Insanely Inane Thoughts

For Sale: Baby shoes, never used.

Shortest story ever?

The One Ring = Sauron's horcrux?

Is this where the inspiration came from? Splitting the soul; having died but the soul survived.

Renoir Broggart stared hard at the canvas and then took a swig of whisky. His face contorted rather comically as he attempted to gulp down all of it at one go but he ended up snorting out most of it. His freshly dyed moustache, which had taken in more of the drink that his parched throat, seemed rather nonplussed with the result and blanched appropriately.

"I don't know how Gogh put up with this rubbish," remarked Renoir as he wiped the bushy centipede clean of any whisky with the back of his hand. He held up a brush and then exclaimed in surprise as he ogled at his darkly stained hand.

"Curse of the foul-mouthed Yeti!!" he thundered as he glared at the bottle of whisky. "Black Dog, my foot! May your daughter be a black-"

"You called for me, Renoir?" asked Lestrange Sharp from behind as he let himself into the studio. He took off his coat and flopped it over the table. A cloud of dust heralded its arrival.

"What? Ohhh Lestrange!! Come in, come in. I needed some views from you on my latest," said Renoir as he rushed towards him even as his giant frame wobbled treacherously at every step. Renoir's rage had seemingly vanished and a huge smile, which gobbled up most of his face, greeted Lestrange instead.

Lestrange backed away a little and smiled. He was always a little hesitant of commenting on his work. He knew that Renoir was a man who loved people that showered praises on his works. He was also of the thought that Renoir was a bit of a sham.

"Your latest?" he queried as he shook hands with the grizzled man.

"My latest!! It's called "The Undisturbed Mind"," proclaimed Renoir as he pulled Lestrange towards himself and enveloped him in a giant hug.

"At least wait till I declare it to be utter rubbish," gasped Lestrange as he tried to escape from the affectionate death hold. Renoir guffawed as he let him out of the hug.

"So, where is your little artwork?" asked Lestrange after he had ascertained that he hadn't broken any bones or his prince-nez. Renoir pointed out towards the canvas that he had been staring at just before he drowned his nose in alcohol.

Lestrange adjusted his prince-nez and looked hard at the canvas. He then glanced furtively at Renoir, who was looking lovingly at the canvas.

Really, this time he had outdone himself.

"What exactly am I looking at?"

"A mind that is bereft of any tension, stress, worry. It's in a state of absolute harmony and universal peace," Renoir gushed, still gazing at the canvas.

"You get all of that from this?" questioned Lestrange, trying to hide any signs of incredulity.

"You don't?" asked an even more incredulous Renoir.

Lestrange simply nodded his head and smiled.

"You really want my views on that?" asked Lestrange as he pretended to peer at the canvas.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I reckon there's something missing from that piece." There sure is, thought Lestrange.

"You know how you usually react to any of the suggestion I have ever had to make." Renoir remained silent but looked pleadingly at him.

"Alright, what do you call this piece?"

"The Undisturbed Mind!"

"Renoir, the only thing that is undisturbed about the piece is the canvas. I suggest you get some paint on it. I reckon that's the missing piece of the jigsaw puzzle."

The painter looked hard at the canvas and then at the critic. He shifted nervously as he tried to decide how best to defend his artwork. Having reached a seemingly good retort, Renoir looked towards Lestrange and shook his head.

"Some people just don't know how to appreciate art," he remarked haughtily.

Lestrange simply sighed.

He spat on the road and cursed the weather. The clouds spat back and tried to drench him furthermore. Dirty water slushed past his legs and his own spit was brought back to him as he stood under the confines of the flooded bus stop.

He looked at his watch and cursed somemore. He was running late for the party.

Where is the goddamn bus? he shrieked, startling the young man standing next to him. He moved away a little from the crazed Ramirez who glared at the retreating stranger and spat on the road again.

Stop spitting, said the young man.

What did you say, you little smurfrat!

I said stop spitting.

Ramirez took a step towards the young man and spat on the road again. The clouds thundered and the rain intensified. The young man shouted in anger and threatened to poke Ramirez with the wet umbrella.

Even if a speck of water falls on my shirt from your umbrella, I'll have you by your skin! growled Ramirez.

