Prof. Mouldy T Jackson

Professor Mouldy T. Jackson, aged 89, passed away recently. The exact date is not known,
but the coroner believes it was somewhere between 18th and 25th May, 2016.

A professor of Anthropology, Jackson specialized in Genealogy. His students remember him as being a finicky old man on this constant search for ‘purity in an impure world’. He strove for perfection in everything he did, failing miserably more often than not, to do so.

His neighbors describe him as crass, feeble and obnoxious. But they were also very sympathetic to his cause. “Mouldy T. tried really hard to be posh,” said his next-door neighbor. “He thought himself pure, incorruptible, even divine.” He was always dressed in three-piece suits which, as many recall, seemed as old as he was.

An investigative journalist and the professor’s long-time neighbor–who incidentally discovered his body after noticing that he hadn’t seen Mouldy T. in quite some time–took it upon himself to find out more about the professor’s last moments.  

What he found was quite glum. The professor, after retirement and with time on his hands, set out to explore his own roots. On this catastrophic journey, he learned the awful truth about himself. He was not, as previously assumed by no one but himself, highborn. He was a commoner. He wasn’t even from Darjeeling. Nor Assam. But what hurt his ego most was the fact that he was a product of impure lineage. He was a half and half. He was adulterated. Tainted. Unrefined.

His whole life was a big fat lie. He realized that he could face the world no more. He shut himself in his dingy little apartment, vowing never to set foot outside again. He wanted to wither into oblivion. The journalist concludes that for decades Prof. Mouldy T. thought he practiced what he preached, only to discover at the fag end of his sad life that he did no such thing.

Professor Mouldy T. Jackson’s memorial service will be held on 1st June, 2016 at 9 am.  

Note from the editor: Mouldy T. Jackson was a product of supermarket teas. Drink these teas at your own discretion.



Vince, the friendly face and popular bartender at The Dugout, left us unexpectedly at 2:30 am, on 25th May, 2016.

Vincent Herbaty Jones, aka Vince, was loved by all who knew him. He was the lifeline of The Dugout. People would come by this particular pub at the edge of town not only to grab a stiff one, but to pour their hearts out and be comforted by Vince. His hair-strewn arms carved out of pure muscle were solid pillars to any damsel in distress, man in need of ego, or anyone who wanted to soar as they slumped lower and lower on their barstools. If there was an ugly bar fight brewing, he would step right in to appease the brawlers. He would give sound advice, or so people thought; since most forgot by morning. He was the go-to man, when the world was unclear, or at least very blurry.

But who really was this man? The police revealed in their report that they searched his apartment and came across his memoirs. Who would have thought Vince the butch barkeep had a penchant for penning down his feelings? Well he did! And his thoughts were quite disturbing, as the police discovered. He compared himself to a sponge. An over-soaked, faded, jaded sponge. He confessed to perfecting the art of hanging-onto-every-word expressions when his customers belched their problems to him. In reality, he was calculating his tip forecast for the night. Both required immense concentration, as he put it.

But guilt had eaten him inside out. People valued his thought-provoking pep talks. Only Vince knew, if his diary is anything to go by, that he just offered a few grunts and nods. His customers usually answered their own questions, completely oblivious to the fact that essentially, they were talking to themselves. He had had enough. No more fake people. No more sissies asking him why they hadn’t found their one true love. “Go to the gym, you fat cow!” he wanted to scream. His final entry was,”If I have to hear one more whining, self-involved cretin, I’m gonna shoot my brains out!”

Sadly, he was true to his words. And the police had to be called.

For those of you who have any last words for Vincent Herbaty Jones, even after discovering friendly Vince wasn’t so friendly after all, you may do so at his funeral service on Sunday, 9 am, 29th May.

Note from the editor: Vincent Herbaty Jones was a product of herbal tisanes. Drink them at your own discretion.          



Bette Bagly passed away quietly on the eve of 20th May, 2016. She was 75 years old. Many people, including me, are quite frankly, relieved. Not because she was in a great deal of pain before her passing moments. But because everyone else, was. She was mind-numbingly boring. She breathed to complain. She was so very resentful of everything around her.  

It was 1975. I had just returned from the war. I was lonely, in need of attention. That’s when I met Bette. A moment I regretted ever since. Under that very, very attractive exterior was this titanic bag of evil. Poison. Toxic waste. She was bitter and dry. But she was oh-so-beautiful. “To hell with principles”, I thought to myself as I soaked myself in her misery. But as the days wore on, I realized she had horrible taste. In fact, she had no taste at all and lacked personality. Conversations were hard to come by, since she had no real opinion about anything. But every time I thought I managed to claw my way out, her tentacles found their way back.

We’ve been married 38 years since. The old crow even refused to adopt my surname.  

Mrs. Bette Bagly’s funeral service will be held on Monday, 30th May at 9 am. For those of you who have any last words, and I can imagine what they may be, please feel welcome to come by Charleston Parish.    

Note from the editor: Bette Bagly was a product of tea bags. Drink these teas at your own discretion.

Illustrations by Tasneem Amiruddin

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