Fables (excerpts)

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Fables (excerpts)

The Troublesome Young Woman
What Is To Be Done? [from the play Tagann Godot/Godot Turns Up]

From “Fourfront – Contemporary stories translated from the Irish”

There was once a troublesome young woman whom her parents called a little bitch. Others called her other things but as her parents loved her dearly it was enough to call her a little bitch. And because they loved her dearly they did not throw her on the street even when she constantly stole their credit cards, crashed her mother’s car, ripped her father’s clothes, called them stupid fucking wrinklies and acted the general, well, bitch. But because they loved her dearly they would do anything to help her and even went so far as to bring her to a psychiatrist.
“It’s penis-envy,” he said, “no doubt about it. I’ve seen it many times before. Young women her age all suffer from it even if they don’t admit it. And just because they don’t admit it doesn’t mean they don’t suffer from it. Nothing here that a good man and a good bit of bonking will not cure.”
Because they loved her and because they were paying good money to the psychiatrist they let her out about the town with as much money to visit the best night-clubs and stay in the best hotels as she wanted. Not that she needed any urging nor advice about where to go. But it was nice to be able to do it with her parents’ (and the psychiatrist’s) permission.
She had a ball of a time with big hunky macho muscular types and long wiry athletic fit-freaks and flashy moneyed long-practised swingers for as long as she could and wanted. After that she came home and put the cat in the microwave oven, cut the heads off all the roses, gouged the tyres of her daddy’s car, pissed in her mother’s swimming pool and generally acted the, well, bitch.
Because they loved her and were paying good money they brought her back to the psychiatrist.
“It wasn’t penis-envy,” said her father without going into much detail, “of that we can be absolutely sure.”
“Well if it wasn’t penis-envy,” said the psychiatrist, “it must be something else. Wait till I see.”
And he took a big leatherbound book down from the shelf.

AuthorAlan Titley
2018-08-21T17:23:04+00:00 February 25th, 2008|Categories: Prose, Literature, Blesok no. 58|0 Comments