The Rector

Once upon a time my mother warned me that we would have guests for supper, and that I would exceptionally have the permission to partake in the meal. She felt it necessary to add that I best be polite because the rector was included in the lot. Rather stupidly I admit, I made an etymological association between rector and rectum and I concluded that that person must necessarily be an arse… but I didn’t say anything to my mother so as not to grieve her, all the while thinking interiorly: “if we start having washouts as guests and further that I have permission to carve up a bite with them, we are not out of the woods yet!”.

All right then, a stack of people showed up at around 8 in the evening, and I focused on the washout in question, who didn’t really look more like a washout than the rest of the guests, but still I had him in my scope, and also his wife for that matter, who wasn’t too unpleasant after all, let’s be honest with some hindsight. As I didn’t have permission to make a mere comment, I therefore kept my mouth shut at the table. Towards the end of the supper, the bloke, thinking he was doing well in breaking the adult ice, loomed towards me and asked: “And you youngster, what do you want to be when you grow up???”

My! that was unexpected… I jumped on the occasion I was waiting for since the commencement, because I was planning on being a musician anyhow, which I did so later on, and I answered that, but with the following undertones: “I won’t be a rectum, pal…”. Now, I felt that the bloke did not appreciate the answer, especially the tone that I had spiced it up with, and the other guests were silently awaiting a pedagogical commentary such as “that’s not a job!”. Lo and behold, the rector full-fledged played into my hand: “That’s not a job young one! Where is that going to lead you… musician?"… As I had anticipated his answer, I retorted: “to the cemetery, just like you, but normally and given your age, a little later than you…”.

What a feast! Dead silence, half of the guests who couldn’t stand the rector in the outside world were tittering in their desert. Without more ado, my mother offered another helping of desert to the rector. At the time she always made orange salad and chocolate mousse for the guests, by sake of simplicity… She addressed him with her customary demeanour: “I would be really pleased if you would help yourself again, if you are tempted”.

Well the blokes’ face had turned a color exactly like the orange of the salad on the table, and I was observing him from the corner of my eye even as I was licking my plate. This is when my father intervened: “Maybe you will say goodnight like a nice boy and go to bed?” Whereupon I retorted to my old man: “Not so fast, I’m going to help myself to some more chocolate mousse as soon as the rectum has had seconds…

Since that day I assure you I work my etymology, which is something Georgina never understood!! It is useless she would always say, like metaphysics, just the same… geez

lol, pretty good.

I wish we had more short, quirkily-written stories like this one in this forum.

Anyone who wants to read another short story, and who hasn’t already read it, can read this: The Mysterious Hole (by me).

Good one! Not to read before a meal! Fred should be prosecuted for the murders he committed! :frowning:

Very entertaining, but I wish you’d have broken it up into paragraphs. I had a very hard time reading it.

I gave it my best editing shot

Much better. :slight_smile:

When a character is deliberately blown from reality into an imaginary state, be it through writing, theatre, a comical sketch or satire, which is the work of any writer or any stand up comedian, there is certainly a degree of cruelty involved since one must carve away in there like one moulds play dough. It is quite an efficient way of not loving to hold the other for a transformable object, for a “modelizeable” working matter. The potter uses clay to make a vase, so too does the writer, in the form of characters.

So when you listen to a stand up comedian how do you know there is not a real person behind his character who is rageing or crying, because he/she knows there is such and such an allusion made to a real life story. This phenomenon is far from being a novelty.

In painting for example, many an artist has amused himself in giving to his characters traits of existing people by portraying them on a canvass in a grotesque fashion, or at the least disadvantageously. If you look at the representation of the Apocalypse for example, you will be told that such and such a character at the bottom left corner, where hell is portrayed with souls burning in a marmite, is the grocer of the author to whom he owed money, or this one, his own wife, etc. Nowadays no one gives a hoot, but back then, the grocer and the wife must not have been overjoyed, especially if an observer detailing the canvass came to say “look at that bitch rotting in hell, what a nasty face she has! That is well deserved!” This doubtlessly led like today to commentaries by the right-thinking and the moralists who were targeted.

The painter doesn’t care, he just paints in various colours the obscenities he observes around him, he brings them to the limelight, he couldn’t care less about the rest…

It’s the same with writing. Someone like Marc Edouard Nabe, in France, the son of the saxophonist Zanini, wrote a “Personal Diary” in 5 or 6 volumes of 800 pages each. He goes very far since he prints family names and demolishes or hails right and left. Many people in the music or literary world were concerned. He even describes in detail how his wife Helen “blows” him, how she cheats on him, how he shoos her away or on the contrary how he loves her, everything is there, to the nearest pubic hair, but he also derides hundreds of people who he only intersected with for a few hours. He mustn’t have made himself many friends, but he doesn’t care, it’s not his problem. For that matter he wrote this sentence on each of the books in this diary: “The more the details of my life are known, the more I will be free”.

He isn’t wrong. But, pray tell, free of what? Well free of loving or of not loving in a few sentences or not, and this for the simple reason that to make a “secret” public is to execute love, and it never fails – I have never seen it fail – for there is no love without secrets, and to expose the secret, or the so called secret is to liquidate the love or friendship that goes with it, or said to be. One must recognize that it is an efficient recourse and a rather formidable weapon to have at hand which the artist can weild at any moment to the detriment of those who annoy him, and in a profitable manner since he “sells” the satire to delight the reader who has paid his ticket, as a famous author would say.