The television may be a vice for many people around the world
perhaps a supplantation of the lives they cannot actually live, for ideal lives, lives full of adventurous scandal, weird charm, promiscuity, glamour, wild sex and popularity.
This is often showed in the talk shows and also reality shows -shows whose 'reality' is nominal, just a montage created to fascinate-, and Topper Minogue was, precisely, addicted to this form of trashTV.
And he was also a male prostitute, a bitcho -properly said-, a man whore in Allentown, New York, since he sold his cock to satisfy -mostly- the mature unattended housewife of the town.
Despite this, the life of Topper Minogue was miles away from the glamour or the adventure, the only thing in his life that resembled the strident and shiny world of the explosive TV celebrities was the promiscuity, but it was a melancholic and bitter promiscuity, malodorous, vernacular, greasy, inelegant, provincial, third-worldist
a promiscuity closer to the poverty and the fatigue than to the fantasizing and elastic wild sex that we suppose some stars of the mass media enjoy at every time (in fact the sexual intercourse with his client-ladies was passionless and depressing, if not downright disgusting most of times).
And about his day by day, it could be said that the life of Topper Minogue was marked by a word: adultery.
Adultery, despite Minogue was single
adultery, it's in the mind, not in the body
adultery, like the falseness and the fear to admit
adultery, in its most flaccid and unesthetic form
adultery, as a word born from the moralizing norms of our falsary societies
adultery, as a word that sounds, almost, like a phonetic slash: ADULTERY
a cutting word, sharpened, full of guilt, lie, appearance, punishment and blood
a word of obsolete mentality and physical ugliness, a word of... your parents
a word of my parents.
A word of shitty and decadent municipalism and old cunts
a word of Topper Minogue.
... And Minogue himself was not an old cunt, no
not really
and why an old cunt is worse than a mere cunt?
-Because an old cunt persisted in his idiocy until... until he was old.
Old and cunt.
But Minogue himself was not a real cunt, he just... went with the flow
just a mere object for his clients, a thing with cock and balls to fuck and suck
they treated him as a fuck dummy, a rubber fuckdummy, a dream, to some extent
he loathed them
no reproach or complaint was heard among them, never.
Everything was feigned and polite, convenient.
"I need to see you, I miss your cock" -a client typed on text message
"Come to fuck tomorrow pls, my husband's out of town" -another said.
But one of the most important things in the talk shows, is the audience.
The audience present at the studio, anonymous people, often paid to applaud and observe the shallow and rutilant dramas played by the protagonists
anonymous spectators seated there and systematically ignored by the celebrities and the host... why there are spectators in the talk shows? Who are those people and what do they want?
Do they want to become actors in a future themselves?
What's an applause? What does it mean? What's the origin of that formality called applause?
Is that audience in situ really necessary anyway?
I don't know.
But we all applauded, at least once in our lives, we did it.
You did it, I know it, and I did it, and you know it, too.
It's a bit curious and strange and -at the same time- not curious or strange at all... didn't you ever refuse to applaud? You did.
And to smile or laugh? Too?
Maybe shyness, maybe badassery, maybe both, maybe something else.
But these applauders at talk shows or similar TV programmes cannot refuse to applaud, they are there to applaud
and to ululate, eventually
and to murmur
but never to boo the guests
unless the programme is badass and eccentric enough to admit these procedures, as part of its own and privative bizarro.
And despite they are simply human background in the programme, they are constantly visible for the spectator, like an impersonal wall of unknown faces that's always there, witnessing the show, distant, relegated, common, inferior.
There's something extremely strange and intriguing in the common, modest, silent and opaque people, something tantalizing and hidden.
Something turbid, vicious and unbearably exciting that tortures me, that arouses and erects my dirtiest passions.
Topper Minogue spent his afternoons watching reality and talk shows, and his evenings too, many times
at least the afternoons or evenings when he hadn't to work, and wasn't busy fucking
afternoons and evenings submersed in those oceans of fantasy, in those lives of luxury and scandalous pleasures which provoke the simultaneous admiration, libido, envy and despise of the married women who keep house, and of Topper Minogue.
Notwithstanding, as the years went by, those celebrities were gradually losing their protagonism in the eyes of Topper Minogue.
For some reason his stare commenced to see beyond the obvious, plus ultra, más allá
his perspicacy -or nervous system- deviated his eyes toward other spots, beyond the spotlights that illumed the blonde manes of the luminaries
toward the audience, his eyes, toward that communal and gregarious public
toward the masses, the plebeian followers, those fans, those applauders:
the background of the show, his furious stare began to get more and more fixed on that human background, day by day, like an obsession, Topper Minogue, because:
there's something more disturbing, incomprehensible and diabolical than the masses?
