Monday, October 31, 2005

Mademoiselle Sophia Orgon

Much to the delight of the menfolk (and chagrin of the womenfolk), the city of St Andrews was graced by a busload of scantily clad “French tarts” over the weekend. However, there was one French tart, Mademoiselle Sophia Orgon, who stood out from the rest like a Scandinavian prostitute at a Chinese whorehouse. She sported a skin-tight mini-skirt and legs that went all the way up to her arse (unlike the other French tarts whose legs, as far as I could tell, stopped halfway). Her face shone with the smooth youthful vigour that 21-year-olds usually boast and for which 31-year-olds resent them. However, it was clear from her manner—the way she artfully negotiated the sidewalk in her six-inch stilettos, the way her hips rocked from side to side as she walked, the way her breasts inscribed small arches over the top of her dangerously low blouse—that this was no young ingenue. This was the type of woman that made a living breaking men’s hearts, wiping her shoes with their tongues and convincing them each time they saw her walk by that they had left their pants crotch in the dryer too long.

Her given name, Sophia, actually means ‘wisdom’; a very fitting title since she looked like she was plucked right off of the tree of knowledge of good and evil—but when good knowledge was out of season. Her last name, Orgon, comes from the Latin word for when a man needs to use the toilet really bad but is forced to wait impatiently at the back of a long queue. He finally does get to the head of the line and happily relieves himself. But once done, he zips up his trousers too fast and gets his Johnson caught in the thread. (O’ boy that smarts!) Later the wound gets infected, but the sorry bloke is too embarrassed to get it looked at until it becomes badly swollen and gangrened. When, barely able to walk, he finally does check himself into the hospital the doctor informs him that the infection has spread too far for his penis to be saved. Prognosis: free willy! Naturally the man becomes disillusioned at the prospect of going through the rest of his life urinating through a straw. Eventually, he decides that there is no point to living, not with his pecker gone, and so he purchases a gun, rents a motel room, watches one final episode of Friends, puts the revolver to the side of his temple, and plasters his brain against the motel walls. Then at his funeral a mysterious woman dressed in black, who no one has ever seen before, throws herself on his coffin as it is being lowered into the ground. Through gut-wrenching subs and moans she declares: “Yes he was a jerk, and yes he probably did deserved to die. But for heaven’s sake, he didn’t deserve to have his penis chopped off! No man deserves to have his penis chopped off!”

Unless I’m mistaken, ‘Orgon’ comes from the Latin word for that. And boy does Mademoiselle Orgon live up to her name!

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