My dear Ma-hinder,
….or should I say Mein lieber Führer.
If ever there was a time for you to sport a toothbrush darling, this time is that time.
Much as I and many others, both from the ranks of the Martyred Proletariat and the hierarchies of the privileged classes would like to see you pack up your signal toothbrush into an overnight bag and hook it to Palestine or perhaps Saudi Arabia; that is not what I have in mind.
But while I’m on the subject or the prospect of you tootling off somewhere, let me tell you it will play out like a Western darling. You could eat one of Shiro’s legendary string hopper buriyanis, slurp a dish of milk tea with six spoons of sugar, wipe your snout of any remaining droplets, and then bid adieu to the little woman telling her you will be back shortly. You can then gallop off into the sunset. A happy ending for all.
Though if you decide to go to Saudi Arabia, you might want to warn the little fat fairy that you may be back not shortly but rather – shorter. One head shorter to be precise – from what I hear the bally desert nincompoops are doing these days to young female migrant workers. But that is neither here nor there and mere speculation, since you are not young.
Let me explain m’dear old sock what I mean then by telling you to get a toothbrush.
Only yesterday I was relaxing in my chaise lounge and thinking to myself what a lucky thing it is for all of us that you have been cultivating since attaining puberty in Medamulane, some rather magnificent facial foliage – to wit a moustache, not quite handlebar yet not wholly Kaiser.
The time m’dear has come for you to trim it.
And take it from Thellie darling she knows a thing or two about moustaches. My therapist prised it out of my deep unconscious during one of our hypnotic sessions, that in a past life I had a passion for the eccentric and dandy. Spot a chap with long hair, sideburns, curly moustache, accoutered in coat, stockings and knee breeches and there I am fussing around his elbow like a young filly. In fact, I had been Salvador Domingo Felipe Jacinto Dalí i Domènech, 1st Marqués de Dalí de Pubol’s or as those who didn’t know him well liked to call him – Salvadore Dali’s psychic between the years of 1929 and 1933. Clearly my superior knowledge of moustaches is established.
This is why I say the time has come for you to trim it. Put on your purple pantaloons or whatever it is that tin pot dictators in South Asia put on these days when on occasion they feel the need for a breath of fresh air and a haircut and do it. Go to the sartorial artiste down R.A. De Mel Mawatha or better still the Barbershop on Visakha Road, pay the fellow a farthing and have him trim off the sides. Get the toothbrush is my advice. Goodness knows it will suit you well.
With Paradisian Independence celebrations approaching nigh, you can rally the crowds not only with a buth packet but also by singing in a baritone, while Shiro accompanies you in a falsetto the same hearty marching songs of the full blooded Teutons of the late 1930s. Now what is that song that that other fellow with a toothbrush moustache would have all of us clapping our hands, pulling out our gold teeth and tapping our toes to? Oh yes something about donkeys…no…no….horses…..yes I recall now…….the Horst-Wessel-Lied.
What a glorious sight it would be as Chamal and Basil goose-step to
Die Fahne hoch, Die Fahne hoch!
Die Reihen fest geschlossen!
sung to the tune of ‘Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree’ though I know Christmas hasn’t come for Paradisians since November 2005.
The words and lyrics may be banned in the Teutonic fatherland but anything goes in Paradise, what!
And talking about geschlossen or unity and tight societies and what not, congratulations dearie on the impeachment. Nicely done. Your Silva, Silva, Pieris trifecta of advisors has done you proud.
It’s been awhile since I heard anything down the grapevine darling but a little birdie told me you will appoint Mohan, the chappie who argued so brilliantly for you at the UNHRC, as your spanking new Chief sober chap on the Hill.
I mean a chap who can tell the Human Rights Council that a journalist or two had told him that Prageeth was in hiding and not disappeared is a man who should be kept in a glass box at the museum. The last time a man admitted to something having been told to him by a journalist – what was that now? Something about red flags…or wait ….was it white flags…….anyway that chap was bunged in Welikada. And this feckless poop admits to it in an international forum and he is kicked upstairs to the top of the hill.
When did journos become quite so popular? If they were half as much regarded during the Helping Hambantota scandal, your on again off again love interest, Sarath Nanda, may have actually prevented your presidency. But no. Then the journos weren’t quite the cat’s whiskers as they seem to be now, and as Nanda Silva aka Sarath stated then, he could not act against you based on newspaper articles.
Be that as it may, let me tell you dear, the mood of the black coats are dark.
And Thellie knows a thing or two about it. Once while sitting quietly munching a cutlet in the Lawyers’ canteen having just argued the case for a plaintiff who was filing for divorce on the grounds that his wife didn’t brush her teeth of a morning, I saw the terrible sight of a lawyer who had just got his dander up. On his feet arguing for a client all morning, he stormed into the eatery thoughts of succulent fish cutlets dancing the dance of the seven veils in his brain. His mouth salivating, he ordered five and a cup of plain tea only to be told that the canteen was out of cutlets. To say that the earth shook and a chill fell about the place would not be exaggerating the scene. I slunk away through a back door wiping a crumb from my chin.
But you get my drift. A lawyer on the hill is not a man or woman to be trifled with and you seem to have trifled.
And trifled lawyers are always in a bad mood and all I’m saying is that you should go to the nearest bicycle store and buy your nominee for the Chief Justice post a helmet.
Now I hear the black coats appearing for Shirani has another plan up their sleeves. They are seeking a quo warranto against the impeachment decision.
I don’t know about all that darling, but I ask you now as a wench very much sloshed to the gills with a 2005 fine Beck Burgenland Pinot Noir. COURTESY:CEYLON TODAY