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. ‘It’s 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.

‘Exorcism.’

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.

‘Nope.’

‘Marlon Brando.’

‘Wrong.’

‘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.

The Diaries of a Sozzled Scribbler #31

Transcribed by a reluctant DMETRI KAKMI

23 May 2021

Because I am a style icon and the most startlingly beautiful proud binary cis-man in the known universe, I am often asked for diet and beauty tips, especially by freaks and aliens. And the occasional dictator. The following questionnaire was completed for the planet Upsilon Andromedae’s version of Vogue magazine, Tshoerveuamntyi. All beauty products mentioned are tested on humans and within the price range of the normal every-day reader.

What I’m loving right now—I’m obsessed with skin dehydration, so I’m excited to see what impact Voila Glow Suction Complex (voila.com, $50,000), a new ingestible serum made from babies aborted during a full moon at Devil’s Tower in Wyoming, will have on my skin. It’s such a clever idea.

Beauty icon— North Koran dictator Kim Jung-un has such classic spare elegance that looks effortless. Loving the flat-top hair. Very Grace Jones.

The rule I live by— I practice a little-known version of Tibetan Buddhism invented by a radical Muslim cleric in Deer Park, Melbourne, and the following holy script has always resonated with me: ‘You are a sack of shit. Keep that in mind next time I come by.’

Top self-care tip—Don’t wear sunscreen, especially if you live in Australia. Cancer and liver spots add to your allure. Add a couple of drops of good quality oil of wild boar to your moisturiser when you need it. Dehydrated skin is sexy skin.

Top tip for halitosis—Consuming a tin of sardines mixed with garlic, harzer cheese, stinky tofu and durian will keep the world well and truly at bay. Perfect for drawing attention to yourself!

Must have product—Melan from Chernobyl 130 Pigment Control (glowbeauty.com, $300,000) is a brilliant, affordable formula not only for that glow-in-the-dark look but also for a great finish. It gets me a lot of comments every time I wear it.

Favorite color—I love the calmness and openness of puce, but my favorite color for nails is chartreuse for its daring, seductive, sexy wearability.

Never leave the house without—Dragomir Lip Glow Oil (selina.com, $650,000). It feels like a treatment but leaves slight sheen and a perfect tint — magic!

On a Plate:

7.45 am. Homemade bircher muesli (soaked overnight in the blood of tortured Uighurs), macadamia soaked in jus of Goliath beetles with raspberries, mango, and manuka honey, plus seasonal fruit picked just for me by les enfants dans Afrique. Plus a smoothie made from the tears of abandoned teenage mothers, with a probiotic.

9.10 am. A triple-shot vodka Affogato, one of my many vices!

Noon. Leftovers from dinner—any endangered fish and veggie stir fry with glass noodles, topped with peanut butter miso, fried shallots and Kewpie mayonnaise.

6 pm. A chicken curry sent to me directly from Covid-infected India because I believe in supporting the sick and needy. I add onions, spinach, and grated sweet potato from the Himalayas and I serve it with roti, tomato, spring onion, mango chutney and extra virgin peanut oil pressed by Chinese communists on labor camps.

10 pm. Organic cacao des Incas passed through the digestive tract of an ancient Peruvian princess. The perfect nightcap.

Helpful dietary hint: I recommend adding plenty of salt to everything you eat, even desserts. High salt intake results in fluctuations in the inner ear fluid pressure and will increase your symptoms, giving you that delightful wonky Beatrice Dalle look from her generation-defining role in Betty Blue.

The above dietary advice comes with a caveat. Since I do not actually consume anything other than gin and cigarettes, I prepare all of the above and then toss it out the window to the homeless gathered beneath my exclusive penthouse, like so many ravenous zombies in a post-apocalyptic film. I am, as you see, very socially minded. Diversity and inclusivity are second nature pour moi.

Oh, Banu, peel me a goji berry, there’s good fellow.

Moi privilégié? Non, non, non…

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.

The Diaries of a Sozzled Scribbler #29

Transcribed by DMETRI KAKMI

19 April 2021

To the members of the commonwealth and to all peoples of lowly status,  it is with a heavy heart that I announce the death of my dearly beloved cousin Prince Philip, the Queen’s husband of more than seven decades and a towering ribald figure in the public life of Britain. He was, by the looks of him towards the end, 2000 years old.

