Sometimes I think why do I think? Consequently, pressing my feeble mind upon this ridiculous idea, I think how not to think. The more I think not to think the more I happen to think. What’s more, the things I think more than often require absolutely no thinking on my part. But then, when I’m consciously aware of futility of thinking, why do I still go on thinking (unconsciously)?
Other evening, for instance, drowned in my thoughts, knowing nothing besides that I got to return to my lodgings by this and this time, I found myself entering one of the beautiful parks of this wicked city. I had passed this park on numerous occasions before on my evening, and sometime post-prandial, strolls, (latter of which becomes absolutely must to aid digestion of meagrely meals that our stingy, jew of a hostel proprietor blesses us with—at time I wonder what delight she derive from starving us), but entering it somehow never came off. Anyway, this piece of information, desire to check it out someday, must have remained embedded in some dark nook of my memory, for only that could explain my entering the park when I was absent in my presence—that is not present where my so called body was.
Sitting there amid the couple’s squalor, a weird thought struck me—it’ll be revealed in a moment—and so carried was I by this so called weird thought that when after spending nearly the whole evening in the world of imagination, reality reminded me of itself I was inconsolably distressed over having wasted entire evening at something that besides being paltry was also ludicrous. Rest of the evening (that is until I turned in for the night) was spent in infinite remorse, thinking about the ways to make up for the lost time, while at the same time generously wasting more time.
To tackle the problem of our parks being defiled by lechers, carrying surcharge of testorones, I came up with this horrible idea of installing F— dolls, precisely like ATM machines, in every section of every sector, where so called desperate men, brimming with barrelfuls of sperms, could vent their surcharge and spare our parks and more so our eyes from their wickedness. Or, analyzing the matter in retrospect more rationally, we could give go to legalization of prostitution in the city, because, I dreadfully realized, else our parks would become brothels in a decade or two (forgive me for being too optimistic—for in reality it is bound to happen sooner!).
I knew it even then—and that was why I grieved over it for so long—that it was an epically ridiculous idea. But then what was to be done? I am expected to sit still and see couples rolling over each other, or licking one another’s faces like bloody mongrels as if they had not tasted human skin for ages, or seeing some desperadoes brandishing his male organ at the sight of teenage girls? No, sir, this can’t be done. Granted, this is a bloody democratic nation of undemocratic people, or at least people horribly unfit to be democratic, who have been given certain fundamental rights (to the hell with fundamental duties) but that doesn’t mean you could continue your whoring hobbies anywhere you like. True we can’t stone those lechers, drooling with lust, to death (I wish we could…I seriously do!) as they do under Sharia law, or chop their members (that would have been even better! I actually imagined this being done: several whoremongers lined up and a man with scimitar doing job on them) as it was done during the medieval times in our country, and still in the parts which are yet to be retrieved from the medieval times, but then this—installing F— dolls—is least we could for our benefit and also for the benefit of our virtually pauper brethren who can’t afford to rent a place to continue their whoring hobbies and defile our parks, our parking lots, and above all our senses with their blasphemously acceptable behaviour—perhaps that is why so little was being done to uproot it from parks and parking lots.
Since then, since the day this enlightening thought had visited me I find myself thinking more and more about it. Even its non-applicability doesn’t keep me from reining in my imagination that has been irretrievably hijacked by this thought. Now, seeing frolicking couples in any park of the city, I feel like hollering “off to the F—doll”, as if they had already been installed by the city’s efficient administration, and always there’s an overwhelming urge to shout command to some invisible hatchet man, always walking beside me, to “chop the thing!” as if I had been made bloody execution officer of this so called illustrious chopping project.
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