A Grand Opera
Culture: Either one is in the know, or one ain’t.
Huzzah! ‘Twas opening night and the Royal Opulent Hall was packed. Intellectuals sat in plush chairs sipping on the tears of rare geese from sapphire chalices. Those educated in the cultured arts studied their programs, printed awkwardly in five different languages.
They nodded their heads, they stroked their ornamental fingers onto their gelled-moustaches, possibly exchanging insights into the finer intricacies of kumquat juice in relation to the downright outrageous inadequacies the Kesatuan Melayu had on that fine drink. In short, each were very much excited. Despite the looks on their faces.
Meanwhile, a large crate fell onto the actors back-stage flattening them like plasticine. A group of Sloths crawled slowly out of the container and curiously wondered onto the lit stage looking for coconuts and soil to roll around in. The crowd clapped conservatively as the Sloths stood upright, still looking for their stuff.
One Sloth wandered off the stage and fell into the orchestra pit, flattening a tuba player whilst making an unbearable noise.
“Bravo!” one gentleman screamed, clapping as if his entire arm physiology contained no muscle nor any bone-ligament connection at all.
“Do sit down,” his partner said, prodding him with a cane, “you’re embarrassing yourself,” he continued, hitting the bronze tiger-head hard on the floor.
“But darling, these Filipino performers are so marvellous. Look at their quaint body hair. I didn’t realize people could be so small!”
The Sloths bumped into each other and let out lazy growls as they tried to avoid one another. A much larger Sloth then tumbled onto an uptight string quartet, squishing them instantly. The Sloth thudded on the floor and managed its way back up using its claws to grip onto the cello strings. The noise was horrendous.
The crowd clapped respectfully. One person seemed to wolf-whistle.
“Oh, sit down, Percy! You may be blow-darted for such show. Just clap like you are from actual civilization, my darling,” one older lady said as her husband sat down and held her toad-like hand with the same caution you’d give to a baby who had just vomited.
The Sloths slid and fell over. Their foot claws were not used to such a buffed and slippery floor. They let out groans as their heads thudded hard onto the deck and their genitals squeaked slightly behind them, clung gently onto the marble.
The audience was delighted. Never had any seen such foreign customs in their travels, nor in any of the illustrations in any book sat in their clove-scented libraries.
“This must be the bit where they sword fight with their toenails,” one lady said, “I am sure I’ve read about it in Hindebratt’s 18th edition of his famous Global Bazaar. To the death!”
She and her husband then watched as a tiny Sloth mounted his larger partner and thus copulated to a godawful pre-orgasmic noise. The couple slipped off their shoes and embraced toes under their stockings.
A chain of younger Sloths, dazzled by the lights, simply walked straight off the edge of the stage, flattening the remaining orchestra members one by one like lemmings, each impact making its own distinct noise and its own individual groan, to the delight of the audience.
“Oh yes, oh yes!” another young man screamed, showing his appreciation by tapping his hand vigorously on the arm rest of his chair. “Simply marvellous, just, stunning!” he whined.
“Shhhhh…” the entire row behind him said, eating truffle crackers with a fine ignorantly-sourced meat spread.
“Sorry, lords, what else can one do if the heart is set a-fluttering as so? I offer my sincerest apologies.”
The row behind nodded courteously and lifted their right legs over their left knees, kissing rosaries as a penance, emblems of Queen Liz replacing the usual figurehead.
“I do thank you, sirs and ma’ams,” the young man politely replied.
Meanwhile, one of the Sloths had made her way to the top of the scaffolding and was trying to bite at a light bulb, peeing from the heights as soon as the heat met her tongue. The other Sloths were coated in the fine secretion.
“Oh, this is fucking excellent,” one very well-dressed chap cried, producing a handkerchief from his diamante waistcoat before wiping his eye.
His entourage laughed and also started using incredibly profane and post-colonially racist language, very careful not to tip that delicate balance and respectful enough as to be complementary toward their entertainers, unlike them brutes who would not appreciate such culture.
The Sloth on the top of the scaffolding looked on, puzzled as she finally bit into the bulb, instantly frazzling her skull and killing every open light within the auditorium. The intellectuals stood up and clapped, some whistled, and some even nodded in appreciation.
‘Twas indeed a good night. One with enough peculiarity for them to discuss in years to come.
Quick note: Danny Obillo is of Filipino heritage.