I speak to you at this sad time as the Queen’s papa and the father of her children, except the vile Prince Andrew. That unwholesome personage did indeed spring from the loins of the now departed consort.

It may surprise you to hear that I, the Queen’s father, also sired some of her children. Don’t be alarmed. It’s perfectly normal.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but I was a bit of a stallion in my youth. More to the point incest among royals is alive and well in the 21st century. It is only forbidden for lowly people such as you for the simple reason that you produce ugly inbreds with savage grudges against oversexed college students who mistakenly wander into the Appalachian mountains. Whereas blue bloods are apt to give birth to specimens of the highest caliber, who hang out in Monaco and Mustique. So what if some are simpletons, have buck teeth, huge ears and pronounced honkers? No one is perfect.

But I digress. The Duke of Edinburgh has gone Casper and we must pay respects.

Pip, as I called him from earliest childhood, is survived by the Queen and their children, kooky Prince Charles, hilarious Princess Anne, sleazy Prince Andrew and the invisible Prince Edward. Old Pip had eight grandchildren, 10 great-grandchildren, and various cheap slags who married into the dynasty, the most recent and possibly worst being Meghan Markle. Not because — as she claims — of her skin color, but because she is one of the richest, most privileged women in the world donning the grey cloak of martyrdom.

She also stole Prince Harry from me, but that’s another story for another day! Not that I am one to hold a grudge.

Anyway, back to Prince Philip. What else is there to say about a man who in true Greek style did so very little with the time allotted to him on earth? Except that idleness is its own virtue. And yet only this morning I heard the bereaved wife proclaim from behind closed doors, ‘So young, so much to give.’

Is she senile or what?

Meretricious Meghan, on the other hand, released a statement asking the media to respect her privacy during this time as she throws a party. La vache bon marché!

My memories of Pip, the fifth child of Prince Andreas of Greece and Denmark, and Princess Alice of Battenberg (don’t rich people slum it with the poor?) go back to our idyllic summers on Corfu, before the ghastly proletariat banished the royal family from Greece, and before Princess Alice, dressed as a nun, was committed to a loony bin.

Who says the rich have it easy? They suffer too, you know. Only in greater comfort and elegance than you.

Needless to say it was I who brought the then rather gauche Princess Elizabeth and Pip together. ‘Marry her,’ I told him. ‘You can sponge off the Windsor millions for the rest of your life.’ So struct was the young princess by Pip’s golden Olympiad radiance that she ovulated on the spot and, within days, produced Dumbo, I mean Prince Charles.

The rest as they say is histrionics.

I could relate many an amusing tale about Pip, such as the time we accidentally blew up his uncle Lord Mountbatten’s yacht off the coast of Ireland, killing all on board. Oops. Lucky, the IRA was blamed. Phew!

And how can I forget the time we toured China and Pip called the communist cadres ‘slitty eyes’? Terribly amusing fellow, what?

Which reminds me. If Pip is remembered for anything it will surely be his peppery, take-no-prisoners wit. No concessions to political correctness with him. Oh, no. He went for it, come what may.

Many accused him of being racist or misogynist or whatever adage you care to attach to what was once known as humour. Really, it was Pip letting off steam. He used comedy to keep his feet on the ground on those long, arduous tours of savage, uncivilised places, such as Australia. But he was greatly misunderstood and castigated for it, too, in a most unfair manner, one must say.

As he once observed, ‘Not only do the resentniks have no money but they’ve also lost their sense of humour.’

Wise words indeed! It’s not for nothing Pip was worshipped as a god on the island of Tanna in Vanuatu. Bet you didn’t know that, did you?

And so I hereby leave you with Pip’s choicest sayings:

To an Aircraft Research Association: ‘If you travel as much as we do, you appreciate the improvements in aircraft design of less noise and more comfort – provided you don’t travel in something called economy class, which sounds ghastly.’

On Ethiopian art: ‘It looks like the kind of thing my daughter would bring back from school art lessons.’

