From time to time I like to turn my little red shelter upside down and sit in it as though I'm in a boat. I sit there with my paws on the upturned rim and my nose peeping over the top. I do this because it seems that my staff find it appealing in some bizarre way, and thus feel obliged to feed me treats. I imagine myself as Captain Ahab aboard the Pequod. Badger is Moby Dick - the great black and white whale, although I call him "Little Dick". Courageously I hunt Little Dick across the seven seas, yelling "Avast behind!" at every opportunity and trying to spear him with my harpoon. Sadly up to now I've been unsuccessful because he always keeps his bottom to the wall. One day though, me hearties. One day!
My staff hate boats. My female staff gets seasick in the bath and my male staff can't swim. I've told him that the whole idea of boats is that you don't have to swim but he wasn't convinced. He never learned at school. While the other kids were measuring the distance they could swim in lengths of the pool, my male staff was measuring his distance in depths. He could manage one. Getting back to the surface was a problem though. So you see it came as something of a surprise when they decided to try a cruise. Just a short one. Five days in the calm waters of the Malacca Straits from Singapore to Penang and back. Sounds romantic doesn't it?
Languid tropical days, steamy nights under a starry equatorial sky.
The first night on board was good apparently. They sat in their cabin sipping a bottle of complimentary wine and gazed through their window as the lights of Singapore slid by. Sadly though it was all down hill from there. They woke the next day to find that they were the only Caucasians among twelve hundred Singaporean Chinese, all there for a week of gambling in the on-board casino. Breakfast was a buffet, but my staff had to join an enormous queue to reach the food and by the time they reached the front of the queue the buffet tabled looked as though a herd of cattle had stampeded through it. Taking care not to slip on a large blob of scrambled egg on the floor, they trudged disconsolately back to their table clutching only a stale muffin and a cup of cold coffee.
And so it went on. The only entertainment in the evening was a Chinese comedian who spoke Mandarin. The Chinese thought he was hilarious, but my staff had an uncomfortable suspicion that the jokes he was telling were about them. My female staff thought she'd try the pool one morning, but found it so tiny and so packed that she could have walked from one side to the other without getting wet simply by using the Singaporeans heads as stepping stones. One evening they decided to go to the cinema. "Nine And A Half Weeks" was showing and they thought it might put them in the mood for a little romance. It didn't. It put them in the mood for spending half the night shouting down the big white telephone. They discovered that watching the the antics of Bruce and Kim on a big screen that refused to stand still due to the gentle rocking of the ship brought on a bout of motion sickness. In the end they were so anxious to get off the damned ship that had my male staff been able to swim they would have jumped overboard and swam to the shore as soon a Singapore hove into view.
For a couple of years my staff thought they must be a bit strange - not to enjoy cruising after everyone had been telling them what a lovely holiday it was. Well, in truth they are a bit strange, but it has nothing to do with not liking cruising. Then one day they bumped into an old friend - a doctor as it happens. He too had been on a cruise out of Brisbane quite recently. He told my staff that it had been a really educational experience. For example, he hadn't realised that one could eat mash potatoes with one's fingers until some of his fellow passengers enlightened him. Then late one night when he was taking a stroll he discovered a young couple in the main public lounge which was otherwise deserted. The woman was bent over the back of a sofa and the gentleman was behind her performing what the doctor assumed to be the Heimlich Maneuver. Being a doctor he immediately noticed that the man's technique wasn't quite right so naturally he strode over to offer his expert help. Unfortunately, he'd already said "For God's sake man! That's not how you do it. Let me take over." When he noticed that the lady's knickers were down around her ankles.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Sunday, August 14, 2011
The Tea Party
What a topsy-turvy world we live in. All of a sudden the English cricket team is the one bright spot on that nation's horizon. While the nation's "yoof" has been tearing their communities down and setting fire to the remains, the English cricket team has been thrashing India to become the world's top test cricket nation. This is a real reversal of fortune and must have thrown the rabid British sports press into a state of high confusion. Now they'll have to find another English sporting team to denigrate and humiliate. No doubt they're sharpening their pencils in preparation for the next England football fixture. Then there's the Rugby Union World Cup coming up soon in New Zealand, I'm certain the great British press are already honing their spiteful little barbs as we speak.
