Theophilus Mog – Chapter Six

It is quite a well-known fact that men hunt in packs, regardless of what the prey is – women, other men, chocolate or football boots. This intensely social nature of the male gender of humanity has often been contrasted with the repression of emotion concept. This was until someone said that only because of one did the other actually work at all. The person who pointed this out was a man called Theodore. Theodore Bog. He was born on 16th October 1860, six years later (to the day) than the great, Mr. Oscar Wilde.

Theodore shared many qualities with Him of The Great Wit. They both spurned sport on favour of more artistic pursuit despite big men, studied at the same college, both had older brothers, but the biggest similarity of all was that both of them were big fans of Oscar Wilde.

But when Theo had first come to Trinity College, he was as ignorant as a whale that finds itself with a bowl of petunias in the middle of space, falling towards a planet at high speeds. Yes, he was quite ignorant. It was actually at Oxford that he met many of his friends of later life as his childhood had been a sore disappointment socially. That was the downside of being good at the Classics. He spent many hours pondering the truth behind Beauty and the Art with these new friends. They would lie about the great rooms, waist coats off, wreathed in smoke, the piano played in the background and dissect Pater and Ruskin. Until, that is, the news began to spread about Oscar Wilde and his antics in London. Soon he was the only thing they could talk about. Every day the paper would carry a new epigram, spewed from the mouth of that greek god with a flippancy and nonchalance that captured their minds more than anyone else had ever done.

Theodore especially. Theodore would occasionally take a pen and write out his witticisms on various parts of his body and show them off during the time set aside for sport. He longed to travel to London and meet him personally but the opportunity never arose and Theodore was slightly intimidated. What could he possibly say to Oscar Wilde if he met him? What words could he utter from his own throat that would impress this genius? He spent hours locked in furious agony, simply thinking of how he would introduce himself if he ever met Oscar Wilde.

Curiously enough, as if often happening in real life, the mountain came to Mohammed, which isn’t probably the most suitable phrase to use as it is believed Mr. Wilde liked to be at the bottom. Theodore did not know this. Yet. One day, news arrived that Oscar Wilde was in Oxford again, he was with a student by the name of Lord Alfred Douglas and being entertained by a group of fellow students. Theodore couldn’t believe his ears. He raced away to find out if this was true. He spied Bosie, as that was Lord Alfred Douglas’ nickname and begged him to be allowed to meet Mr. Wilde.

Bosie said no.

Theodore punched him in the nose, kicked him in the nuts and threw him onto the ground before tearing away. Breathless, he finally came to where Oscar Wilde was. On the step of his carriage, just about to leave. Theodore frantically started pulling off his clothes. This managed to get Wilde’s attention. After his shirt off, Wilde could plainly see, as was Theo’s intention, some of his popular eruditions scrawled proudly on naked flesh. Flattered, he got down from the carriage where he was met by a bright red Theodore who could not remember his carefully constructed introduction and simply handed him a pen and pointed towards his right pectoral muscle. Wilde graciously acceded. Then, with a pat on the cheek, got into his carriage rode away.

Theodore Bog never washed again.

This could be why he died of disease a few years later.

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Theophilus Mog – Chapter Five

We’re in for a treat today. One of Theophilus Mog’s lives as a woman. A very interesting woman. Read on, minions!

Tina’s mother always thought Tina would grow into a weirdo when she got older. So did Tina’s best friend Mina. But surprisingly, when she hit the ripe age of 35, she was quite normal.

Except for one thing.

The Santa Claus fetish.

It had started when she was sixteen and Linus had put on the little red hat. She had been so turned on. She didn’t understand why and she never asked too hard either. She didn’t really want an answer. She was actually quite proud of the fact that she had something special about her, something unique. Even if it was a fetish. Linus definitely didn’t have a problem. No one had actually ever complained. Though one of them had majored in psychology and kept trying to say something about Freud, she made sure he never finished the sentence. It was easy enough.

She kept count. So far, she had slept with 386 Santa Clauses. She had her own website with a counter. She never mentioned her name or her address though. She didn’t want dressing up as Santa just to get with her. That wasn’t the same. Last Christmas had been one of the wildest for a long time. She had pulled men into alleys, pushed them into closets, crashed private parties, everything. She hadn’t felt that alive in a long time. This year had been her first time with a woman as well. Christmas was definitely her favourite time of year.

She had come to accept the fact that she’d never get married or have kids. Unless she could find a man who had no problems with her running off every time she saw a fat man in a red suit on a street corner asking for some change. It was unlikely, maybe he was out there. It was possible that there was a man who got off on a woman getting off on Santa. Possible, but unlikely. She didn’t mind. You couldn’t have everything. Being special was enough.