To a fashion writer: ‘You’re not wearing mink knickers, are you?’

On seeing a piezo-meter water gauge in Australia: ‘A pissometer?’

To black politician Lord Taylor of Warwick: ‘And what exotic part of the world do you come from?’

To schoolchildren in blood-red uniforms: ‘It makes you all look like Dracula’s daughters!’

And in case you think he only picks on the less fortunate:

On his own daughter Princess Anne: ‘If it doesn’t fart or eat hay, she isn’t interested.’

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.

I have this minute returned from Mars.

Why did I venture across such vast distances you ask?

To meet Doctor Manhattan. Yes, the blue god himself from the Watchmen comics. Or ‘graphic novels’, as they say nowadays. Surely a ploy to make them sound smarter than they are.

You are surprised that someone as elevated as myself knows anything about the Watchmen. It’s quite simple. The other night I was relaxing with my thirty-eighth negroni when Zach Spider’s ghastly film came on television. It’s baloney, of course, a gaseous emission that stinks worse than a New York subway.

But in the midst of it all you have Mister Rorschach and Doctor Manhattan, and quite suddenly the entire dreary affair comes to life.

I lost interest in Mr Rorschach when I realised he is a redhead; they are the devil’s pawns and must be beaten with a stick. But Doctor Manhattan’s allure only grew, especially once he got rid of his clingy girlfriend, Silk Spectre II. What a slag, going around in a skimpy outfit that must require the merest suggestion of a landing strip down there.

But to get back to the question. Why is someone as cultured as myself interested in a superhero? The answer is simple.

Doctor Manhattan is my kinda guy, as they say in low-class beer halls.

Why? Because he is a stark naked misanthrope.

In his own words, ‘I just don’t give a shit about humanity.’

He doesn’t give a merde about clothes either.

Naked, hung like a horse and hates people. What’s not to like?

When he’s not drifting against a starry starry night, engaged in nihilistic philosophising, like the Silver Surfer, towards whom he bears a striking physical resemblance, he’s fighting crime in the buff. Talk about CMNM! (Look it up.)

Doctor Manhattan is so above human morality he dispensed with a costume and goes around buck naked, except when he occasionally wears those fancy now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t undies that would cause a stampede at a nightclub for effervescent men.

That’s what I call a role model!

And, if I can manage it, he is the perfect means to achieve my dastardly plans.

So here I am walking around Mars, searching for a naked dude. When, lo and behold, I spy just such a creature sitting on a rock, looking like Rodin’s The Thinker.

‘Hello, stranger,’ I say.

‘Goodaye,’ he says, sounding alarmingly Australian.

But something is amiss.

‘Excuse me,’ I continue, ‘are you by chance Doctor Manhattan?’

He answers in the affirmative.

‘Then why do you look like that?’ I say, pointing at his face.

‘Like what?’

‘Well,’ I say, not knowing how to proceed with such a sensitive topic. ‘You look…how can I put it delicately?’

‘Just say it,’ he growls.

‘Black.’

For although the Doctor Manhattan in front of me is blue, he has the physiognomy of a black man. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s just that he was white in the ‘graphic novel’ and in the film.

‘Oh, that,’ he says, waving a hand. ‘Just did that for the new TV series.’

‘You changed race for a TV show?’

‘Yep.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s not cool to be white anymore.’

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘Do you mean to tell me you can change your race at will?’

‘Yep.’

For a smart guy, his vocabulary is rather limited. ‘Can you become an Australian farmer from Coolgardie?’

‘Ugh,’ he cries, with a shudder. ‘That’s too horrible to contemplate. Go away little man. You’re interrupting my me time.’

‘But I want something.’

He sighs as if he’s heard it all before. ‘What?’

‘Move over,’ I tell him, ‘let me sit down so we can talk man to man.’

He scoots those resplendent buttocks over and I plonk myself beside him on the rock. It’s chilly on Mars so snuggle up to him for a bit of warmth.

‘Isn’t this nice and cosy?’ I say, but he just stares at me with those cold contemptuous eyes.

‘What do you want?’ His voice booms across the windswept desolation.

I point at the pinprick of light just visible in the vast cosmos. ‘I want you to destroy Earth.’

