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ian green

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WEiRd voices for your head


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WEiRd voices for your head ========================== . 

Minding Your Manners Is A Flimsy Alibi


          When George was four years old, his mother asked him a
question.

          "George, what are you going to be when you grow up?"

          Grow UP?  I'm going to grow UP?

          "I'm going to be an astronaut.  I'm going to the moon."

          His mother looked exasperated.

          "No George, mind your manners, mind your manners," his
mother sighed, "you're going to grow up and be a nice boy who
feeds animals in the park.  Right George?"

          MANNERS?  ANIMALS?

          "Yes mother."

          She smiled.

          "Very good George," she said, pulling up the last
zipper on his snowsuit.  "now go outside and play with all your
little friends."

          She patted him lightly on the bottom and he waddled
outside, a small lump inside layers of cloth and gore-tex.

          Mind my manners, George thought.  Feed animals in the
park.


--------/-


          When George was nine years old he got a book for his
birthday.

          "But I don't know how to read!" George said.

          Some of the people at the party perked their ears at
the little boy's cry.  George's mother looked at him
questioningly.

          "It's all right George," his mother said soothingly,
adjusting his tie, "just look at the pictures, and mind your
manners, everyone will stare at you if you shout."

          "But I wanted a rocket ship!" George cried.  A few
people stopped eating their cake and looked at George.  George
looked back.
          "Now son, don't get all excited now." his father said,
removing the pipe from his mouth and blowing a stinking cloud of
cherry blend into George's face.  George coughed mildly,
surprised at the noxious smell.

          "GEORGE!" his mother shrieked, "cover your mouth when
you cough!  Where have all your manners gone!"

          George felt tired.  His father gave him his usual
meltingly wan smile and clapped him mightily on the back.  George
could feel his birthday cake coming up.

          Hold it down!  George yelled at himself, mind your
manners!!

          George tried to smile at his mother and forget all
about rocketships.


---------/-


          When George was twenty years old, he was feeding some
squirrels in the park.  He was thinking about wether to buy
popcorn or bird seed to feed the larks tomorrow.

          "Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?"

          George turned around.  It was an old woman, inquiring
about the empty seat on the bench beside him.

          "No, madam," George smiled, "you may sit there, if you
wish."

          What a polite boy, she thought.

          George tossed some stale bread at a squirrel.  The
squirrel picked it up and streaked across the length of the park,
disappearing into a privet hedge many metres away.

          "Do you go to school, young man?" the old woman asked.

          Remember your manners, George's mother had said, before
he left the house for the park.  Someone might talk to you.  I
don't want you to be rude.

          "No, madam," George said, "I sit here and feed the
animals everyday."

          "Everyday?"

          I said everyday, didn't I?  George wondered.  I wonder
if I mispronounced it?

          "Yes, everyday.  It's quite fun."

          The old woman looked at him questioningly.

          "Don't boys your age fantasize about wine and women?"

          George looked shocked.

          "God forbid!  I fantasize about rocketships."

          The old woman looked surprised.

          "Rocketships?  Phft.  Hogwash."  And with that, the old
woman turned around and opened up her newspaper.

          How rude, George thought.  I wonder where she got her
manners.

          "Lord, the Germans have fashioned some kind of rocket,"
the old woman said, reading off of the front page article,
"London in a state of emergency!  Total destruction imminent!"

          "Total destruction?"  George asked.

          "Yes, those poor Brits.  It's good we're on the other
side of the Atlantic, wouldn't you say boy?"

          But the old woman's question went unanswered.  George
was already running headlong to the privet hedge.

          Such nice manners for a crazy fellow, the old woman
thought.


---------/-


          When George was thirty three years old, his mother was
quite worried about him.  He had slurped his soup twice at dinner
this evening, and he had even used the salad fork to eat his
meat.

          "George, are you thinking of rocketships again?" his
mother asked.

          "No mother, I'm minding my manners, I feed the animals
in the park everyday."  George replied, his voice muffled.

