‘Escape!? Why it is the most difficult of things’
(21st century philosopher, and misanthrope)
The universe is big. How big? Really really big. Huge, vast, immense, mind bogglingly endless ad infinitum. It goes on and on and on and on. Just like me sometimes.
And the earth is dull. How dull? Really dull. Brain numbingly dull. Imbecilic. Like tomato soup. But even tomato soup is more interesting. Cos it has bits floating around in it you see. Bits in a sea of tomatoeeness...but I digress.
So what do you get when you mix big space and the dull earth? You get no chance. No chance of any visitors from other worlds. No little green men going beep-beep. No flying saucers. No extra terrestrials. Why would they visit? There are many more interesting places out there in the deep dark recesses of space then a benighted rock 3rd from the sun whose ape-descended life-forms think to be the centre of the universe.
And Superfly knew all this. He knew it well. He knew it good. In fact he knew it like one knows a rash…intimately. And it made him cry. He’d seen the current entry in the Guide for the earth: ‘dull’, and he knew that it would be another thousand years before anybody would pay a visit to this backwater. A thousand years is a long time…especially if your stranded on earth.
He wondered what he would ‘do’ for a thousand years? The thought floated in front of him like those bits that float around your eyeballs in your sleep. Suddenly he had an idea! He could visit every country in the world and spend at least a year there. Since there are about 200 countries in the world that would be 200 years used up! Some countries he might actually like and spend more time in; but then some he might hate and decide to get out quick – so on average 250 years is about right; with a year or slightly more spent in each country. That still left him with another 750 years to go though.
He could get a job. Yes! Not for money obviously but to pass the time as they say. But then jobs do get boring after a year or so; so he could spend a year in each job before moving to the next. How many years is that? Well, it depends on how many different kinds of jobs there are? Hundreds: teachers, sweepers, decorators, doctors, accountants, mullahs, artists, ice-cream men, father Christmases, scientists, archbishops, writers, novelists (not a real job but still), actors, ministers, and presidents. And many more. If he was going to be a President he’d have to do it for at least 4 years. I mean you can’t just leave in the middle of a Presidency citing ‘boredom’ as an excuse! Well you could, but it wouldn’t look good on your CV. And then there’s something else; he couldn't possibly be President and then be a sweeper afterwards. President would have to be somewhere near the end and it would probably be wise to start at the bottom; with the mean menial crappy jobs and work his way up. You don’t want to be told by your subsequent employer that you are ‘over-qualified’ for the job. So, let’s just say that there are 500 different kinds of job. That’s 500 years used up leaving another 250.
Superfly thought he could spend some years being married. Say fifty years. An awfully long time especially in today’s ruthless marriage and divorce cattle market – but hey, he could find someone ‘really nice’ and let the 'niceness' drag on for 50 years. That’s 200 more years to go. He could write a book – that’s 5 years (cos it would have to be a very good book), and spend another 10 years writing the difficult sequel. He could read. Yes! he could read every classic book ever published. Say 2 books a week so that's 100 books a year and 5,000 books over 50 years – give or take a few stinkers and the odd incorrigible tome of unintelligible pretentiousness like 'Ulysses' (At least he'd be able to finish 'War and Peace').
Were almost there now with 150 years left. Movies, yes! He could while away 20 years watching every movie out there (including Bollywood) and then another 5 years recovering in a mental institute. 125 years left. That leaves women. A year per women seems sufficient before moaning and groaning on leaving toilet seats up start flaring up. Actually, the toilet seat moan is a good indicator that it’s time to move on. So if he was to have 100 women with a women per year, that’s 100 years in total. Obviously in these years he would be 100% dedicated to his 'gal' with no time for extra-curricular activities like work, reading and movies.
Phew! that leaves 25 years. He could go back to University, that’s another 5 years. That leaves 20 years. He’d have to say goodbye to all the friends he'd have over the years and centuries (if they're still alive) and since they’d be located all over the planet; that in itself would probably take 20 years. That leaves the final 5 years to do the packing. You know suitcases and stuff. I’d imagine they’d be much excess baggage.
So there we have it. An itinerary of Superfly’s time on earth for the next thousand years! Superfly thought about it and it made him feel miserable and gave him a stomach upset. There was a beacon of hope though. There was the slight possibility that someone at the Guide would notice his conspicuous absence and send an advance scouting party for him – but this was unlikely. Guide workers were generally ‘expendable’ in the grand scheme of things. He thought about the upcoming thousand years. They were spread in front of him like the endless steppes; melting into the horizon. He thought about the jobs he’d be doing, the shitty jobs and the good. He thought about the countries he’d visit; the rat holes as well as the nicer one’s. He thought about the many movies he’d watch and the books he’d read. He thought about the many women he’d live with and the thought filled him with dread.
But first he had to visit London. He had a friend there he had to meet. Someone he’d met in Pakistan whilst holed up in some stinking hovel. The friend had generously invited him around to 'his pad' if he was ever to venture to London Town and Superfly had every intention of taking him up on the offer. They’d discuss much: the state of the world, the peculiarities of earthworms, the latest Oscar contenders, selfish genes, Blake’s immorality and of course the meaning of life. Not that it mattered because he already knew, but it’s always a good conversation piece…and afterwards they’d smoke a bit and have a drink and no doubt get inebriated on some vile brew.
But it would also be an opportunity to meet the celebrated reclusive creator of the finest blog in blog world: The Swashbuckling Vagabond. A blog as Sony Corporation says’ : like. No. Other. It would be wonderful to finally shake the hand of the genius and brain behind the finest existential ramblings since the first cave man jumped out of his cave and grumbled: 'Grrrrrh! Gruuughh!' It would be fun and he was looking forward to it but first he had a plane ticket to book. Can you fly direct from Darjeeling to London he wondered?
To be continued…