The blue/black Doctor turns his gaze towards the home planet we both despise.

‘I know you’ve grown distant from humanity,’ I go on, ‘and it’s not as if you particularly like Earth either…and I totally understand if you don’t want to destroy the entire planet all in one go.’ I pause, take a deep breath and go on. ‘If you want you can destroy China for starters. It’s full of Commies. No one will care if they go…’

Doctor Manhattan turns his head and stares at me with those uncanny white eyes. I start to shake in my Manolo Blahnik moon booties, but I can’t stop the verbal diarrhoea.

‘But eventually,’ I continue, ‘I would like you to wipe out the entire planet.’

I stop talking because Doctor Manhattan is shaking his head.

‘Please.’

He keeps shaking that weird head.

‘Pretty please.’

‘You’re too late, mate,’ he says in a voice that would not be out of place in Coolgardie.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve changed.’

‘Changed how?’

‘I changed for the TV show,’ he replies. ‘Not only am I black but I’ve also rediscovered my humanity.’

‘I see…’ I say, shifting away from him.

‘And,’ he continues in a sickeningly complacent voice, ‘I desire the love of a good woman.’

I leap to my feet, utterly disgusted. ‘Cease thy speech,’ I cry. ‘Oh, foul demon.’

But now it’s his turn to have verbal diarrhoea. ‘Not only that,’ he goes on, ‘but they kill me off at the end of the series and I transfer my powers to Sister Night.’

‘In the name of Isis, cease thy damnable prattle!’—I point at him and make my final damning pronouncement—‘You sire are a PC casualty!’

‘Oh, don’t say that…’ Doctor Manhattan wails.

‘You are a disgrace. And I for one will now turn my attentions on Mr Rorschach…’

‘I thought you hated redheads,’ Manhattan bemoans.

‘Mr Rorschach,’ I pronounce, ‘might be a redhead, but at least he is psychotic. Whereas you, sir, are a woke joke.’

With that I flew back to Earth, never to think about the good doctor.

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.

The Diaries of a Sozzled Scribbler #26

Transcribed by DMETRI KAKMI

1 March 2021

As an international celebrity, feted by the rich and dimwitted, and idolised by those who can’t afford private health care, I am often asked by media to comment on vital matters of the day. I am also a style icon, observed and emulated the world over. This month an icy little woman called Anna Winter asked me earth-shattering questions for Vague magazine.

AW: Three words to describe your style.

SS: Arab Emirates chic.

AW: What does that mean exactly?

SS: I wear a head-to-toe burka and trundle down Edgar’s Road in Thomastown, Melbourne, looking like a Dalek and screaming Shakshuka, much to the amusement of the Mouratidis clan, who run the suburb like their little fiefdom.

AW: A burka?

SS: Yes, nothing underneath so that when the wind blow outside the Secondary College, the fabric flies up, à la Marilyn Manson in The Seven Year Bitch, exposing the family jewels to fragile minds.

AW: What’s the oldest thing in your wardrobe?

SS: My father was a street walker in Alexandria and my mother a bear wrestler in Athens. They died under mysterious circumstances when I was old enough to inherit what they didn’t have.

AW: I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?

SS: A Corinthian column, a large 1950s television set, a Louis IX settee and an armoire fell out of a window and crushed them.

AW: Oh, dear… That was unfortunate.

SS: Yes. They were all priceless antiques. I still own the thong my father wore to entertain Prince Ibrahim of Egypt, and of course I cherish Mama’s leopard skin loin cloth. Actually, Papa’s thong makes an effective face mask for COVID.

AW: I hope you washed it.

SS: Don’t be ridiculous.

AW: The most recent addition?

SS: A beautiful Miyake Pleats Please mango colored, off the shoulder burka that doesn’t make my head look too big.

AW: What would you wear on a first date?

SS: At my great age, dates are rare. If I find myself on an amorous outing, I wear nothing.

AW: Nothing?

SS: One must be ready for any contingency, my dear.

AW: What would you wear on a plane?

SS: A dynamite vest. If it gets too stuffy in the cabin, you can always blow it up and get some fresh air.

