February 15, 2011 in The Grapevine
Municipal decree stardate 01012021-001 — January 1st, 2021. State anarcho-surreo-separatist municipality of central Laugavegur and the united TGIFs of the greater eurafrican kingdom.
Citizens of love and the Tao! I beseech you! Hark, hark! Hear, here! Lo, lo! Whiff! Feel! Taste! Orgasm!
I write you now to say: Another decade gone *poof!* with all its wars, poverty and abundance in abundance – yay! Past rejoicing, you rejoicers-you, of holidays a’bountiful – we hope you’ve had meals worthy of the tallest tales and presents in glittery packaging, another winter, o ye of mostly fashionable clothing – it is, alas (we might add), now time for more serious business. As your incumbent mayoral dignitarious “Gnarr” (dee harr harr), I’m thoroughly empleased to announce the latest in modern fads:
More rules! Better rules of greater precision!
First of all, less service (not really a rule – more a “rule of thumb”, if you will), although this perhaps goes without saying: We must make sacrifices for the common good, and even more so, for the individual good. We must, that is to say, make sacrifices for the good, and not just some of the good (as in the past) but all of the good, the absolute totality of the good. This is not a joke. We do not make fun of the good. Unreproachable, we are, in no jest whatsoever.
Hah, got ya! (No, really, we’re totally serious).
As a follow-up to the successful transaction of city concrete to the unlaughably retro-capitalistic suburbs (for which we received an abundance of extremely extreme nail-polish remover, traded with the Commonwealth of northeastern Buenos Aires for 250 grand frappucinos (including disposable stir-spoons)) it has been unanimously decided, within the municipal council, that the bicycle paths on upper Laugavegur (strictly speaking the property of our theocratical neighbour municipality, a matter of some concern, I assure you) will be auctioned … going once, twice … sold! to the Pescal Harbour Duchy of Sæbraut (for two half-portions of delicious halibutt – two tails, in fact, fins intact, in tartar sauce with potatoes and broccoli, yummy!)
(My telephone seems to be ringing, but I’m not answering. I’m not! No, no, no. Busy, busy, busy. *Sigh* I wish I’d known politics was such a drudgery).
And then some: as this is a greater decree of glee than thus far we’ve permitted (the revolution must not stop at the local petting zoo), it is with some sternness and severity (ha ha!) that we now decree a “gleeful grump-hinder”. The mosques of central Laugavegur (as well as the prayer booths at TGIFs worldwide) will now carry mandatory cartoon commentary on the prophet (and his terrorist followers), the at-laughing of which will be equally mandatory (three times during the cleaning rituals). Laughter may be rendered in the form of an islamic prayer-call, an adhan, but only if it is provably (beyond the slightest doubt) of a humourous quality.
No joke! (Funny, no?)
Nextly, I would like to start by apologizing for using the word “bitch” in a recent radio interview. As amends I’ve forbidden the word (unless pronounced with the utmost of lisps) and any mention of “the incident”, private or public. To those concerned (I’m looking at you, sisters!) you have my sincerest “oops”. I was speaking as an artist, a true surrealist, and meant nothing by it. Nothing at all. Your ideologies disgust me and I’d never sink to that level. I’m sorry already, get a life.
I probably need not remention that this is a tough job, I am under a lot of pressure. I am just a normal guy, I am no “tough cookie”, and cannot be expected to be a Superman nor am I, as some of the most humourless fuddy-duddies amongst you have deigned to imply, a super-villain – and to tell you the truth I’m, like, totally tired of your Predator-jokes (your sense of humour, btw, is highly unprofessional – this is a skill, people, it needs to be learned) They are so ten years ago it’s not funny. Not even in the so-not-funny-it’s-funny way of funny.
[Angry diatribe self-censored]
I’ve had time to mull this over. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. From the bottom of my heart. The depths of my soul. I have now referred to the Bhagavad Gita and truly you are entitled to your criticism and your own sense of humour. I’ve already deleted the worst of it, as it was below me. I have just [insert appropriate verb] smoking again, and am a bit on the nervy side. I shall henceforth receive your scorn as the humble vessel that I remain, despite life-long adversities as punker, author, sugarcube, business executive, comedian, artist, celebrity and now mayoral entity.
I shall not let the slings and arrows of outrageousness hurt me!
True individuals of spiritual means must set themselves above the quotidian bicker of petty grievances. Ooooommmmm. Ooooooommmmm. I still feel obliged to mention that the municipal council is not entirely in agreement on this subject, as apparently the surrealist manifesto has proven largely incompatible with the Bhagavad Gita, as well as the teachings of St. Paul, whose advice we seek on a weekly basis (not personally, of course, but in the “Bible”). But then Breton was a communist, like Stalin, whose Gulags we despise.
Lastly, thusly: At a time like this, where years meet at the apex of increased communal blood pressures, while the burned sticks of yesteryear are still gliding on the nocturnal ashes of party-town – and the world smells like Beirut in heat – it is customary to reflect upon past passed actions and render judgment, or to paraphrase the jolliest of men (in a jovial sort of glee, and yet admittedly paranoia-inducing): we know if you’ve been good or bad, so be good for goodness’ sake (and if not for goodness’ sake, then for the absolute totality of goodness’ sake). Mind you, that is also a rule. There’ll be more to come, and I’ll relay them all in good time.
Ah, the good times! Remember the good times? How we wish we all were young.
Hope&Pray, Hope&Pray, Hope&Pray,
(and don’t forget to thank God it’s Friday, as approved by our sponsors).
Yours truly (lol),
Herbert Friðbert Albertsson
Honourable Gnarr of the state anarcho-surreo-separatist municipality of central Laugavegur and the united TGIFs of the greater eurafrican kingdom .
This short story was solicited by the Reykjavík Grapevine, on the theme ‘Iceland and the next decade’ and appeared in the January issue of 2011.