Melusine and I are in the midst of a domestic battle.
I am not a violent man by nature, but I am being provoked here to do strange and deplorable things to get ahead in this dreadful mêlée we got goin’ on.
It all started one crabby, bronchial day when Melusine wrote this Celine Dion rant.
Then she started pushing her bad drug on me. Waving the magazine in my face. “Look at this ugly, spawning bitch!”
“My god,” I said, eyes wide and moist, mouth a grimace of pain, “her chin! My god, what has happened to her chin!?”
The reader will be informed that I do not watch TV, listen to the radio, read People Magazine, nor do I have any other contact with modern western pop cultcha and its typical media devices. I’ve only heard the name “Celine Dion” before. Never saw a face to match it. Never heard a song by the tepid tart. There’s a lot going on of which I am unaware.
And my meticulously constructed plastic bubble of a life was housing me juuuuust fine, until Melusine poked a hole in my Travolta-esque plastic sac and … in oozed Celine Dion.
Since the inital stab, I rallied back by planting the damn magazine in inconspicuous places which she will eventually come across. (Taped to the back of the toilet seat lid thing, in the crisper, on her computer monitor, etc.) Likewise, she has tormented me by placing the chin-chin-cherreeee diva’s portrait in just as obnoxious places. (She had the last move — I haven’t found it yet, and I am nervous and cranky, and walk the house on eggshells, dreading when next her horsey visage will pop out at me, bunny-teeth stabbing into pastel-pink lower lip.)
This fight is getting gruesome. It’s really upsetting me. And I think Melusine knows it. And she is a wicked, evil woman (for which character feature I am usually grateful, she makes a good friend but a baaaad foe…).
So in this brief, somewhat heavenly, but more angst-ridden hiatus while it’s my turn to find the Celine picture hidden in the house, I have planned my next move.
You may recall Melusine’s “Office Tramp” picture on her web page. Well, I don’t have her diary password, but that picture is located on one of the servers I manage. A little file-overwriting, and I think I’ve dealt the blow that will either make her wave her white flag, or stab so deeply that I will perish from blood loss.
Frankly, either result (victory or death) is preferrable to Not Knowing Where Celine Is.
If fucking with Melusine’s diary wasn’t a low-brow enough trick to pull, I also signed her guestbook and incorporated another chinny shot of everyone’s favourite Canadian pony mistress chanteuse.
I’m a little afraid. Melusine is not the person to fuck with, for when she stabs back, “she seldom misses, and the wound is invariably fatal” to quote la Marquise de Merteuil from “Les Liaisons Dangereuses.”
Therefore, my friends, this may be my last diary entry. Ironic that my life may end over a trashy pop star, but I had my reasons and motivations for my actions, and they could not be suppressed.
I’d just like to send out a special note to everyone I’ve ever had sex with: Know that I was thinking about you personally at the end of my life.
Back to the foxhole,
Marquis Déjà Dû
“DJ, SAVE my life!” TODAY: Put a little New Orleans in y’all’s life — Nina Simone: “Baby Just Cares For Me” (3.2 MB)
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