AW: To the Oscars?

SS: You can never go wrong with something vulgar and tasteless by Dolce Gabbana. If that fails look to Versace.

AW: What’s your favorite fashion era?

SS: I grew up in Greece in the 1830s and 40s, so I have a soft spot for the pleated foustanela, with the yileko, the leather belt and decorative clogs. It takes me back just thinking about it.

AW: Who are your favorite designers?

SS: Frank-N-Furter. You can’t go wrong with surgical garments worn over satin panties, stockings, garter belts, a brassier. I just adore Divine’s geometric designs and the hemline deconstruction that is neither man, woman, here nor there. And of course Myrtle Snow from American Horror Story: Coven is out of this world!

AW: Do you have a favorite fragrance?

SS: No, I just allow my natural oils to infuse the air around me.

AW: I can smell them from here. What are the three essential items in your wardrobe?

SS: I don’t own a wardrobe. A garment is worn once and given to the poor.

AW: Can you remember a favorite outfit you wore as a child?

SS: My mother used to dress me as Sister Bertrille from the Frying Nun TV series and suspend me from the ceiling for her amusement. How I loved that outfit and the large headpiece!

AW: And your worst fashion mistake?

SS: Wearing a suit and tie to Prince Charle’s wedding to the ill-fated Princess Banana.

AW: You mean Diana.

SS: Her too.

AW: What was your first fashion moment?

SS: I don’t like fashion moments because it implies one is trying too hard. And one must always look as if one is not trying at all. That it’s all been thrown together at the last minute as you fly out the door to yet another exclusive event. Having said that, turning up as Yentl to one of Mr Hitler’s Nuremberg rallies in 1936 did cause quite the stir.

AW: What’s at the top of your wish list?

SS: Grace Coddington’s flaming red hair. Can you scalp her before she leaves your employ?

AW: You missed that boat, honey. Is there a current trend you like?

SS: I love the face painted man with the horned fur cap who stormed Congress. That was the fashion statement of the year. I predict the Antifa thug look is going to be huge.

AW: Is there anything you would not wear?

SS: Underpants. Skid marks on designer trousers is very street.

AW: Who is your style muse?

SS: Me. And my dear friend Grace Jones.

AW: What shoes do you wear?

SS: One can’t go past Chinese foot binding. To suffer for fashion is supreme.

AW: What do you wear on a typical work day?

SS: Work? What is this strange word, work? Explain yourself!

AW: What’s your favourite casual Sunday look?

SS: To dress casual is to give up on life. One must always look fabulous, darling.

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.

The Diaries of a Sozzled Scribbler #24

Transcribed by DMETRI KAKMI

1 February 2021

I’ve been on the run since John King leaked the Kamala Papers, which reveal that Joe Biden is Kamala Harris disguised as a white man.

Oh, my dears, it caused quite the international scandal.

I promised Kamala to withhold the revelations for the public good. But John King has no such scruples. He is a Devil Worshipper out to destroy America—what’s left of it. Now that poor Kamala’s secret is out, Mr King is sitting back in his chair, chuckling like the Penguin.

Meanwhile, there’s a price on my head. FBI, ASIO, LGBTQIABAMEBIPOCCALDPOCIVF+, they’re all after me. Not to mention IOPPM (International Order of Palak Paneer Makers).

I’m hiding in a secret location to escape their clutches. But I haven’t forgotten you.

For my next world-shattering interview, I travelled back to 30 April 1945, to interview Adolf Hitler.

Before you get all offended and outraged, consider this. Aside from the Bible (written by my good friend Cecil B. DeMille), Hitler’s Mein Kampf has been in reprint since the 1920s. It’s sold millions of copies.

How many of you can make such claims, hmmm?

Without further ado, I present a conversation with the man himself in the Führer bunker, shortly before he…well, find out for yourself.

SS: Guten morgen, mein—

AH: Did you travel back in time to kill me?

SS: No, I am not a cliché. Besides, if I wanted to kill you I would have gone to the start of your career, not at the end.

AH: Oh, yeah…Hadn’t thought of that.

SS: How are you, mein floozie?

AH: It’s mein Führer!!!!!

