It has to be said that last week wasn't the happiest we've ever had. The passing of Boris hit us all pretty hard, especially poor little Baci. He relied on his Uncle Boris for so many thing, for example he would never start eating his own dinner until Boris had started on his. Baci is convinced that my staff are trying to poison us so he'd let Boris taste his first and when he was sure that Boris wasn't going to drop dead he'd start on his own. Now he watches me instead. He has to be quick though because I eat twice as fast as Boris ever did.
So, what's on the agenda for this week. Well for a start my female staff is taking her Mum to hospital today for her angiogram to see if anything can be done to relieve her angina. (Or vagina as she likes to call it.) I would have liked to go with her but my female staff says that they like to keep a sterile environment in the operating theatre. Frankly I resent any insinuation that I might be less than hygienic. I mean, it didn't stop me visiting my male staff's Mum when she was in hospital. True it involved the unpleasantness of being smuggled in past savage looking nurses shoved down the front of my male staff trousers, but you get used to it after the first couple of times and there's not much else down there so it was surprising roomy. In fact, if I wheeked loud enough there was a sort of echo. From what my staff say, (Which is usually utter bollocks.) an angiogram involves the unfortunate human having a flexible tube shoved up their main artery via a hole that the doctor has dug in their groin. A special dye is then squirted through the tube and the doctor can see on a special x-ray screen whether any of the dye is making it through the blockage which is causing the human's angina. This of course is assuming that the doctor can be bothered looking up from his putting practice, or studying his share portfolio.
The thing is, if none of the dye is getting through, what then? My guess is that when the patient comes around from the anaesthetic they are told to make another appointment to have the muck cleared out of their artery for a further four figure fee (and I don't mean $10.95). This news is often enough to render the muck clearing operation unnecessary as the patient dies of shock when the fee is mentioned. Patients with a strong enough constitution to survive the shock of the amputation of half their life savings are then subjected to a lengthy wait for their muck clearing procedure, during which fifty percent will die anyway.
"Sorry Mrs Witherspoon, the first date I can fit you in for your open heart surgery is the thirtieth of May..............."
"Oh, that's not so bad doctor, that's only next week."
"The thirtieth of May 2022."
I don't know why they can just attach a pipe cleaner or a bottle brush to the end of the tube and give the artery a scrub while they're in there.
So anyway, if my female staff's Mum survives all this she'll be joining my staff, Baci and I on a trip to the Queensland Guinea Pig Sanctuary this coming Saturday. The GPS (Guinea Pig Seeker) will be fired up, and we'll all pile into the Hyundai Getz for an hour and a half of pure terror with my male staff behind the wheel. We're not allowed to criticize his driving and are called "Bloody back-seat drivers" if we dare to suggest that the car may use a little less fuel if he releases the handbrake or if we point out that this "terrible bit of road" is actually a crop of watermelons, and heaven help us if we let on that that last "bloody speed-bump" was a traffic cop........on his motorbike. The reason behind this little excursion is to adopt two more guinea pigs. My staff are under the misguided notion that they are doing them a favour by giving them "a good stable home". Hah! Poor little innocent creatures. (The new guinea pigs that is, not my staff.) They have no idea what they're in for.
Now then, in spite of my many misgivings and better judgement I've told Baci that he can take over "Boris' Bit" at the end of my blog each week. Please bear with him. Remember he's just a teenager and some of his spelling might be a little awry. Indeed, when I read his first draft I said to him.
"Baci, your grammar really is absolutely dreadful." Do you know what he said?
"How do you know? You've never met her."
I must apologise if he's even harder to understand than Boris was.
Wen Uncle Billy sed I cood take ova from Uncle Boris I'm like WOW! How kool, and he's like, O God wat have I dun? And I'm like, that's funny, Uncle Billy isn't usually that relijus. Then I'm like, wat shood I rite abowt Uncle Billy? And he's like, yooz your majinayshun for Christ's sayk, and I'm like, there he goes again getting all relijus an everyfink. Then I'm like, majinayshun? Is there an app for that? And he's like, wat r u torkin about? And I'm like, u no an app, an app. Then he's like, a nap? Bloody good idea. Wake me wen its dinna time.