The following is the answer I submitted in the final exam of life, which I took at the time of my adolescence. The question was, “Describe you, your origin and your home.” I got a distinction.


“I come from the land of potted binary and spray on medicine, land so vivid it has often been described by wayward commentators as being “easy on the eye, harder on the soul.” This may go some way to explaining why our village is called Munter. It hasn’t made any difference.

Long ago, my mother, and her mother before me were performing cherry tricks at the local gantry when they were approached by a blonde looking fellow with a crimson tie. He explained that he was from the government and that he was here to help, but they laughed at him so he pretended that actually he was a representative from the local mafia and he wanted some molls to hang drunkenly off his arm, using strings if necessary. He claimed that he was called Hal, and that his sister who wasn’t there was called Val, and that this was the reason why they turned bad. Feeling gangly, the girls agreed and so they arranged their first date, unaware of the fact that the blonde looking fellow really was trying to infiltrate the mafia because of a drunken bet he’d made with his aunt, a woman I will not describe. So they were inevitably disappointed when he showed up without cool sidekicks, and he was disappointed that they didn’t bring any real gangsters along that he could sidle up to. Nevertheless, the evening turned out to be a success after all when they discovered a mutual cherishing of plastic jeeps, the kind I once had for my action man but broke amazingly quickly. Had a helicopter, as well, but that only lasted one flight. Found out it didn’t work.

After the plastic had melted, they found that they owned a house together, which only took one of them by surprise. A dance was performed in honour of the occasion, whilst the local cats performed sentry duty by virtue of their magic powers, their ability to walk on walls. At the party that followed, a game was invented that is now common in school playgrounds.

In a similar fashion, but in a faraway place, another strand was forming underneath the tangled mass by virtue of a misplaced rubber mallet. Stanway was constructing a village idiot when he realised that his most important piece of kit was missing, and that his creation would not be complete otherwise. So he left his space and charged up to the local gathering mass only to trip headlong onto a horse which consequently bolted the door of the trailer in which he was being transferred to a faraway land where mass makes weight and comprehension is free. After a long and doubtful journey, at the end of which there was no horse, Stanway was released after winning a Gold Cup and some buttons in a raffle, which he later used on a new jacket he had invented, a jacket which is now the traditional garb of local councillors.

While I didn't necessarily encourage it, I nevertheless found myself in possession of offspring, which surprised me a bit, but i like to think I adapted quite well. I showed them what the world expected of them, and then I showed them what the world actually did, and then I showed them how to do one whilst paying lip service to the other. I was accused of being a Bad Parent, and others threatened to indoctrinate my children in a better way, but I simply showed them the error of their ways by drawing it on a large wall where everyone could see it, and they got embarrassed, because I'd left nothing out. Not one bit.

One day, a man from faraway came and told us that he was from the ruling government, and that they had just taken the liberty of classifying the areas in which we lived, and introducing these things called letters, which were invented so that they could use post codes, and create jobs. So, we gained a new postal address, which was:
9 Street Road
Munter
Paris
Ecuador
EPEE09DOH
This then went on for a while, after which the people delivering the letters, called letterpeople, asked if they could have a day off every once in a while, say once a week. A week, incidentally, was finally agreed to be equal to the length of time it takes to eat a moon, which is a unit of currency so chewable it takes five days to chew, so you need a day off afterwards, hence the six day week. There is a legend of the famous Munstar, who is purported to have eaten two moons in seven days, but most agree that this would have been impossible.

Every Benday (pronounced ben-day), we gather at the local moss society to exchange prayers. This week I received a summons to a game of football, where i was to influence the outcome in favour of a group of fellows wearing yellow. A couple of my friends from the village were there as well, though I suspect Thorlank was actually favouring the men wearing blue.

So anyway, my father wasn't a dupe in many senses of the word, and I believe that it was he who influenced my being more than anybody else, despite all the rumours to the contrary. But it must be said that he is a forgivable man, just like the vast majority of men actually are (although their wives typically disagree). It's just when there's more than some of them in any one place.

No. But I understand that sometimes it is.

Which leads me to where I am today, a place I'm not sure about. I understand its function, oh yes, but its purpose? It's just a bit too well organised to be truly random. There are those who mock others who seek a purpose, but these people, although educated, are rarely intelligent, and have very closed, narrow opinions about what must be.

 

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