Monday Morning Lament
Once again, another Monday morning besieges my semi-consciousness, like the
semi-colon besieges the work of an inexperienced journalist. My hazy, polluted
head seeks to reclaim its legendary lucidity from a weekend of malaise. I gaze
at the bookshelf, off to the left of my desk at this major media company, and
scan my body of work. As the most
prolific author named Wolinetz, I have a huge cross to bear. In my
autobiographical piece, Camels Have Two Humps, I explain the nature of
my drive to success. For those of you unfamiliar with that work, it’s a summary
of my holidays on the Arabian Peninsula as waterboy for a sultan with 100
wives. An excerpt:
My memories of the Sultan are strong, like when he’d latch on to your leg and start humping. There was nothing you could do, you just had to let him ride it out.
It is hot today. Like yesterday. And the day before. And the day before. The sultan demands Gatorade. I sense that he is a demanding man. I only provide water. This is not good enough and he has me flogged. They tell me he is mad from syphilis, but I am not convinced. Why does this "madman" keep me around? I provide water, as well as powerful tantric sex, to many of his wives. They are satisfied and demand that I continue to satiate their unquenchable thirst. I tell them that I am here for the sultan. The sultan needs me to tend to his water needs. I have learned at the tender age of 14 that my virility is both a blessing and a curse. The sultan calls me to his room.
‘Wolinetz, have you come with the Gatorade?’ He wears a diaper.
‘Sultan, I provide only water. If you would like…’
‘Silence!’ He throws a serving platter at me, which I avoid easily, as he is nearly blind from the syphilis. ‘Wolinetz, change my diaper.’
I do as I am instructed with great effort, as the sultan, a hefty man before, has become bloated with the 3rd stage of his venereal disease.
‘Wolinetz, your father is a great friend of mine. I have done him a favor by bringing you here. Milk the elephant when pigs fly through dusk.’ Was he mad? Or was that code?
‘Thank you, Sultan.’ I bowed.
‘Your talent knows no boundaries. Remember you must be a servant to your talent. Let it guide you. My penis is 12 inches long.’
‘Thank you, Sultan.’
He dismissed me and began to gnaw on the leg of his bed. It was then I knew. My talent was a blessing, one that I could not ignore, like I’d ignored the early signs of the syphilis I’d contracted that summer. It was then I knew. Camels have two humps.