In the old days, long before I arrived there was a simple ceremony wherein the newly deceased guinea pig would be presented with his much longed for testostricles by a venerable old cavy by the name of Sir Hector who held the title of "Gonad Governor" and who dispensed his duties with as much grace and dignity as his title would suggest. Unfortunately, just like in the physical world everything had to be made into a reality TV show, so now the whole presentation thing is televised once a week. Naturally the show is called "Strictly Ballroom." The neutered guinea pig "contestants" are shown three pairs of testostricles, one of which is theirs. They have to guess which pair it is. If they guess correctly they are not only presented with their family jewels, but they also received a large bunch of basil. Guinea pigs who guess incorrectly only receive their own testostricles but they are clapped and cheered by the live audience anyway. One big difference between reality TV shows here and back in the physical world is that here there is no ritualised humiliation of the contestants. Anyway, suffice to say that I am just grateful to my staff for allowing me to keep my dangly bits, even though in my younger days they were hanging by a proverbial thread at times.
Anyway, this weekend my staff had visitors - four of them. Uncle Geoff and Aunty Cath and Uncle Mike and Auntie Robyn. Apparently they've know my staff for a long time, so its quite amazing that they are still friends, or maybe they are just fascinated by insanity, I don't know. Uncle Geoff was my male staff's Best Man when he married my female staff. Well, he may not have been the best man, but he was certainly a lot better than my male staff. Sadly for my female staff he was already married to Aunty Cath so she had be satisfied with the second best man.
Alfie was handed to Uncle Mike and immediately stuck out a foot for a massage. Uncle Mike innocently obliged and then Alfie did not permit Uncle Mike to put him back in his cage until he felt that his feet had had enough treatment. Each time Uncle Mike tried to put Alfie back he received a gentle nibble to remind him of his low status in the pecking order of the herd. Consequently Uncle Mike had to stand throughout lunch clutching a fat white guinea pig while massaging its foot while the others stuffed themselves with their lunch. He couldn't even free one hand to take a swig of his beer. My staff and their other guests showed absolutely no sympathy or consideration for his plight at all, eating pretty much everything and saving poor Uncle Mike nothing except a chicken drumstick that my female staff had already chewed and discarded and a piece of bread that had fallen from the table during the feeding frenzy and had landed, as usual, buttered side down.
After lunch Uncle Geoff decided to take the weight off his tummy and sat down on one of the recliner chairs. Soon Baci was placed on his lap by my female staff and Uncle Geoff set about stroking his glossy fur - Baci's that is. Uncle Geoff's fur isn't the least bit glossy. However, it was a warm, drowsy afternoon and with a stomach full of chicken salad and cheesecake, not to mention half a bottle of my staff's best Fijian sauvignon blanc, he soon drifted off to sleep. This rather left Baci stranded and try as he might to wake Uncle Geoff when he needed to be put back in his cage for a pee Uncle Geoff just kept on snoring. So Baci did what any self respecting guinea pig would do. He peed on his lap.
Shortly afterwards my female staff came along, saw that Uncle Geoff was asleep and picked Baci up without noticing the wet patch on Uncle Geoff's lap and placed him back in his cage, praising him for being such a good boy. Soon Auntie Cath came along to wake Uncle Geoff as it was time to go. She was most alarmed to see the wet patch on her husband's lap, as indeed was her husband. Poor Uncle Geoff swore that he had not wet himself but nobody seemed to believe him, and as my staff saw everyone to their cars there was much hushed muttering between the ladies about "men of a certain age" and "maybe he should try wearing incontinence pads." and "perhaps a catheter could be the answer." So with sincere apologies to my staff from Auntie Cath and unheeded protestations of innocence by Uncle Geoff they climbed into their cars and drove off. Baci hid under his hay until they'd gone.
Now, before I let Baci loose with his baloney. My staff were wondering if anybody has an answer to this question. It's one that's been bothering them for some time.
If my staff were to cut the beak off a bird and force it to live in a cage so small that it can't even turn around, they'd be called animal abusers and the government would charge them with the offence of animal cruelty. Rightly so most reasonable people would say. Here's their question. Why is it then, that if they cut the beaks off two hundred and fifty thousand birds and force them to live in cages so small that they can't turn around, would they be called primary producers and given tax breaks and subsidies by that very same government?
I hope someone out there knows the answer because it's beyond me.
I dint pee on Uncal Geoff. Reely, onustly, it wasunt me.......................................................... Well alrite it was me but I dint meen to. He was snoring so I knew he was asleep. I tried all the usual stuff to worn him that I needed to pee. I'm like riggling and skwerming like mad and Uncal Geoff just like karrys on snoring. So I tried byting that funny lumpy bit that men humans have on their laps but that dint help. Nuffink much was happening there. He's pretty old so maybe his lap nerve dyed. So I'm like "What shall I do now?" It's far too hi to jump off his lap. So in the end I just decided to pee and face the