The young man took a step towards Ramirez with the umbrella pointed towards him and spat near Ramirez's foot.

How does that feel, old man? he snarled.

Ramirez stared at the spittle which swirled in the water and then stuck to Ramirez's shoes. Enraged, he charged at the young man. who threw his umbrella to the side and took up a Jet Li posture.

Come on! he shouted.

Ramirez stopped dead in his tracks and then cursed the young man vilely. If it hadn't been for my new shirt, I would have socked the daylights out of you, sissy boy!

Well, if it hadn't been for my new shirt too, I would have socked you back, you mummified excuse for a man! Besides, why would an old man like you care for a shirt? You look like you might drop dead anytime now and if you did, your shirt would end up getting wet!

This shirt's a special one, assclown! It's my grandson's first birthday gift to me.

The rain fell even harder.

It's my birthday today too! exclaimed the wonderstruck young man. This shirt's the first one given to me by my wife.

Ramirez softened a little and smiled. Happy birthday, young man.

Thank you and happy birthday to you too, sir.

Ramirez smiled and shook his head. How nearly he had gotten into a fight and how it might have spoiled his shirt.

The young man was thinking along the same lines when the bus drove past them at full speed, drenching the two of them completely.

I discriminate.

Alright, that's not entirely true though I am not disputing the fact that it could be false either. But as a kid, I always had a grudge against 'em crows. Yes, they did shit on me more than statistically probable but so did my lil' niece but I never did hold it against her. I adore her and still do. In fact, I gift her Barbie on her birthdays. This year I sent her Barbie's head and now all that is left incomplete of the Barbie are her arms.

Coming back to the crows, I never did know when I started hating them but it was soon after the incident involving a murder of crows who swooped down on me and tried to penetrate through my diaper. How was I to know that crow eggs did not constitute as a toy then; I was a kid for cryin' out loud. Yet they chose attack me. I didn't remember much of the incident but when I was told about it, the seeming incongruous anecdote about the botched circumcision seemed a little fishy. And I am still under the impression that the crows are not completely satisfied with their handiwork. I have often spotted a few of them sharpening their beaks right outside my restroom window.

Well, anyways, there was a period when I used to blame everything on the crows. I used to like eating by the balcony but if the stuff I was eating wasn't palaptable (as most of the food was back then), I used to make little missiles and throw them out. My mum never did find out about this till three weeks into my escapade. I got a little careless and chucked most of the food on my mom, who was returning back from the market. Well, I did manage to get out of it but it took a lot of quick thinking. I had to scratch my arms rather badly and then blame it on the poorly fed crows that lurched outside our balcony. From that day on I made it a point to pelt the crows with a little rice and curry; it would make my claims look genuine.

Then the crows came to my rescue with my homework. Most of the kids would either blame rain, fire, their pet dog or their blind grandfather who mistook their homework for toilet paper. But I had the magical crows which would first break into my fortified room and then launch a tireless attack on my homework. Usually they flew away with it as it was a "prized" possession but there were times when I would submit pages scribbled with nonsense and which was heavily bored to make it seem like crows pecks. Once I even had to collect bird droppings and use it to decorate my homework.

This trend of "blame the crows" continued right through high school, college and then my adult life. I couldn't attend the high school prom because the crows had abducted my "secret" date ( seriously). I would have had a completely normal arm if it hadn't been for the crows which kept abducting my girlfriends. I would have been married with three kids but I'm afraid that my kids might turn out black ( ample proof of a crow being the father though getting a DNA test done on him would be difficult). It was when this fixation went from bad to worse that I started going to a therapist. Actually, the paper printed out the ad wrongly and I read it as "the rapist" and thought of giving my sex life a boost.

Well, the therapy sessions helped me a lot and I started not hating the crows. I even got a job as an attendant at a glamorous hotel. I was seeing someone and was actually thinking of marrying him when things changed completely.

It had been a normal day and I was helping out a lodger as usual. For no apparent reason, he got violent. I tried to reason out with him and this seemed to incense him even further. He got physical with me and at the end of it, he hurled a telephone at me. This incident triggered off the hate in me again.

I hate Crowes now.

If a movie were to be made on my life, I would be cast in as an extra.