          "I'm worried George, are you sure you're minding your
manners?"

          Manners, yes, manners, forever manners.  I'm minding my
manners.

          "Yes mother." George replied, his face covered by a
blanket.  He had stolen a book from the library.  He couldn't
read the title, or even a single word inside, but there was a
rocketship on the cover, and that was enough.

          I think I'll take him to the doctor, his mother
thought, he sounds like he has a cold.


---------/-

          "Now open your mouth and say Ahhh."

          "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"  George
could feel the bones in his head vibrate.

          "Very good, everything looks fine inside." said the
doctor, a doctor by the name of Orwell.  He had a crooked
moustache and large, liquid eyes.  George didn't think he minded
his manners.

          George rubbed his throat.  No manners.  Doctor Orwell
has no manners, he cackled inside his head.  He snorted wildly.
Doctor Orwell looked at him strangely.

          "Are you alright George?" he asked.

          Oh no!  I snorted!  If he tells mother!

          "I'm fine sir."  George replied, his humour suppressed.

          "Alright George." Doctor Orwell said suspiciously,
writing something down on his clipboard.  "And what do you do for
a living?"

          A living?

          "I feed animals in the park, but when I grow up, I'm
going to be an astronaut."  George said triumphantly.

          Doctor Orwell tried to hide his horror.

          "Have you ever been interrogated, George?" Doctor
Orwell asked, dimming the lights in the room.  It was almost
pitch black, save for a small lamp turned on above George's head.
It shined uncomfortably in his eyes.

          "No sir," George replied, "I mind my manners."

          Doctor Orwell scribbled something on his clipboard.

          "And why not?"

          "I don't know."
          "What do you mean you don't know?"

          "I have no idea, at all."

          "Are you sure?  Because I can get your friends in here,
if I have to."

          Friends?  I have friends?

          "Please don't do that sir.  I'll talk."  George wrung
his hands worriedly.

          "Good.  Now where were you on the night of July 15?"

          "This year?"

          "No."

          "Last year?"

          "NO."

          "When?"

          "THIRTY FIVE YEARS AGO!" Doctor Orwell bellowed.

          George was trying not to cry.  He wiped back a sniffle
with the back of his hand.

          Oh no!  Mother will see this on my shirt!  Where are my
manners!?!?!

          "DEAF?  ARE YOU DEAF?" Doctor Orwell cried.

          "No, no!  I can hear well!  I can hear well!"

          "WELL WHERE WERE YOU?"

          "At home."

          "Not at Arthur's house."

          "No, I was playing in the snow."

          "What were you thinking when you killed Arthur?"

          "Arthur is dead?"

          "Arthur is DEAD!  You killed him, didn't you, George??"

          "No, I was at home!  I was minding my manners!"

          "Manners..." Doctor Orwell mumbled, "manners will get
you nowhere.  Nurse, lock him up.  Give him a shot of
tricyclcane, that should calm him down."  He snapped his book
shut.

          The nurse came in and handcuffed George.

          "I didn't kill Arthur!" George cried, "I'm innocent!  I
mind my manners!"

          The nurse threw him in his cell.  George wanted to cry
but he knew it was bad manners.

          Manners, Doctor Orwell thought, lighting a cigarette.
Manners.  What a flimsy alibi.

---------/-


          "Oh George, why did you do it?" his mother asked, her
handkerchief soaked and soiled.

          "I didn't kill anyone!  I don't even know who Arthur
is!  I swear!"

          "George!  Don't swear!  It's bad manners!" his mother
exclaimed, shocked.

          Bad manners, bad manners, bad manners.  Stupid bitch,
George thought.


---------/-


          "Bad mannered miscreant beheaded" the old woman read
aloud. "He maintained his innocence even when the axe came down."

          The old woman folded up her newspaper neatly and tossed
it in a wastebasket.  Unknowing to her, a squirrel looked on,
hidden in a privet hedge.

          A hungry squirrel.
. WEiRd voices for your head ==========================
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