Here in Australia the sporting press is very different, maybe because we live upside down and the blood rushes to our head. Here, if an Aussie wins a chess game, the press, radio and TV people are all over them. Their neighbours are interviewed, their distant cousins are wheeled out to say what a lovely down to earth, unassuming "Larrikin" (In English - yob.) they are and their dog will be filmed crapping in the park. They will also get a civic reception, the keys to their home town and will be photographed with a grinning prime minister who probably has no idea who they are. If the Aussie loses then it is usually put down to one of two causes. Either extreme misfortune, or that the opposition must have cheated. In the British press, for example if the England football team beats Brazil six-nil there will always be a negative - "It was a poor performance by England, who should really have scored at least seven." If they lose its "Oh well. What can you expect from such a bunch of over-paid no-hopers." Win or lose they can't win - if you see what I mean, and this approach is just as disrespectful to the opposition as the Aussie version.
Badger may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he is inquisitive. Just this morning he said to me, "Billy, could you please explain to me about this Tea Party in the USA that I keep hearing and reading about? How," he continued, "does it fit into the context of the Australian political spectrum?" Doesn't sound like Badger does it? Usually the most you get from him is, "Pass me that bit of carrot will ya." Anyway, once I'd recovered from the shock I explained it all to him as best I could.
One day way back in the eighteenth century the British invited all the colonials to tea aboard one of their nice ships anchored in Boston harbour. There were lots of tea and cucumber sandwiches and cupcakes, it was going to be a lovely civilised social occasion. Little fingers would be cocked and the soft murmur of polite conversation would drift across the still waters of the harbour. However, the British hadn't bargained for the poor manners of the blasted colonials who arrived in vast numbers - all anxious for a free cuppa and a cake. This mob of uncouth, unwashed peasants piled onto the ship, but so large was the crowd that their weight began to sink the vessel. To save everyone's lives all the tea and cakes were thrown overboard, but this so enraged the colonials that they decided that they would no longer have anything to do with Britain in the future. This event became know as the Boston Tea Party. The Tea Party is now a political movement with a lot of influence in the US Republican Party.
By this time Badger was utterly riveted of course. "So," he said, "what do they stand for - this Tea Party?" I explained. They are a group of people who like to have a very powerful military, good roads upon which to drive their SUVs, fire brigades to drag them out of their house when it's burning and a strong police force to protect their property from those awful poor people, especially the black ones. What they don't want is to have to fork out taxes to pay for it, and they certainly don't want people to have a decent public health system.
Badger stroked his whiskers thoughtfully. "So where do they stand in the political spectrum? He enquired. I tried to think of a way of explaining this to my simple minded little pal. I said, if you take a map of Australia and imagine that Western Australia is the left wing of politics, South Australia is the centre and New South Wales in the right wing. Badger nodded. "I'm with you so far." He said. I continued. Bob Brown - the leader of the Australian Greens party would be standing up to his knees in the Indian Ocean a short way off Perth's City Beach. Prime Minister Julia Gillard would be In Kalgoorlie, hiding from a bunch of irate of miners. Former Prime Minister Bob Hawke would be in a pub in Port Augusta. Barrack Obama would be in Adelaide - probably wondering what the hell he was doing there. John Howard would be in Canberra where he thinks he belongs. Deputy Leader of the Opposition Julie Bishop would be practising her death stare in Sydney and Leader of the Opposition, Tony Abbott would be clinging to a buoy in the Tasman Sea somewhere between Sydney and Auckland clad in a pair of revealing budgie smugglers and chanting "STOP THE BOATS" at the top of his voice.
Badger looked a little puzzled - his usual expression if truth be told. "But," he said. "Where on the map does the Tea Party belong?" I told him, they're in Santiago, Chile still mourning the death of Augusto Pinochet.