She logged onto her website that morning and started at the counter. 386. It was a beautiful number. It seemed to have so much balance and poise about it. There was a new comment on one of her blogs. She didn’t have time to read it though. She was late for work. Grabbing her coat and the coffee that was kept waiting in a paper cup, she dashed out the door. Getting to work, she logged onto her website again and read the new comment. It was from an apparently very excitable woman called Pauline who clearly loved her exclamations. She had provided a link to her blog which said that she had a Santa fetish too and had slept with 499 Santas.

Mark and Timmy were making out on the terrace so they actually saw Tina jump off. Most everyone else including Pauline only read about it in the paper.

Theophilus Mog – Chapter Three

This story starts in a manger in Jerusalem. No, no, it doesn’t. That was for the humour quotient that my agent insists on.

This story really starts in a … hospital.

There is white, lots of it. Clearly, someone important decided that the most important thing a hospital should say is, ‘If you die in here, it’ll be from what you came in with.’ An excellent intention without a doubt. There were nurses in white with prim, starched uniforms and doctors in long overcoats exuding confidence and capability. Some of them had glasses and wide smiles, others had wrinkles on their foreheads and embarrassingly placed rashes, but only one had the destruction of the entire world on his mind. (But as he wasn’t Theophilus Mog, we’re not going to talk about him.) One of the doctors with the wide smiles entered a room to check up on a newly turned mother. The lady was sitting on her bed and staring in sheer relief at the bundle of joy and flesh that sat quietly in her arms.
“He seems so solemn.”
“All babies do, Ms. Winkleman. I’m sure you too were a very solemn baby. Er, where is Mr. Winkleman?”
“He’s just gone to eat something. I don’t think he’s eaten a single thing for 24 hours. Poor dear.”
“Ah, well, I’ll just go find him then.”
“Is there anything wrong, doctor?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I just need to have a word with him about the bill.”
The doctor smiled again and left the room but as soon as he left, his expression changed. The smile was replaced by a grim set of the jaw. He didn’t like delivering lying or bad news but it was nowadays as much a part of the job as signings things. And there was a LOT of signing. He found the father, Mr. Winkleman, sitting by himself in the cafeteria, gorging on a burger and some fries. Looked like chicken, might’ve been beef though.
“Excuse me, Mr. Winkleman?”
“Oh, hell, Doctor! Excuse me for a second.” And he turned away from the doctors view and stuffed the rest of the burger into his mouth. “Phleash schit dschown.”
“I’m afraid I have bad news.”
The man’s expression fell and he shoved his hand into his mouth and pulled out the ball of saliva covered burger that had been there. It looked as disgusting as it sounds. “What is it? Is something wrong with Philip?”
“Yes, there is. I don’t know how to say this. There is no easy way. But your son seems to have an abnormal heart beat. It’s incredibly strange and we don’t know how or why. All we know is it shouldn’t be like that.”
“What’s so abnormal about it? He seems fine.”
“The heart beats a regular beat, Mr. Winkleman. Your son’s heart is beating to the tune of the Village People’s YMCA.”
“What?! Thats crazy.”
“We know.”
And that was the beginning. It was a major surprise to everyone that Philip did not explode or simply die. Instead, he grow up normally and in a completely healthy manner. Except for one detail. He could never dance. Most children have an intrinsic understanding of music and dance when they’re young. They usually lose this as they grow up and start buying Teen Pop records. This phenomenon has not been fully explored bu the general consensus is that it’s about peer pressure and people generally suck more as they grow older. Those are almost the exact words of scientist, philosopher and general genius, L. Gomot who met Philip when he was enrolled as one of the guinea pigs for his study. Gomot soon developed a fascination for Philip which prompted his mother to call the police. This episode scarred Philip to such an extent that he could never even look at French fries again.

As he grew older, Philip came to realize he was special. Not in the way everyone was special. But special in a special sort of way. He never ever lost one sock. He didn’t really know to do with the skill though because he was young and stupid and he didn’t know he was young and stupid because he was young and stupid and he didn’t know that because… oh, you get it.

Philip learned business studies. College was a hideous disaster as almost everyone there liked to dance. Those who didn’t liked other things. Philip didn’t like any of the things they liked. He was so relieved when he got out that he became an investment banker. He didn’t mind his job and no one there ever asked him why he hummed the same song under his breath over and over again. And thus time passed quite cheerlessly and uneventfully until one day, Philip noticed a strange pattern in the stock market index. Every time he hummed the chorus line, the stocks would go up, just a little bit. Even as dull he was, he realized what he was onto. A gold mine! Humming the chorus repeatedly, he made a killing. He took the money and quit his job and decided to travel the world, find love and generally live a little. His car got hit by a truck on the way to the airport. He died instantly.

Theophilus Mog – Chapter Two

There are mountains and then there are mountains. The same way that there’s snow and there’s goddamn blizzards. Imagine a goddamn blizzard on a goddamn mountain and you’re halfway to imagining the scene at hand. Now picture a group of men, huddling together for warmth. They’re wrapped in layers and layers of professional looking mountain wear. They’re camped against the side of a large rock, trying to hide from the freeze. These men are on a mission.