There's something more powerful, menacing, stupid, odious, admirable, detestable, awesome, unexpected and, eventually, bestial than the masses?
Fuck, Topper, fuck...
The celebrities disappeared for Minogue
for his eyes, disappeared
Miley Cyrus and Lady Gaga became two platinum rats screeching under the animalized fulgor, he didn't pay the least attention to them
just the audience
those anonymous humans behind la estrella.
One afternoon of July, at last, an afternoon of summer like a glaciation, Topper Minogue saw his dead mother among the audience, applauding, observing the show sitting on the stalls, distant, unimpressed, the mother
his dead mother, who died seven years in the past, and he saw her. With his eyes like two boiled eggs he saw her.
because Topper Minogue saw her there, sitting, applauding, through the pixelated horror of the screen, that good and decent housewife who was buried and rotting in the local cemetery.
Completely dumbfounded with his legs trembling like two spiders on a web Minogue ran to the streets of Allentown and jumped into the first taxi he could stop begging the cab driver to take him to NYC as soon as possible, to the TV station
faster please
to NYC
like an obsession
please faster
it's just 80 miles
to NYC
like an obsession.
No-one saw or knew any Doris Minogue in the TV station, and her personal data didn't exist on any documentation of the personnel currently working in the channel.
Topper Minogue begged to talk to the executive producer of the talk show in which he saw his mother: "The **** ******* ****"
the producer attended his request two days later, through the telephone his voice sounded robotic and stolid
inhuman
he didn't know any woman called Doris Minogue, no-one with that name was part of the show, ever.
Topper Minogue watched the programme with the attention of a lunatic, every afternoon
his eyes were insane
his jugular beating abnormally
the screen, the screen
he never saw his mother among the audience of the show again.
Minogue searched for his mother through the near towns and beyond, calling out her name
screaming out loud by the desolate streets
Bethlehem, Clinton, Whitehall, Lebanon, Parsippany, Belle Mead, Tewksbury.
No-one replied, but his echo.
New Tripoli, Emmaus, Pohatcong, Annandale, Califon, Harmony, Bath.
Only the wind, and distant sirens.
As his mind got more and more distressed, his sexual proficiency decayed
some of his clients stopped calling him, and Minogue spent more and more time in front of the TV screen
... his psyche became increasingly perturbed the evening of the 9 of November of 20.. at 7:12 PM when the presence of his father appeared in the middle of the audience of "****** * ******", a popular programme with massive telephonic participation of the spectators.
It was his father
Minogue didn't care anymore
his very father who died in 1.993, applauding like an idiot on TV
that macho, possessive, jealous patriarch who died hating his wife, Doris
on TV, watching el escándalo, like a retard, smiling at something
that father who lies interred in the Cemetery Calvary, in Queens, since he asked to be buried alone, far from Doris or any family member.
The brain of Topper Minogue was sick and exhausted, completely burned
he started acting like an oligophrenic, his last clients stopped calling him, scared.
... And the presence of those dead acquaintances and relatives lived with him on TV ever since
but only the dead ones appeared into the screen
showing their distant and laid-back faces among the other spectators -distant and laid-back as well-, and Topper Minogue assimilated it with the factual naturality and spontaneous simplicity of the things that are real, true and normal
because his brain was broken -and Topper Minogue stopped going outdoors, out of his house
and he started eating the bugs and the nasty alimañas malditas that his own filth created in his house like a rotting hotbed, and the TV was on all the time, like those psychotics who listen to the radio night and day
and Topper Minogue defecated and urinated anywhere and ate his own shit, and any living organism and putrefactive fluid that flourished vigorously in that mucopurulent breeding ground of viscid substances, insecta and excreta.
The TV is on, overheated, the cathode ray tube it's about to crash in the hot and humid day of January, the miasma and the fetor of the house are irrespirable
untouched putrid food lie on the shelves of the kitchen, while hardened human turds shine sowed on the floor, sucked by thin worms and blue flies, as they migrate to copulate into the yellow-ish holes of a piece of decayed ham undermined by the trichinosis
on the incandescent screen of the TV, a fat larva slides its viscous body leaving a milky patina on the surface, which cuts in two the figure of Topper Minogue
seated, applauding, watching the scandal, like a retard, smiling at something.
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