As you feel your final days hardening - as I do, every birthday - you must go on a diet. For months you eat nothing but honey. Sooner or later everything you exude - your shit, piss, sweat and spunk, your earwax! - will be entirely composed of honey. And then you will die.
Your few friends take your sticky corpse and stuff it in a barrel. This they top up with yet more honey. On the lid they chalk the date of your demise. And then you can be put to one side.
Your sweet cadaver will remain undisturbed for one hundred years.
On the centenary any surviving descendants of those few good friends - or, in their absence, a suspiciously plump curator - will crack the spigot at the base of your barrel. Out will ooze a darkened syrup: enough to fill one thousand, one hundred and eighty nine vials. Which they - or he - will sell on eBay for a whopping sum.
For Mellified Man, rubbed on the skin, can erase wrinkles' appearance. Put a towel over your head, breath the vapours of just a few drops dissolved in boiling water: it may well relieve the sense of disorientation. Imbibed in sufficient quantities mellified man can do more. Though not yet subject to double-blind trials, anecdotal evidence suggests it can turn your eyes blue.
No comments:
Post a Comment