A little way away, in a cave, another group lay huddled. But these people were very different. They looked rougher and coarser and wore clothes that you couldn’t buy at any store. They were dressed in the skins of wild animals. Many wild animals. There were 4 of them. Two men, a woman and a young girl. They were the last remaining survivors of a tribe of people who had lived in these forsaken mountains for hundreds of years. They had never ventured down from there. Blizzards were a part of their lives. They didn’t know any better. Around them the world had developed. Vaccines were invented and machines that could fly and pokemon cards, but these people knew not of such advancements. They knew the snow, the rain, the earth and the trees. And they knew the Yeti.

Yes, the Yeti. Well, not just one Yeti. That would be ridiculous. Yetis. The herd of Yeti that sometimes lived on the mountain.

The mission men didn’t know about the mountain men, and they wanted to know about the Yeti. The mountain men knew about the Yeti, but didn’t know about the mission men. The Yeti’s knew about both groups and thought they were both pretty stupid.

The storm passed soon enough and each of the three groups started to move again. The first confrontation happened between the mountain men and the Yeti. They bowed their heads and kept a safe distance. The next confrontation happened between the Yeti and a an alien from outer space. The third encounter happened between the mountain men and the mission men. Both were so surprised to see the other group that at first they didn’t do much. Then, finally, tentative greetings were stretched out. This discovery of an indigenous people that had lived without technology for so long made the mission men quite famous. The mountain men became celebrities. Like Shamu. But they were allowed their own bathroom so that was ok.

Theophilus Mog died on the alien dissection table in space.

(Just to tie up the loose end, the alien’s report was favourable. The invasion would be swift.)

Theophilus Mog – Chapter One

One of the biggest revelations that came in my research into the complex existence of Theophilus Mog was the startling fact that he was the second ever living organism on the planet. A tiny single cell of life. Alone in this vast wonderful world. Then he died.

(This would make an excellent start to the movie. The camera pans slowly around a bleak and deserted wasteland. Nothing moves. Then suddenly it focuses on something. We can’t see it. It zooms in closer and closer and closer until we can make out the contours of the spectacular Theophilus Mog. Producers, call me.)

The Many Lives of Theophilus Mog

Introduction

Theophilis Mog is not a man. He is at some points in time and space a man but he is also many other things. He is as much a man as he is a cactus. I repeat, he is not a man. I cannot stress on this enough as I’m acutely aware of humanity’s misconstrued idea that the world was meant for them. They’re not even the most advanced species on their own planet. That would be cockroaches. (Theophilus Mog was a cockroach once. There isn’t really much that he hasn’t been.) So, yes, Theophilus Mog is not a man.

But then the question arises, What is Theophilus Mog? Theophilus Mog is a being. A very special being. Theophilus Mog is the most reincarnated being in the history of the world. (The Universe is much too big to make statements about. I personally have not even seen half of it and would never even dream about saying anything concrete about it’s nature.) Theophilus Mog is a serial reincarnater. But he brings to each of his lives, such a vivid and passionate life force that one cannot help but be amazed. You might’ve easily walked past him on the street or bought a bagel from him or he would’ve been the wheat plant that made the bagel or the lice on your head and you would never have known it. And that is what makes him such a suitable subject for an autobiography. If you had known, you wouldn’t buy the book, would you? Oh wait, did I say autobiography? I meant biography.

Writing the biography of Thoephilus Mog has a few obvious drawbacks. The main being the problem of choice. With so many startling and astounding lives to pick from, how does one go about choosing which to include and which not to? And the answer is: Randomly. I do not jest. It makes as much sense to me to let the Goddess of Chance (haven’t met her) to decide the contents of this magnum opus, for after all, it was she that decided what lives he would lead in the first place.

And this leads us to another issue, Theophilus while not being a Man, will be referred to with the male pronoun, not because of some deep-rooted chauvinism I possess, but simply because he has more often been male. By exactly one life. His current one. I’m sorry I don’t make the rules. Take it up with the universe, baby. Some of the lives chronicled here will most surely be of the feminine persuasion, and he will be referred to as she during those stories. If in any of these stories, he is neither masculine or feminine or both, the appropriate pronoun will be used. Gender is really just another detail to be honest. I don’t know why I have to waste so many words explaining myself to you. Go away. Get another language if you want equality. Bah.

Yes, where were we? Yes, my magnum opus, this book. I will let Chance decide the stories set in this tome and if you have any complaints or queries, this is her number: any number. Humour isn’t one of my many skills. But writing is. While I didn’t pick the stories, I did write every single word set down henceforth. It was no mean feat to gather details about the lives of Theophilus Mog that happened much before or after my time. That is why I made most of them up. Like all great biographies, I will not let reality get in the way of character progression and a wonderful story that has huge movie potential.

But let us not waste any more time in this charming prelude. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, The Many Lives of Theophilus Mog!