Inconsequentially used twice in this
title, it is inconsequentially adverbial/Don’t read this story
Amoebic Dysentery was born without a chin.
When he had come out of his mum’s nether regions covered in
slime, with a grotesque and foetal aspect, everyone in the room had been
revolted. Revolted, shocked, sickened, horrified.
The mother spoke first, in a tone of indignant outrage, “No
child of mine shall be born without a chin, a chin is a fundamental part of a
child of mine. I refuse to accept that this child of mine is a child of mine,
it has no chin. Next thing it’ll have no child of mine.”
The doctor replied: “Such profound words, you must be a very
well-educated woman.”
“I was educated at the school of hard arithmetic.”
“Do you mean "knocks"?”
“No that’s a boys’ school.”
“But you’re a woman.”
“Exactly, and I was in the past too.”
“Where is that region?”
“It no longer exists.”
“OK José.”
“No, my name’s stay-at-home mum.”
“Isn’t that your profession?”
“A stay-at-home mum isn’t a profession, you dumbo jimbo.”
“That doesn’t rhyme and my name isn’t jimbo.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“Yes you did.”
“Yes you did.”
“What?”
“Why?”
“Who?”
“What do you want me to do with the lump of slimy flesh that
came out of your – dare I say – private parts? I can chuck it out the window if
you want.”
“Why the hell would I want that?”
“It has no chin.”
“Good point, Doctor. Hmm, it’s a tough decision… I guess
I’ll have to think about it.”
She lay there on the bed thinking about it. He was thinking
about her thinking about it and thinking about what she must be thinking about
it and thinking about the fact that he was thinking about her thinking about it
and thinking about the nature of thinking about the fact that he was thinking
about her thinking about it and wondering slightly paranoidly if anyone else
was real because he couldn’t know if this was all a dream and he was the only
one with real consciousness because that was possible he reckoned.
She came to a conclusion: “No thank you.”
“Thank god you chose to do that” he said, grasping the baby
in his hand above his head like an NFL ball, ready to hurl it as far as
possible out of the eighth story hospital window.
“You looked like you were pretty happy to do it though.”
“Oh, it’s all a façade – a veneer I put up to deal with
people in my work. You have to stay impersonal, that’s the way to
succeed.”
“You should write a self-help book entitled “You have to
stay impersonal, that’s the way to succeed.””
“No thank you, I hate self-help books. I can help myself
very well thank you.”
“Thank you for what.”
“What?”
“What?”
“What?”
“What?”
The woman’s husband had been in the room the whole time,
holding his wife’s hand. He spoke, suddenly: “What?”
The doctor replied, suddenly: “Why are you joining in this
conversation all of a sudden? I thought you were perfectly happy staring into
the corner.”
“I wasn’t – on the inside. I was dealing with a great deal
of inner turmoil as you spoke animatedly to each other. I felt isolated and
alone.”
His wife spoke, “You want sympathy? I’m the one who’s been
busting my gut for the last twelve hours.”
The doctor spoke, “It wasn’t your gut, it was your pelvic
region because that’s where the baby comes out of.”
“Really?” she replied, extremely sceptical of this
far-fetched piece of information.
“Yeah, trust me, I’m a doctor, I know my anatomy.”
“What do you know about Anatomy?” the husband said.
“Who’s Anatomy?” the wife said.
“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” the husband
said, with a smug expression on his face, secretly – he thought it was secret
at least but it might not have been because he couldn’t help looking smug –
proud of his remembrance of such a quote and the extensive knowledge he had just
impressed of it on the other two people in the room. Well, it was three
including Amoebic Dyssentry but he was really just a lump of slimy flesh.
The doctor replied: “This is true.”
There was a long pause, then he continued, “It is true
because the sensory receptors used when you smell a rose are not connected its
name.”
“You just don’t understand poetry” the husband said, deeply
humiliated by the fact that the doctor had won the intellectual competition –
though he wouldn’t show it – though he would because his cheeks had flushed
deepest darkest red like a – rose.
“Your cheeks have gone bright like a-a rose… Ha ha how
ironic!” the doctor shouted aggressively.
Still lying on the bed, pale and haggard like a woman who
had just gone through the exhausting most terrible ordeal that is childbirth
because she had, the woman spoke: “Your cheek by any other name would smell as
sweet.”
Her husband said thank you and as he did began to blush even
more. Now his face was the reddest thing on the entire planet – maybe even the
entire universe – a vision of purest, unadulterated red.
“Someone’s gone a bit red” the doctor said whilst eating
some bread and scratching his head and somewhere else in the hospital someone
was recently dead.
“That’s a bit morbid.”
“What is?”
“A hospital.”
“True.”
“Or is it false?”
“It’s definitely true.”
“Or is it false?”
“Or is it false?”
“It is impossible to know anything, including what I just
said because that’s an unsubstantiated assertion” the doctor said.
“So it’s impossible to know that you know that it is
impossible to know anything” the husband said.
They shouted in harmonious unison: “No yes no yes no yes no
yes no yes no yes no yes no yes no yes no yes no yes no yes no no yes no yes no
yes no.” It went on eternally.
Amoebic Dysentery joined in as soon as he could speak.
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