SS: I’m terribly sorry. A slip of the tongue, I’m sure.

AH: Don’t do it again or I will turn you into a handbag!!!!!

SS: As I was saying, how are you, mein leibchen.

AH: [Giggling] Oh you’re such a flirt. Stop it or Goebbels will be quite jealous you know.

SS: How is the old girl?

AH: One execution away from an orgasm.

SS: Give him a Hitler youth in a tight Hugo Boss uniform and he is happy as Larry.

AH: Who is this Larry? Sounds Jewish.

SS: Just an expression, mein furz.^[1]

AH: How many times do I have to tell you? It’s Führer, not furz.

SS: I beg your pardon.

AH: I apologise for yelling. It’s just that I am under a lot of pressure, what with all the hate speech and rude memes directed at me. The world doesn’t realises how sensitive I am. My feelings are easily hurt, you know. Ask Eva Braun.

SS: How is the lovely Eva?

AH: Tot!!!!^[2]

SS: Tot?

AH: Ya vol!!!!^[3] You know what women are like. They want to be first in everything. When Eva heard I was going to shoot myself to escape the Allies, she took cyanide. She’s over there. Blondi, my German Shepherd, is eating her face.

SS: Are you going to shoot yourself?

AH: Don’t be ridiculous. It will ruin my head.

SS: What are you going to do?

AH: I’m going to Brazil.

SS: To hang out with buff gays on the beaches of Rio de Janeiro?

AH: No, to clone myself.

SS: You’re going to become a gay clone? The Village People look is very out of fashion.

AH: Not that sort of clone, you dummkopf!!!! I am going to clone myself. Make copies of marvellous, wonderful, me.

SS: Like the boys from Brazil. Ira Levin will write a novel about that in 1976.

AH: A Jew will not leak our story. I forbid it.

SS: It’s going to be a bestseller and a hit movie, starring Gregory Peck.

AH: That’s all right then. We need to inspire future generations.

SS: Forty years from now your name will be on everyone’s lips. You will be famous, a pop culture phenomenon.

AH: Ach, you’re just saying that to make me happy in my dark hour.

SS: Not at all. The Australian government will subsidise a television station called SBS and it will screen nothing but Nazi documentaries. Scholars from around the world will write books about you and every aspect of your life.

SS: Tell me more!

SS: YouTube will have interviews with just about everyone who knew you, and some who didn’t.

AH: That is so nice…

SS: I’m telling you becoming a Nazi was a good career move.

AH: [Fans self with hand.] Ach, stop it, you are making me blush. I was never very good with compliments.

SS: Let me ask you about your charming two-volume memoir Mein Kampf.

AH: Of course.

SS: Where did the idea come from?

AH: Well, I was bored in my prison cell and I suddenly thought misery loves company so I am going to write an inspirational saga to empower my beloved mutterland that is being torn apart by communists, intellectuals, foreigners, and leftists.

SS: Sounds like Western countries in the 21st century.

AH: Maybe the boys from Brazil can help?

SS: Well, you know what they say.

AH: What?

SS: A lot of people who call themselves Left are proto-fascists.

AH: Who made this thought provoking observation that is causing my brain to fry at this pivotal juncture of my life?

SS: Noam Chomsky.

AH: Another Jew!!!! You are giving me a headache. You know the original title of Mein Kampf was Four And A Half Years (of Struggle) Against Lies, Stupidity and Cowardice.

SS: Really?

AH: Catchy title, no?

SS: Very catchy. Can I use it?

AH: Are you writing a memoir too?

SS:  I’m putting the finishing touches to a book about PC and Woke cultures. Four And A Half Years (of Struggle) Against Lies, Stupidity and Cowardice sums it up perfectly.

AH: [Shoots to feet.] I’m sorry but I must leave. Here is Dr. Mengele with the airplane for Brazil. Auf wiedersehen, mein ekelhaft pervers. ^[4]

SS: Heil mein feibermücke.^[5]

AH: I heard that!!!! It’s handbag time for you!!!!

SS: [Running for door] Quick, call Miuccia Prada! She’ll turn me into a collectable handbag that only women from China and the Arab Emirates can afford.

À bientôt, mes amies.