death is a risk worth taking - the same as a broken bone from a wheelie on your new BMX. And, although our protagonists perpetuate the horrors, the villain is an invisible force above and beyond the city’s bounds.

These are ordinary young people, no different than us. They have all the identifiable impulses, desires, and needs that are familiar to us. Things that we satiate as best as we can. But, when there are few available forms of release and life is a struggle in itself, where does all this latent energy go? Of course, it doesn’t just disappear. It manifests itself in the simplest and most accessible way possible. And thus, nature devolves into the supposed perversion that we come to witness in City of God.

The simple act of inflicting pain becomes a solution to all that is lacking. Even peace seems to arise from a single person’s rise to bloody infamy. The fear of hoodlum boss Li’l Zé’s reproach is enough to bring almost every other atrocity to a halt, even as he doles out his own brand of terror.

In Cidade de Deus, little is available but a forced escape from its degradation, and the struggle is explicit. Rocket,the budding young photographer, like the others is welcome to join in the gang-war, but finds himself incapable of doing it, even when he wants to. Without a clearly stated moral sense, he seems untainted to our eyes, because he has chosen nothing. His kindness has chosen him. In spite of his surroundings, he cannot come to dispense pain, while those who see little of what he has witnessed slip far more easily into crime in our cities everyday. As another scarred and good intentioned character proceeds to join the chaos, confused Rocket is strangely resistant to it, and we cannot be certain why. He claims to be afraid, but as the story unravels this is a questionable defence.

Cidade de Deus is a story of a freedom few of us can understand - freedom of character. Our cultural guilt and fear allows us little room to see the world as purely as we may study the morality of the City of God through Rocket's eyes. And then, I realize that this is not god’s city because it is moral, it is his by amorality - it simply continues to exist until it dies.

Our Goal is To liberate everybody!

This is the Revolutionary. My aim is to spread the Lord's Message everywhere. I am in charge of grabbing people and dragging them into the Lord's feet.
The Lord is the only Lord; there is no other Lord except the Lord Vogangha- The Great.
I do not care what other people think, and can do anything to make them agree to me and the Lord.
I want to move up the corporate ladder and thus am willing to do anything for the LORD.
Brothers and Sisters, remember not to mess to much with the Lord if not there will be nobody as bad as me. I could even start making your cartoons if I become too angry.
If anybody wants to work for the Lord and spread the Lord’s message feel free to contact me. I will help you out.

Grand Introductory Piece!

This blog is a new blog, and as is a custom amongst our peoples, an introduction is in order (remember this when you come to our country - or the police will take you for a "bad ride"). So let us get done with the formalities and down with the real business that is to revolutionize all the Great Lakes (where a man may swim with no fear of being reprimanded by the lawkeepers for catching a really big fish with his anus-hole - an old South Asian skill called "Bangdagandar").

I, myself, am Vogangha Asbhabria, spiritual leader and editor of this Foolchain. "Foolchain" is capitalized because it is a Cosmic Secret Password (CSP) meaning "sacred committee meeting of hairies without jobs". I, myself, am not so hairy, but I have a big cock measuring many inches depending on the beauty of my lover (grower, not shower - "shower"? hmmm). So when I get shy with a girl I just say, "You are really an ugly bitch! I am a hot stud duped into almost having drunken intercourse with this old donkey-ape. Thank you very much, trusty dong for not abandoning your wits, once more! Away!" And then I fly away to save falling babies on fire. Anyway, my giant manhood gives me leadership amongst little hairies.

Pardon me, I must also mention my sidekick slaves who are lesser people, pussy-men, they can be called. One is a politics-type with much talk of "Freedom Revolution Cola in Barber Salon!" (he makes threats with an invisible knife - this is scary because he has crazy eyes like a chameleon), and the other is a monkey-giant of the most irregular variety (polite, horrifying, and boring to the senses all at the same time! He makes a good sensual massage, this is his saving grace - I know this from my ex-wife, don't ask for the story now or I will give you a hurting lung OK).

Still, these boys are brothers in my care. I teach them better ways to assert one's masculinity. They also learn the responsibility of earning with my male escort service "Man Friday" (ladies, you must try this sweet love-potion, so give me a call if you’re feeling lonely) at night. So they are growing into complete men of this world! Steven Seagal, look out, you shiny old man!

So now you know our basics, and the introduction is about to be over! Following is a summary of our promise to you (this is powerful, so please hum a powerful generic movie-trailer tune while you read it for full multimedia effect):

Together, we write with much flavour and zest for the entertainment, education and guilt of you, the reader.

As the old class-room meme goes, "One guava, two guavii - kill the stupid rapist with a headshot."
Happy travels, folks!