Journal Entries
Monotony
Posted Jul 6, 2003
Oh how the days ebb away, rolling from one to the next, all remarkably similar and tedious. Its got to the point now that I’ve got to ask somebody what day it is when I wake up, so that I know whether to limp into work or stay home and listen to the children fighting.
Had a school reunion a couple of weeks ago, which broke the monotony. I went along looking to confront the school bully, now that I’m bigger and stronger than I was. Trouble was, so was he. I found that he was able to lift the front end of a car off the ground, my car actually, and still have a hand free to stick chewing gum in my hair and give me a wedgie.
Turns out he’s in a dead-end job now though, which makes me feel a little bit better. Yup, once a doctor, always a doctor; he’ll be one until the day he dies now, and it serves him right. This knowledge has galvanised my feelings of deep suspicion towards the medical profession once again though.
There are things I don’t understand, for example, every time I visit my doctor lately, it appears he wants to probe my rectum with his finger; go in with a nasty cough = finger up the arse. Flu? Finger up the arse. Blinding headache? Finger up the arse. Is this some kind of cure-all treatment left over from medieval times? Maybe it’s a shortcut of some type; “Grind ye forthwith yon wing of bat and mix with toadfartjism, leg of slug and sparrow dropping, and smear therewith potion upon thine manhood at the time yon sun doth drop frometh yon edge of world, sing thee thrice a lullaby, bark of dog and yelp of fox, and shove a finger, up yon dirtbox.” That’s it I reckon; they’ve done away with the rest of it and just kept the last bit.
Hmmm? Or could it be that a race of humanoids has infiltrated the population of the country, replicating ordinary citizens and gradually taking over the world? And the doctors are our first line of defence, trying to reach the ‘off’ button?
Could just be that my doctor’s a pervert though, I suppose….
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Latest reply: Jul 6, 2003
Why?
Posted Jan 27, 2003
Why does man let woman drive? Apart from those times when man's had a few too many bevvies to chance driving himself?
I mean, I go out and spend eighteen grand on a Jeep Cherokee and I try to keep it nice, honest I do. But when I'm out at work, the wife uses it to ferry children around, and every time I come to use it, it's dirty, the driver's seat is set so far forward that you can't turn the steering wheel, your nose is pressed against the windscreen and you have to reach backwards to change gear. Every conceivable void is stuffed with sweet wrappers and snot laiden tissues, Karen pigging Carpenter is whining on the stereo, and there's no feckin petrol in the fuel tank.
Add to this the fact that in the last two years she's ripped the front wing and light cluster off by hooking a post with the bullbar, in Tesco's car park. There's an unexplained gouge in the rear offside wheel arch, and a dent in the driver's door. She has written off a bus shelter by reversing into it at speed, and for an encore this weekend, she caught the gate hinge in our driveway against the nearside passenger door and ripped a gash in the side, four feet long, and through both doors.
And what has she got to say on the subject? "I wasn't going all that fast." Oh well, that's all right then, eh? As long as you were being careful whilst you opened the side of the car up like a tin of beans with the feckin gate post. I suppose I should be grateful that I at least had the house between me and her when she was so carefully manoeuvring into our driveway.
At least the body shop with give the damn thing a wash, I suppose.
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Latest reply: Jan 27, 2003
Ain't life grand!
Posted Jan 16, 2003
So OK, we’re all into our third week of the New Year. All those resolutions you made are starting to seem like unnecessary inconveniences to your already insufferable life.
The credit card bills from your misguided festive generosity are hanging over your head like a Sword of Damocles, and the threadbare twine that supports it from your water stained ceiling is being nibbled at by a ghostly mouse.
Castor beans are simmering on the stove of those nice foreign people across the road from you; the ones whose accommodation, electricity, gas and food bills are being paid from your hard earned tax money. You don’t mind though, they’ve fled oppression in their home country, and they’re really getting the hang of flying those crop dusters, so they’re bound to find gainful employment sooner or later. They’re thoughtful enough to share their meagre resources with you too; bringing round funny tasting cakes for you to try, and they work on improving their English by asking you directions to the nearest nuclear power station.
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Latest reply: Jan 16, 2003
Boxing Day
Posted Dec 29, 2002
Boxing Day is the day after Christmas Day in the civilised world; if you’re American or legally insane you might not know this. (no need to thank me for the clarification.)
Anyway, after the shenanigans of the day before, it was relatively quiet; the infernal house mouse was a step closer to his final resting place (the landfill site at Odcombe)(nothing to do with Seamus’ hairdo) the rats were gambolling merrily in the garden and the feckin mole was well into the final phase of his dastardly plan to turn my lawn into a quagmire. The wife’s washing was hanging on the line being used for target practice by every bird in the neighbourhood, and the dog was looking sheepish…it’s his winter coat. The kids were fighting in the garden, no doubt over who was going to roll in the bird, rat, badger, fox, cat and dog sh*t, first, and I was doing my best to alienate any neighbours who still speak to us by hammering in the roofspace all day. My wife was on the phone gabbing to one of her haughty friends, who suggested buying a dog to cure our garden woes. I came to the conclusion that I hate her friend even more than previously thought, and the dog; so much for the season of good will…but then it’s only supposed to be to all ‘men’ anyway, isn’t it? And doesn’t it end on Christmas Day?
Whatever…
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Latest reply: Dec 29, 2002
Christmas Eve
Posted Dec 26, 2002
Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…because the b*****d thing was led in a rat trap with a mouth full of chocolate and its back broken by a more powerful spring than the ones in the “Little Nipper” traps!
So he’s eaten his way into his last packet of Cornflakes, and taken his last dump in the cutlery draw, shuffled off his mortal coil; no doubt to return reincarnated as a hit man, with me at the top of his hit list…
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Latest reply: Dec 26, 2002
senwad
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