I woke up this morning with the ladies in my bed doing something totally freaky to me (I’ll never look at sambal the same way). When the physical arts and pleasures had concluded, I asked on the occasion of such inspired passion. The women told me it was a Christmas gift, since I would be leaving town soon. Christmas?
Since retiring from sports, moving to the tropics, going native, and then becoming the leader of a humble village, my consciousness has transformed. I no longer think of seasons as being “spring, summer, winter and fall”; there are only wet and dry. I know time has passed when I see that my muscles have grown. That is enough, as long as there are plenty amounts of rice.
Yes, I also lost the capacity to understand numbers since going native. There are only amounts – some are more comfortable and sexy than others. Aloneness is not good. Amounts of ladies are great. How many are in my bed each morning? I have no idea. I can’t count them. Seriously, there are only amounts. What is important is that the amounts of women are right and appropriate for the village leader.
Besides forgetting the meaning of seasons and numbers (and how to count), I’ve forgotten about Christmas. When everyday is hot and rice is always plenty and amounts of women – often from the cities too – how would I ever know when it is or isn't Christmas. I’ve noticed that in my afterlove sweat, more bugs have been getting in my ears. Is there a connection between these bugs in my ears and Christmas? Maybe.
These rambling thoughts prove that those singers in the 80s were right to ask if people in the Third World knew it was Christmas. The answer is that we don’t. We have no idea because we don’t count or keep time like you moderns.
We don't know it's Christmas time.
So give us food. Let us know it’s Christmas time. I’ve eaten so many amounts of rice, it would be nice to have some amounts of burgers and pizza and shit. Oh and wine would be nice. Amounts of it!
Seriously, let us know it’s Christmas time.
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