And so the snail went to the party, wearing its funny hat. It was the kind of snail who’d go to parties to laugh at the other guests and to make bold references to highbrow literature and fast cars to impress girls. The snail liked fat girls in particular, really fat ones, and when it spotted one, it’d rub itself against her thighs repeatedly, especially when drunk. It was more than aware of the daunting fact that not all girls found this arguably peculiar behaviour charming, but it kept on with it, secure in the knowledge that no matter how much it’d rub against her massive thighs, trees hidden in a dress, the fat girl would not be moved, not even a single inch. Yes, the snail was cunning, nay the snail was ruthless.
More than often the other guests would talk about the snail, make rude but whispered comments on its sluggish appearance, it’s lack of hair under the funny hat, not to mention its random success with seriously overweight girls in dresses that would hardly contain their balloon bodies. The snail, though, did not notice or if it did, it never said a word. It was the kind of snail who would find such conversations petty and distressful and above all terribly out of taste, but it was also the kind of snail who would cry over it, alone in the night. It would listen to The Cure and James Last and do drugs and buy stockings online till the end of the world.
‘Excuse me, Mr. Snail, can I just…I mean, well, what I meant to say is I’m crazy about your voice, I really love your latest single,’ said the man in the red trousers. ‘It really…rocks?’
The snail smiled for a while and there was silence. And then it spoke. ‘That’s amazing. Your face is like a dead fish. My, you’re an ugly chap, I mean, seriously ugly! Never in my life have I seen someone more repulsive, more utterly displeasing, your very countenance the essence of failure. You must have cracked many a mirror, but I really want you to get out of my face, I simply cannot stand talking to you.’ The snail paused and then smiled as if to say, ‘I was only joking, old chap,’ but really it said, ‘You’re disgusting,’ before heading for the pool table to get another drink and then another one, eager to please, as always.
It was the time of year that love was in the air and the snail wore its funny hat with a vengeance. It simply refused to ignore any chance to flaunt it, and after all, who could blame it? It was its right, as a snail and member of congress, that could not be denied, and when all was said and done, with each waxing and waning of the moon, there was more than a fair hint of joy in it as well.
Copyright: Ras Bolding 2003