Attention Guaranteed

They did that again. They pronounced my spelling wrong, along with just a varying body scent index number, forgot even to mention from which planet I sprouted from, sigh, it always makes me dejected.
Is it my fault that I don’t have a universally attractive body or for that matter universally super ugly body to help me get noticed? I am not totally dumb-ass nor do I possess superior intelligence, hell I don’t happen to be extraterrestrial enough for any planet to classify me as proper alien.
I tried everything. I tried to be cute, I tried to be rude, I tried to be brash, delinquent good-for-nothing, smart ass, geeky, cheeky, adventurous, irritating, poor-me, noble, genial, wicked, hell, I tried everything.
I tried beauty creams, mind-enhancers, anti-sweat deodorants (I have 7 underarms, so naturally I sweat a lot), I even painted my face like those Earthians do- no it didn’t get me attention either way. The only person who ever gave me attention was my mother and she did it for full 2 Grabla years and only due to her genetic makeup, after that she left me to fend for myself. I am not such a cry baby nor am I hot macho.
Alone, uncared for, not dead.
Enough.
Today smells different. Of course it does, I farted just now. But along with that pungent smell is mixed the fresh breeze of optimism, though optimism may be only 1000 ppm. I know what I need to do to get me attention.
I am ready for the occasion.
The occasion in which Konti Krampla, the Padishah of the Universe, Apple of the eye of the Intergalactical God and the most eligible bachelor on any goddamn planet ( he has 5678745464 official wives handpicked from all the habitable planets across the universe, uncountable concubines and gazillions of rum headed, shot tempered children) is going to make his presence felt.
Though of course, presently I won’t like to switch places with him.
Here am I, in the Qwerty Square, amongst the first few early arrivers. What if my heart is beating one beat faster, that doesn’t mean that I have to be afraid. I ain’t. I am completely relaxed.
I felt the bag again. It was moist. Of course it would be. It was a boot completely inundated by Goriko shit. You might be asking why I choose Goriko. The fact is, I didn’t. Google chose Goriko for me. I asked for which animal shitted the worst. Goriko- came the answer. Hell, it was on the list of endangered species.
I didn’t quite understand. Goriko was protected under the wild-life protection act because it was the only animal in this whole world whose only attractive attribute was that it shitted the most!! Who was that stupid who considered that having the worst digestive system in the whole bloody universe was an attractive enough attribute to protect the animal at the cost of crores of rupees. Well anyway, who gives a shit?
A friend of mine was hot in these national parks. He was a lab assistant whose job was to check animal shit and gauge it’s health and welfare. Arranging Goriko shit was an easy job. Besides that, I have also glued the bottom surface of the sandal with hand-picked snot, mine of course.
The Square was completely flooded with security men. Some talking importantly in their walkie-talkie, other sizing up the crowd, a third constantly fidgeting with his shoe-laces, and as he bends down (again and again) to tie it, he gazes surreptitiously in the left and right directions, many of them pushing around the crowd behind as they cleared off the path for the arrival of the most important Horse-Shit in the universe right now. There were fighter planes high up in the sky. The surrounding buildings were completely filled with security forces, their snipers at ready.
The crowd was getting bigger and bigger. The sounds of flutes and drums could be heard. Here was a street vendor who was trying to convince me that a dead Kolozo, when boiled and later fried is extremely sumptuous to eat, he is not at all ready to believe that I am vegetarian.
Time and again, people often gaze expectantly towards right, from where his Goranschi will appear. The Men in the crowd including me are more interested in seeing which hot flame would arrive with him, rather than hearing the old bore who called himself the disciple of the Universal God, drone on his usual boring speech.
Protesters were shouting at the top of their voices, something about their right to wear a specific scarf being denied. They were using heavy words as ‘FREEDOM’, ‘JUSTICE’ & ‘REVOLUTION’. I was staying away from them. As long as the entire security force’s attention is concentrated on them, I am not concerned.
Well, here came the Goranschi- the longest and the most opulent looking car- oozing with all the modern gadgetry and style. Swarming around it- like insects were His Royal Majesty’s Loyal Body guards. They had that license to kill.
Here he comes out, waving all his 13 hands in a encompassing all gesture. Here that stupid smile- those pointing of fingers- crowd going frenzy, somewhat berserk divided in its opponents and proponents.
I make my way through the crowd. I push a kid aside, stand on someone else’s foot, swat out another and make my way at the front. A rally was about to begin soon.
Of course the reporters get the biggest pie. I don’t even leave them, as I made my way.
I silently climb up the altar- the crowd is slowly reacting towards this untoward gesture- reporters are thinking about a prospective scoop, bodyguards are the slowest to react- the President, of all the people, didn’t notice at all.
I quickly take out the shoe (it indeed was smelly), hold it up high in the air, aim it directly at his face and shoot. It was one of those slow motion scenes. The Royal shit-hole slowly turns around- finally realizing that he wasn’t holding all the attention- someone else had entered the picture, the shoe revolving around in the vertical circle- the shit spreading around through the centrifugal force- and hitting with a thwack- straight at the centre of his face. The facial skin moves backwards in ripples through the impact, the shit trying to penetrate its way through the skin. I shout at the top of my voice “You are a liar.”
Hands grab me, pushing me away from the scene. I shout again and again, calling him a big fat liar- the crowd is wild- all I see is the flashing cameras around.
I have achieved my objective. I have become famous. Throughout the history of mankind this has been the most effective and reliable manner of gaining attention. I did. I am no longer concerned about future consequences. I am famous now. Why should I give a shit?