Sample Sunday Excerpts from I Will NOT Go the F**k to Sleep

Excerpts from I Will Not Go the F**k to Sleep (daddies & kids, multifaceted book of humor and satire)




 I: From "What You Don't Know about Bangaloring" (satire on outsourcing)

Dear Brothers and Sisters of the Great Hamburger Cowboy Nation of America: There is no need to introduce myself. You know me and my entire family already. Because my eighteen brothers and sisters, bred and currently breeding like rabbits in Bangalore, have all taken your jobs (alternative pronunciation: yer jaorbs?). What’s more, you have spoken to one or more of us. Remember Sue (Sushmita) at AT&T, Kelli (Kalyani) at Walmart Customer Service, Billy (Balwant) from AOL, Jake (Jayakrishnan) from Citibank Visa, Victor (Vikas) from Microsoft Tech Support, Neil (Neelakanta) from HP Customer Support, Vicki (Vikram Bandit) from Citibank Credit Default Swap Investments, John S. Warren (Jnaneswaran) of the Legal Support Hotline, Biff (Bhimaiah, wow, that was a stretch, but Biff had always wanted to be called Biff ever since he was a young sperm with no prospects) from Real Beef Home Delivery, Happy (Happy N. Dingra) of the Virtual Massage Service Hotline, Vin (Venkatakrishnaiah Doddaballapurappa Gowda) of WorldCom, Bob (Babbar) from Allstate Auto Insurance Claims Department who took down your rather imaginative and completely fake accident report, and last but not least, Ruth the real all-over blonde (Rudramma) from 1-888-Talk2MeUHunk, the toll-free erotic phone fantasy hot line for heavy breathers, just put it on your Visa card, and it will be billed as a business/technical consultation? They all fooled you with their flawless American accents, didn’t they?
Well, please don’t get mad at them, because unlike your billionaire CEOs (who are struggling to pay for their kids’ Lamborghinis and to put gas in their luxury yachts), they are merely trying to put tandoori goat on their tables and low-fat camel milk in their Calvinator Refrigerators, and to bury gold ingots in the secret holes they’ve dug under their beds as is the ancient Indian custom. And also because, ahem, they have access to all of your confidential and sometimes embarrassingly personal information (some of which even you may be unaware of). Forget such trivia as social security numbers or dates of birth, which any high school hacker can obtain within sixty seconds flat. They know much, much more: of your marriages and your affairs, of your taste in pizzas and marital aids—I mean, excuse me, Personal Pleasure Products and Feminine/Masculine Empowerment Devices—the name of your cocaine and crack dealer, and so on.  
[As dictated to a Blackberry with Voice Recognition by Bhol Clintoneshwaran while milking his personal cow in Patagonia. Richard Crasta is his—Bhol Clintoneshwaran’s—American name. For your smooth reading pleasure, moos, bovine expletives, suspicious orgasmic moans, and milk-sploshing-in-a-bucket sounds have been erased from this transcription.]

 II: From Death of a Minister (satire on Indian politicians)

The Minister’s Speech Heats the Fans
And now began the historic speech, the speech that would change the face of the planet and perhaps be memorized by pint-sized debaters for centuries to come.

Soiled white dhotis of the Revolution, and those dhotis beyond the seas being washed by Chow's Dry Cleaners in Kew Gardens: lend me your sisters—I mean, your ears!
Four score and seven minutes from now, free drinks and gourmet aperitifs will be served unto you. [Pandemonium.]
Until then, I shall a tale unfold—of my 75-point Plan for fighting crime, waste, and hunger and for promoting Beauty, Employment, and National Integration—that will make spears start from your eyes . . . I mean, that will make your eyes start from their spheres.
Generations to come will remember what was said here; but few will care to enquire the vintage of the rotten eggs that were thrown here.
And so, my fellow Gandapurians:  Ask not what your Minister can do for you, but ask instead whether there is any point in asking questions for which the answers are further questions.