"Oh." Said Badger. "Pass me that bit of carrot will ya."
Here in Australia the sporting press is very different, maybe because we live upside down and the blood rushes to our head. Here, if an Aussie wins a chess game, the press, radio and TV people are all over them. Their neighbours are interviewed, their distant cousins are wheeled out to say what a lovely down to earth, unassuming "Larrikin" (In English - yob.) they are and their dog will be filmed crapping in the park. They will also get a civic reception, the keys to their home town and will be photographed with a grinning prime minister who probably has no idea who they are. If the Aussie loses then it is usually put down to one of two causes. Either extreme misfortune, or that the opposition must have cheated. In the British press, for example if the England football team beats Brazil six-nil there will always be a negative - "It was a poor performance by England, who should really have scored at least seven." If they lose its "Oh well. What can you expect from such a bunch of over-paid no-hopers." Win or lose they can't win - if you see what I mean, and this approach is just as disrespectful to the opposition as the Aussie version.
Badger may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he is inquisitive. Just this morning he said to me, "Billy, could you please explain to me about this Tea Party in the USA that I keep hearing and reading about? How," he continued, "does it fit into the context of the Australian political spectrum?" Doesn't sound like Badger does it? Usually the most you get from him is, "Pass me that bit of carrot will ya." Anyway, once I'd recovered from the shock I explained it all to him as best I could.
One day way back in the eighteenth century the British invited all the colonials to tea aboard one of their nice ships anchored in Boston harbour. There were lots of tea and cucumber sandwiches and cupcakes, it was going to be a lovely civilised social occasion. Little fingers would be cocked and the soft murmur of polite conversation would drift across the still waters of the harbour. However, the British hadn't bargained for the poor manners of the blasted colonials who arrived in vast numbers - all anxious for a free cuppa and a cake. This mob of uncouth, unwashed peasants piled onto the ship, but so large was the crowd that their weight began to sink the vessel. To save everyone's lives all the tea and cakes were thrown overboard, but this so enraged the colonials that they decided that they would no longer have anything to do with Britain in the future. This event became know as the Boston Tea Party. The Tea Party is now a political movement with a lot of influence in the US Republican Party.
By this time Badger was utterly riveted of course. "So," he said, "what do they stand for - this Tea Party?" I explained. They are a group of people who like to have a very powerful military, good roads upon which to drive their SUVs, fire brigades to drag them out of their house when it's burning and a strong police force to protect their property from those awful poor people, especially the black ones. What they don't want is to have to fork out taxes to pay for it, and they certainly don't want people to have a decent public health system.
Badger stroked his whiskers thoughtfully. "So where do they stand in the political spectrum? He enquired. I tried to think of a way of explaining this to my simple minded little pal. I said, if you take a map of Australia and imagine that Western Australia is the left wing of politics, South Australia is the centre and New South Wales in the right wing. Badger nodded. "I'm with you so far." He said. I continued. Bob Brown - the leader of the Australian Greens party would be standing up to his knees in the Indian Ocean a short way off Perth's City Beach. Prime Minister Julia Gillard would be In Kalgoorlie, hiding from a bunch of irate of miners. Former Prime Minister Bob Hawke would be in a pub in Port Augusta. Barrack Obama would be in Adelaide - probably wondering what the hell he was doing there. John Howard would be in Canberra where he thinks he belongs. Deputy Leader of the Opposition Julie Bishop would be practising her death stare in Sydney and Leader of the Opposition, Tony Abbott would be clinging to a buoy in the Tasman Sea somewhere between Sydney and Auckland clad in a pair of revealing budgie smugglers and chanting "STOP THE BOATS" at the top of his voice.
Badger looked a little puzzled - his usual expression if truth be told. "But," he said. "Where on the map does the Tea Party belong?" I told him, they're in Santiago, Chile still mourning the death of Augusto Pinochet.
