From New Ghandi to Your Moma

“Doctor Leibniz mentioned to me long ago that there are two sorts of intellectual labyrinths into which all thinking people are sooner or later drawn,” said Caroline. “One is composition of the continuum. The other is the problem of free will.” – Neal Stephenson, The System of the World.

 

          “So how does this song go then?” asked Ed. I played it to him: Jane, by the Barenaked Ladies. “So, let me get this straight,” he said, “I’ve got to be a thief, unfaithful, or a letter writer. Alright. Which?”

            “Theft is against the law, and that’s against the rules.”

            “Pussy.”

            “Unfaithful is strictly impossible, since you’ve no one to be unfaithful to…”

            “What are you trying to say about us? I thought we had something special.”

            “…it’d be too easy anyway. So that leaves only letter writing.”

            “Okay.”

            “And since the song is about Jane…”

            “Not okay. That’s a really bad idea.”

            “Come on Ed, I can’t believe you’re threatening to wuss out on me.”

            “Look, I already went to lunch with her and you saw how that turned out. Can’t we just leave her out of it now?”

            “No. Let’s not. Let me dictate:”

 

            Dear Jane,

I had to write, I can’t seem to express myself to you in person. I wanted to tell you, I regret how it ended between us. The thing is… the other day, I had something important to tell you, but I couldn’t get it out. I’m sorry Tom was there. Here, let me spit it out… Jane, I’m having a baby with another woman.

 

            “No, Tom, that’s really not clever.”

            “The more you say that the more brilliant a plan it sounds to me.”

 

*

 

            We went around to Jane’s address so that Ed could post the letter in person. When we got there he paused, gripping the letter with white knuckles.

            “This is a fucking bad idea mate, she’s already psycho enough without this kind of interference.”

            “Fine, I’ll do it.” I snatched the letter out of his hand and posted it through her door. At the last moment I became seized by a sudden fear and ran for it once the envelope was through the door. Ed was shaking his head slowly when I returned. “What now?” I asked.

            “Dunno,” he said, absently.

            On the way back to the station we walked past a Post Office collection branch. “In here,” I said. Once inside I asked the first member of staff I saw for his favourite song.

            “Insane Killers by the Insane Clown Posse,” he replied.

            “You’ve gotta be kidding,” Ed said, “what the hell is that?”

 

*

 

            Back home we looked up the song. Our concern increased.

 

From New Ghandi to your Momma,

We gives absolutely no fucks

Mothafucka

Natural born serial murderers

Mass mothafuckin murderin murderers,

Bitch, come and meet your maker.

 

            And that’s just the start.

            “Christ, I’ve got to become a serial killer,” said Ed, slightly dazed.

            I stared at him.

            “Are you okay mate?” he asked.

            I guess I’d been staring at him as though he might be serious. With Ed, one never quite knows.

            “I’ve got a better idea…”

            “I should fucking hope so mate.”

            “…you can meet a killer. I’m representing one on Tuesday.”

 

*

 

            Tonight we discussed my next adventure. We listened to ‘I Write Sins, not Tragedies’ by Panic! At the Disco.

            “Mate, this is all about a wedding,” Ed said, with a glint in his eye.

            “I can hear that. But this doesn’t mean I’m getting married.”

            “Come on!”

            “No.”

            “Alright. I suppose that would be a little extreme. It might break some of your bollocks rules.” He adopted a pensive look. “I know, we’ll crash one!”