III: From "Veni, Vidi, Vicious: Conquest for Fun and Profit"

Background: For a few years, during the Nineties, under the indecisive, erotically inclined, and tumescent presidency of Bill Clinton, real men the world over were beginning to get nostalgic for the days when the President of the Lone Superpower could be counted on to do his historic duty—shooting first and asking questions a few million tons of TNT later. (Questions such as “Why are we here in the first place?”) And not just real men, but real pundits and television talking heads were nostalgic for the simple old days when foreign dictators were American Allies, the Russians were The Bad Guys, men were men, and Americans could be counted on, at regular intervals, to provide the world with a jolly good fireworks show that entertained more people worldwide than the Oscar Awards. After all, as Aristotle said, tragedy and terror are good for the soul—especially, one might add, if they occur at someone else’s expense, and in someone else’s backyard lighting up someone else’s sorry brown ass, and don’t ruin your dinner. Thankfully, as George Dubya Bush has proved, it is never too late, and it has never been as much of a piece of cake, to go back to the days of Guiltless Conquest, once you have made peace with your Inner Genghis—with a little help from the Almighty (Dubya’s born-again pal) and also with the help of this short History of Conquest and Guide to Kicking Foreign Ass in the 21st Century:.


The History of Conquest from Prehistoric Times to the 1920s: In the jolly old days, conquering other countries was a venerable sport, guaranteed to work wonders for everything from your image to your complexion. It was easy as picking your nose, or blowing up a few hundred natives with the latest model cannon, whichever you found to be a more rousing form of sport. First, you started on an expedition on whatever animal or wooden contraption it happened to be the fashion to exploit. Sooner or later, you were bound to bump into unfamiliar territory (if, like Columbus, you were a geographical putz, all the better to keep a straight face with). At that point you planted your country's flag on some prominent spot—a hilltop, a cliff top, the local ruler’s palace, the local queen’s beehive hairdo, or any scene with the potential for a picture postcard and a Holiday Inn—and beat the hell out of any natives who objected. What could be simpler? Veni, Vidi, Vicious.
If the territory was too well known for you to pretend it was Your Personal Discovery—say, China or India, which had been churning out mind-blowing philosophies and nude sculptures while your ancestors were still swatting flies or wrestling with boars deep in the German forests—there were more sophisticated stratagems. At least, sophisticated enough to get a few laughs from your drinking buddies back home. Such as making yourself utterly obnoxious to your local hosts—say, by insulting your Vietnamese host's mother-in-law’s lizard soup or insisting that your Arab host provide you with tender slices of bacon to wrap around your camel shish kabobs, along with some black pudding as an appetizer. So obnoxious indeed that they would be forced to reverse their thousand year tradition of hospitality for the first time and throw you out of their sheikhdoms.
At which point, in the guise of resisting your expulsion, because it had hurt  your tender sensitive soul and violated every canon of civilized behavior, you could exert just a wee bit of extra force—just wee enough to find yourself, to your wide-eyed surprise (and to your faraway patron’s delight), with a huge country or continent on your hands. Or you could demand that the local sultan pay you protection money against a potential Czarist invasion. When he protested that the nearest Russian border was five hours away by the Concorde supersonic jet, which hadn't been invented yet, you could declare that his statement proved beyond doubt that he was pro-Russian, and indeed, that your spy agency had unearthed documents proving he had signed a secret aggression pact with Russia. At this point, you would be obliged to conquer him.


IV: In the first, title essay, the child responds to his father's emphatic order that he/she goes to sleep with this:

Hey Dad—Grand Patriarch, Pater Sanctus, Daddykins, King-Emperor of this Household, Lord and Master of all you survey, my dearest, darling Pop—I, your humble child and the product of a glorious night between you and Mom, bow before your Awesome, Almighty power, and offer virtual incense before it. But I refuse to, and I Will Not Go the F**k to Sleep. Consider that on this one issue, I have drawn line in the sand, like George H.W. Bush did with Iraq, get it? And my reasons are as follows:
1.                  The dog ate my sleep.
2.                  The last I heard, we were living in a democracy. Has this become a fascist dictatorship now, and is your name Adolf, or am I just dreaming?
3.                  Too late, Daddy, I just injected myself with amphetamines.
etc. etc.
. . . . Haven't you seen the movie Inception? This is my dream, and you're in a dream within my dream . . . . etc. etc.