"Oh." Said Badger. "Pass me that bit of carrot will ya."
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Bloody Students
What a fun week it's been. The people of Britain are revolting, some dude with a rocket launcher, a huge beard and a turban has killed thirty US Navy Seals - not to mention seven Afghans in a helicopter, (And I noticed that many news outlets chose not to mention that.) and the stock market has fallen lower than a guinea pig's testostricles. There was one bit of good news that came out of the London riots. My male staff's precious football club West Ham United's home game was postponed on Tuesday night due to the unrest. This rescued them from yet another humiliating defeat against Aldershot and thus saved our doors from being slammed and our non-existent cat from being kicked.
From my vantage point point in my cage close to the telly I saw the footage of those nice people in England who having broken the jaw of an innocent Malaysian student then feigned going to his aid. One pretended to comfort him while the others swiped stuff out of the poor kid's backpack. What brave lads. Makes you proud to be British - really evokes the spirit of Dunkirk and the blitz. I'll bet their Mum's are really proud of them. Actually come to think of it, maybe it was their mothers who told them to go out and loot a new plasma telly as the old one was on the blink. "While you're there get one for your granny too. And don't forget the milk."
My staff's niece is a student at Leeds University doing a dual honours BA degree in The History of Inebriation since 2009 and Pub Crawling. She's doing very well too apparently. Anyway, her mother - my male staff's sister went to visit her the other day in her student digs. She walked into the apartment and almost fainted from shock. "Oh my God!" She cried, gazing around at the utter devastation within. "You didn't tell me your apartment had been looted by rioters."
"What rioters?" Said my niece.
My male staff's sister then spent the afternoon dressed in the sort of anti-biological warfare suits that the baddies wore in the movie ET as she hosed out and fumigated the apartment. I think staff's niece went to the pub. Bloody students. I hate people who have more fun than me.
I bet the British public were relieved when PM David Cameron eventually cut short his well deserved holiday from widening the gap between rich and poor and reluctantly returned to London to make sure nobody torched his car. I thought he looked positively terrified when he gave his little press conference. Jeez! the man has all the leadership skill and forceful personality of sheep, and not a very assertive one at that. He's going to need a lot of help from Rupert Murdoch if he's to win the next election.
From my vantage point point in my cage close to the telly I saw the footage of those nice people in England who having broken the jaw of an innocent Malaysian student then feigned going to his aid. One pretended to comfort him while the others swiped stuff out of the poor kid's backpack. What brave lads. Makes you proud to be British - really evokes the spirit of Dunkirk and the blitz. I'll bet their Mum's are really proud of them. Actually come to think of it, maybe it was their mothers who told them to go out and loot a new plasma telly as the old one was on the blink. "While you're there get one for your granny too. And don't forget the milk."
My staff's niece is a student at Leeds University doing a dual honours BA degree in The History of Inebriation since 2009 and Pub Crawling. She's doing very well too apparently. Anyway, her mother - my male staff's sister went to visit her the other day in her student digs. She walked into the apartment and almost fainted from shock. "Oh my God!" She cried, gazing around at the utter devastation within. "You didn't tell me your apartment had been looted by rioters."
"What rioters?" Said my niece.
My male staff's sister then spent the afternoon dressed in the sort of anti-biological warfare suits that the baddies wore in the movie ET as she hosed out and fumigated the apartment. I think staff's niece went to the pub. Bloody students. I hate people who have more fun than me.
I bet the British public were relieved when PM David Cameron eventually cut short his well deserved holiday from widening the gap between rich and poor and reluctantly returned to London to make sure nobody torched his car. I thought he looked positively terrified when he gave his little press conference. Jeez! the man has all the leadership skill and forceful personality of sheep, and not a very assertive one at that. He's going to need a lot of help from Rupert Murdoch if he's to win the next election.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
A Romantic Interlude
Badger has mites and I'm getting the blame. Life is so unfair. Just because I came from a house at the bottom of the hill where the proletariat live. Honestly, my staff can be such snobs. Badger came from a nice. posh pet shop in Noosa, so the mites couldn't possibly have come with him. His bum is balding and scabby. My male staff took him to the vet the other day, and she scraped a bit off one of his bum scabs, took one look at it under the microscope and pronounced "mites." Apparently some piggies can carry mites and show no symptoms, while on other piggies their fur drops out and leaves them looking like Elton John before his hair transplant - only without the stupid spectacles of course.
