Sunday, July 3, 2011

The Scalpel of Doom

Once again the scalpel of doom is poised ominously above my testostricles. I know this because I've caught my staff seeking advice from other people who are fortunate enough to be acquainted with piggies. The advice I've heard so far ranges from "Just chop 'em off." to "Get him a girlfriend and give the babies to a pet shop." The first type of advice generally comes from women and the latter from men. Funny that. Personally I'd rather go with the second option, but I don't think I'm going to get much of a say in the matter. Anyway, even that is problematic. There'd be bloody kids everywhere for a while until they're carted off to the pet shop. As soon as their eyes are open they'll be running all over the place, eating my lettuce and pooping in my water. Then the missus will be complaining that I don't do my share of the housework and she'll be nagging that I never play with the kids. Of course when my staff finally remove the little brats she'll spend at least a week in floods of tears and won't feel like a spot of "How's your Father". She'll probably blame me for that too and I'll be in the pig house for months. I can see it all now. Mmmm. Oh for God's sake just cut off my damned bollocks and get it over with!

Every Wednesday night my female staff dresses up in a sparkly outfit and goes off to teach something called belly dancing. My male staff doesn't have to have lessons as his belly dances every time he moves. There are three things I'll never understand about humans, they are; their propensity for killing each other for no valid reason, their tendency to loathe other humans because they are a different colour and their love of this weird thing called dancing. Apparently every night all over the world millions of humans go "clubbing". In Canada this means picking up a large chunk of wood and belting the hell out of baby seals, but in the rest of the world it describes the act of dressing up like a pimp or a tart, queueing in the freezing cold for hours until a gorilla in a cheap suit decides you're pimp-like or tart-like enough to be allowed inside the club.

Once you're inside and your goosebumps have subsided you are free to join the rugby scrum that surrounds the bar. I should add that long before you reach the bar you are deaf and will continue to be deaf for at least three days after you leave the club. This is because of a strange noise that humans call music. It's played at a level that would make a Boeing 737 at full throttle for take off seem like a whispering breeze. The vibrations are enough to shake your dentures loose which may account for the fact that you only find people of under twenty years of age in there. The most popular music goes like this.......Doof doof doof doof doof doof doof doof, with a memorable chorus of doof doof doof doof doof doof doof doof.

The next thing you notice are the flashing lights. These evidently cause numerous epileptic fits as many people are writhing uncontrollably in time to the doof doof doof and the lights. A lot of them are drooling and some have apparently lost control of their bladders. After several hours of this, the clubbers stagger into the dawn blinking at the rising sun and laying down a minefield of pavement pizzas to surprise unwary pedestrians a little later. A good time was had by all except any poor bugger that slips on one of the afore mentioned pavement pizzas. Can't think of any other animals stupid enough to dance. Can you?   

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