V: The Devil in Miss Eve (from a reimagining of Genesis)
So he named a certain tree, whose fruit may not be used to make their kissing jelly. Then He instructed the devil in Human Relations 101, and assigned him at a thousand a day (any currency of his choice—currencies were yet to be invented anyway), all expenses paid, and the coveted double “Oooh!” license to kiss licentiously.
Approaching Eve with the beguiling charm of a used car salesman, with Ronald Reagan nice-guyness, the devil, dressed to kill in crimson suspenders and black tights, his hairy chest bared Mick Jagger style on the advice of his Sexual Makeover specialist, said, “If you want really free, creative love, the sexiest jelly comes from that tree.  You know, God is frightened of a population explosion . . . .”
“Thanks for the suggestion, Stranger,” Eve said coldly, “but I hope you've seen the Suggestions Box over there.  And be sure to fill in your date of birth, if any, color of skin, if any, three character references, if you can manage that many, and occupation, if any.  Type it in triplicate, preferably double-spaced, on one side of the paper only—100 g.s.m. paper naturally, rag content not exceeding 33 percent, with non‑negotiable option to recycle, and deposit the requisite filing fee in Treasury Certificates only . . .”
“What? You’re violating my human rights already?” said the cunning Devil, who liked a good opening when he saw one, and had a good appreciation for Eve’s. “Are you also going to tell me to go the f**k to sleep?”
√Čve laughed, confirming the then-young saying that if you’ve made a woman laugh, you’ve won half the seduction battle. “So you’ve read I Will Not Go the F**k to Sleep, I see, even though it’s ten thousand years away from being published?”
Now that her mood was mellower, it struck her (it was the Cosmo chip in her and its chapter on “100 Love Techniques to Get Him Wild in Bed” that started functioning) that Adam had wearied of the ordinary jelly, and that their sex life might perk up with the “Creative Jelly” (as happens in the man-woman mating game, the pursued had become the pursuer).
“Wait a minute, you little devil!” she told the sulking black thing, even as the song “Sympathy for the Devil,” started playing in her head from nowhere, even though it would be 6,000 years before the Rolling Stones would actually get round to singing it. “No formalities! After all, the Ice Age is over and the Me Generation is yet to come.  Any one I.D. and one credit card will suffice, and as for the filing fee, you can charge it.”
The devil flashed his wallet, displaying his wealth of exclusive credit cards—some so exclusive he was the only one to own them—and also his gleaming black business card.
“Oh, Lucy Fur [Lucy' suited the devil, since he was dressed in drag], Chairman of Brute Fruits Inc., Painter-in-Chief of Paint It Black Enterprises, and author of the bestselling Fruit Truths. . . say, you loveable fruit, how come we haven't met be-Fur, ha ha?”
Misty-eyed at this sudden warmth, the devil even leaked out a patented recipe of “Apple Jelly from Apples eaten by Spanish Flies, an Erotic Tour de Force.”  The recipe was typed double spaced, on one side of the paper only.  Not only that, he offered her a discount should she want one of her body parts painted black some time down the road, what with fig leaves being unstable, and so on, adding, “Black is the new white, know what I mean?”
“You’re bad!” said Eve laughing. “And I mean that in a good way!” Then she waved him a goodbye as she dashed off to a waiting Adam.

VI:
Or, How to Take Care of America’s Debt Problems
THE NUCLEAR WEAPONS FIRE SALE
A free ad on the U.N. bulletin board will do it, Sir:

LOST OUR ENEMY! 10,000 NUKES MUST BE SOLD!
OWN YOUR OWN NUKE!
(A DICTATOR'S BEST FRIEND!)
BUY ONE AT OUR REGULARLY OUTRAGEOUS PRICE, GET ONE FREE!
Guaranteed: Delivered To Your Door In Under Twenty Minutes—
Or The Next One Is On Us!!!
Note: *Offer valid only till Doomsday.
**Stocks limited. $999.99 million per warhead. MIRVs 1000% extra.
***We will beat any competitor's offer with printed proof.
****Ten percent discount for countries voting along with us at the U.N., and 15% discount for countries hosting secret CIA prisons and torture outsourcing facilities.


LINKS TO BUY I WILL NOT GO THE F**K TO SLEEP and FACEBOOK PAGE:

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