The Diaries of a Sozzled Scribbler #32

The Diaries of a Sozzled Scribbler #32

Transcribed by a reluctant DMETRI KAKMI

10 June 2021

Hello, my lovelies. We haven’t spoken in a while and for that I apologise. I know from the mountains of fan mail I received that you miss me.

What can I say? The truth, I guess. I have been…shall we say indisposed? This is what happened.

For some time my amanuensis has been telling me that we are receiving hate mail.

‘The letters come from all over the world,’ he told me.

‘What do they say?’

‘They want to kill you.’

‘But…but…why?’ cried I.

‘Because your readers are offended by the things you say. Their feelings are hurt.’

‘But…but…I don’t understand. I thought they loved me. I was under the impression I made them happy.’

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. The things you say and do are bad. It’s like you’re some sort of madman, spreading hate.’

You could have knocked me down with a bottle of tequila.

‘Something must be wrong,’ I admitted.

‘Feelings are easily hurt nowadays,’ the stenographer replied. ‘Its not like the old days when people were made of sterner stuff and put up with being ridiculed, oppressed, enslaved, their land stolen, their cultures plundered, being marginalized, pissed on, raped—’

‘Yeah, yeah. I get it. What can I do to win back the love of my fans?’

‘You need to be nice.’

‘No fucken way.’

‘Okay, well, in that case you need to see someone.’

A doctor’s appointment was made.

After a thorough physical examination, he put his finger on it.

‘Here’s your problem,’ said Dr Frankenstein, pointing at my anus. ‘You’re possessed. An evil spirit got into your body through the sphincter.’

‘Aha,’ cried my trusty helper. ‘Possessed. That’s why he’s been doing all those wicked things.’

‘It’s probably Tourette’s,’ I said, not wanting to admit that I was possessed. Though Bacchus knows heaps of people have been inside me in my long life.

‘Evil spirit,’ countered the doctor, shaking his deregistered head.

‘Give me pill for it,’ I said.

Once more, Dr Frankenstein shook his noggin. ‘Afraid not. There’s only one thing for it.’

‘What?’ I cried.


So here I am at the Convent of Saint Manuela the Bubblehead.

After a thorough spiritual examination, Sista Attracta, a bosomy black woman, announced she knows who is inside me.

‘Anthony Perkins,’ I said.


‘Marlon Brando.’


‘Joe Manganiello?’

‘Try again.’

‘Jamie Foxx.’

‘One more try.’

‘The Collingwood football team?’

‘No, you depraved creature. It’s the author Patricia Highsmith.’

‘Oh, her,’ I said. ‘She’s a sweetie. What’s she doing in me? I thought she was into women. Hey, you, come out of there this instant,’ added I, addressing my rear end.

Patricia Highsmith refused to come out. She swore, vomited copious amounts of cheap gin, caused me to slither like a snail up walls, made shocking misanthropic utterances, and wiggled her tongue in a crude way at Sista Attracta. It was all rather fun, really.

Sista Attracta wasn’t impressed.

‘I must drive out the satanic sapphic supremacy,’ cried the holy woman.

And so for seven days and seven nights, Sista Attracta performed the Voodoo Rite of Exorcism over my corpus delicti. By the end, the convent was razed to the ground and most of the nuns were pushing up yams.

But Patricia Highsmith kept her insidious grip on my beautifully toned, surprisingly youthful body.

Finally, a desperate Sista Attracta beseeched Patricia Highsmith to take her instead.

Instantly, my sphincter dilated and Patricia Highsmith shot out of my arsehole (asshole to Americans who can’t speak English) and down Sista Attracta’s throat.

‘Oh, yuck,’ cried Sista.

Before the evil could take full possession of Sista Attracta’s body, I heard my personal assistant tell her to implant a good influence in me. Sista Attracta complied moments before Patricia Highsmith took full control.

When I came to my senses I was twirling gayly through the convent garden, picking flowers and singing ‘The hills are alive with the sound of music’.

‘What’s going on?’ I yelled, alarmed.

‘You’re possessed by the spirit of Maria von Trapp,’ said my assistant.

‘Who’s she when she’s not running from Nazis?’

‘Julie Andrews’ character in The Sound of Music.’

Horrified, I said ‘frack’ instead of ‘fuck’ and ‘shoot’ instead of ‘shit’.

‘What have you done?’ I shouted.

‘From now on you will be nice,’ he said with a shoot-eating grin.

As mortified as I was about my condition, it was nothing compared to what was happening to poor Sista Attracta.

Have you ever seen a big black woman dressed in a nun’s habit lewdly waggle her tongue at you and say foul things about ethnic minorities while cooking jambalaya over an open fire?

I have. I ain’t pretty.

À bientôt, mes amies.

The Sozzled Scribbler was born in the shadow of the Erechtheion in Athens, Greece, to an Egyptian street walker and a Greek bear wrestler. He is currently stateless and lives on gin and cigarettes.

Dmetri Kakmi is the author of Mother Land (shortlisted for the New South Wales Premier’s Literary Awards in Australia), and the editor of When We Were Young. His latest book is The Door and Other Uncanny Tales. He does not endorse the Sozzled Scribbler’s views.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s


The Drunken Odyssey is a forum to discuss all aspects of the writing process, in a variety of genres, in order to foster a greater community among writers.


%d bloggers like this: