Divorce and Marriage in the Sci-Fi DK by Bill Kirton

Nicholas Gemini. Wikimedia Commons
The intention of this blog is to help, if only momentarily, set aside despair. Recent events in the Disunited Kingdom leave little room for hope, laughter or any of the positives that normally make life so enjoyable. The Theatre of the Absurd has taken over but, unfortunately, only its tragic aspects have prevailed. We have been comprehensively shafted by feckless, inadequate ‘leaders’ whose influence has been extended far beyond their capabilities. From the security of their moneyed interiors, their perceptions of reality were and are shaped by preconceptions of social ‘truths’ which called for the intervention of people like themselves to protect our colonial legacy and perpetuate our insularity. They wanted to ensure that scenes such as that which follows would be eliminated from our lives, along with jobs, welfare, social security and a national health service.

DENISE:         Dad, this is Grdsyyx.
DAD:               Grdsyyx? What sort of a name’s that?
DENISE:         He’s from Kryxovia.
DAD:               Where’s that?
DENISE:         Fourth quadrant of the Chronosk Y galaxy, I think.
                        Not sure really. Does it matter?
DAD:               Course it bloody matters.
GRDSYYX:     Don’t swear.
DAD:               Eh?
GRDSYYX:     It shows a lack of respect for visitors, as does your
                        obesity and the appalling state of your apartment.
DAD:               Cheeky bugger. I …
GRDSYYX:     You seem to make few concessions to normal social
                        intercourse – or even basic hygiene.
DAD:               Bugger off.
DENISE:         Dad! Grdsyyx’s father’s an archbishop.
DAD:               So?
DENISE:          And I want to marry him.
DAD:               What?
DENISE:         Yes, we’re in love.
DAD:               You can’t be.
DENISE:         Why not?
DAD:               He’s foreign.
GRDSYYX:     Love transcends that. In Kryxovia, it’s the ultimate transaction.
DAD:               Well, in the UK, it’s the kiss of death.
GRDSYYX:     Not according to Denise.
DAD:               Oh?
GRDSYYX:     She’s attracted to me.
DAD:               How d’you know that?
GRDSYYX:     She said so. Her actual words to my sister were, ‘Christ,
                        Mjjjslt. Grdsyyx’s the best screw I’ve had in a month.’
DAD:               Is this true, Denise?
DENISE:         Nearly.
DAD:               Nearly?
DENISE:         Yes. There was that stormtrooper from Gdansk Andromeda.
                        He was amazing.
DAD:               You’re just like your mother. So it’s true. Well, you can
                        forget it.This is a totally unnatural attraction.
DENISE:          No it's not.
DAD:               Course it is. 
DENISE:          Aww, Dad. Why?
DAD:               Why? He tells me I’m fat, unhygienic and I live in a pigsty.
DENISE:         Well, it’s true.
DAD;               Maybe, but I don’t want grandchildren with names like
                       Scrabble boards.
GRDSYYX:     Is that your final word?
DAD:               Absolutely.
GRDSYYX:     Then I shall go and fetch Mjjjslt from the shuttle craft.
DAD:               Why? What's she got to do with anything?
GRDSYYX:     It's a custom on my planet. When two people speak
                       of marriage and love, the very words they use automatically
                       unite their families and the logical goal of such unity is the
                       cross-cultural glory that is insemination.
DAD:               What?
DENISE:         He’s right, Dad. Mjjjslt told me. If the man doesn’t get to
                        inseminate the woman, a female member of his family has
                        to be inseminated by a male member of the woman’s family.
                        And you’re my only male relative.
DAD:               I’m not shagging some Kryxovian.
GRDSYYX:     You must. But you do have a choice.
DAD:               Eh?
GRDSYYX:     It can be whichever of my family’s females you prefer.
                       There’s Mjjjslt or my grandmother.
DAD:              I’m not shagging either of them. I’m allergic to foreigners.
GRDSYYX:    Then I have no choice. If a person stands in the way of
                       others being conjoined in marriage and rejects the insemination
                       imperative, he must not be allowed to procreate.
                       It would corrupt the species. He must be castrated
                       with a 42 millimetre pipe-cutter.
DAD:              What?
DENISE:        He means it, Dad. His brother did it to Mr Farr-Ridge in
                      Chelmsford. But it doesn’t hurt, they use an anaesthetic.
DAD:              Bloody hell.
DENISE:        Surely screwing his sister is better than that. Come over
                      here to the window. There she is look, getting out of the shuttle.
DAD:             Bloody hell. Is that Mjjjslt?
DAD:             OK. Get your pipe cutter. And forget the anaesthetic. I’m British.

(Some names have been changed to preserve anonymity.)


Jan Needle said…
Been out on a boat all day Bill. Can I read it tomorrow? Time for us folikies to hit the pub, whistles in hand....
Kathleen Jones said…
Gave me the best laugh I've had in weeks Bill! B**$% brilliant!
Umberto Tosi said…
Please send Mjjjslt stateside when she's done with the DK. Maybe she can help us with our nativist problem as well. Funny thing, here, is that these nativists aren't even real natives. Anyway, ask her to bring that pipe-cutter. Thanks. (Enjoyed your exo-planetary trip! Thank you!)
Bill Kirton said…
Thanks all. My apologies about the confusion over its posting. No idea what happened (which is par for the course).
Jan Needle said…
Read it now, Bill. Lovely, thanks. By some weird coincidence, I'm four chapters in to my first ever scifi (i think) book, which is possibly on a par with your post, bonkers-wize. No sex in mine, though. Or bolt-cutters.

glitter noir said…
Perfect introduction to your comic fiction, Bill. For anyone out there who hasn't read The Sparrow Conundum, deprive yourself no longer.
Bill Kirton said…
Do find a p-lace for bolt-cutters, Jan. They're perfect for the job.

Reb, you're very kind. Consider yourself the recipient of a bottle of the finest (virtual) champagne of your choice.

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