As I am the suspected carrier we both have to have this creamy stuff squirted on the back of our necks which is supposed to kill the mites. It nearly killed me. God! The smell of it! My male staff says it smells a lot like something he calls deep heat ointment. Apparently he became very familiar with the stuff when in his younger days he used to hang around men's football changing rooms. Yes I know that sounds a little suspect. That's why I didn't probe any further.
Still on the subject of football. or "saah-ker" as my many American friend prefer to call it. The English season kicked off this weekend, which means that my male staff has nine months of stress ahead of him. This is what you get for following a club like West Ham United. Last season they were relegated from the English Premier League to the second tier Championship. This means that instead of playing in front of seventy thousand screaming fans at Manchester United's Old Trafford stadium they will instead, be playing in front of a couple of kids on skateboards, an elderly couple out for a walk, a young unmarried mother with a snotty-nosed brat in a pushchair and an incontinent dog in a public park in Doncaster. West Ham are one of those teams who can beat Manchester United on their own turf one week and then lose to Saint Agatha's School for Partially Sighted Girls (2nd eleven) the next. Indeed even as I write this my male staff is in a foul mood because they've just lost their first game of the season at home to Cardiff.
For some reason he's been following them since he was eight years old, which believe me, is a long time. I think he liked the team colours to start with. He certainly never lived in the East End of London where the club is based. He can't even speak fluent Cockney, though he has managed to pick up a few useful phrases from when he used to go to see them play regularly. Here are a some of the most commonly heard Cockney phrases at a West Ham game.
"Ya dir-ee fakking norvun kant." (You are a naughty man from somewhere north of London.)
"Oh ya stewpid fakking wanka! Ah va Fak dija miss that?" (Golly! You were unlucky to miss the goal from that range.)
"Fak me ref! Yoora fakking chea-in fakking kant." (I don't really agree with that decision referee.)
"Fak this! We're losin' free nil. I'm gonna fak off 'ome now an get away before all these fakking kants hit va street. Mite even givda bleedin' missus one arfta sapper" (Since it appears that we are going to lose this particular game, I'm going to leave now and avoid the crowd. If I'm fortunate I might even have a romantic interlude with my wife after we've dined.)
I really hope that my male staff takes me and Badger to a West Ham game on our upcoming visit to England. I do love to learn new languages.
As I am the suspected carrier we both have to have this creamy stuff squirted on the back of our necks which is supposed to kill the mites. It nearly killed me. God! The smell of it! My male staff says it smells a lot like something he calls deep heat ointment. Apparently he became very familiar with the stuff when in his younger days he used to hang around men's football changing rooms. Yes I know that sounds a little suspect. That's why I didn't probe any further.
Still on the subject of football. or "saah-ker" as my many American friend prefer to call it. The English season kicked off this weekend, which means that my male staff has nine months of stress ahead of him. This is what you get for following a club like West Ham United. Last season they were relegated from the English Premier League to the second tier Championship. This means that instead of playing in front of seventy thousand screaming fans at Manchester United's Old Trafford stadium they will instead, be playing in front of a couple of kids on skateboards, an elderly couple out for a walk, a young unmarried mother with a snotty-nosed brat in a pushchair and an incontinent dog in a public park in Doncaster. West Ham are one of those teams who can beat Manchester United on their own turf one week and then lose to Saint Agatha's School for Partially Sighted Girls (2nd eleven) the next. Indeed even as I write this my male staff is in a foul mood because they've just lost their first game of the season at home to Cardiff.
For some reason he's been following them since he was eight years old, which believe me, is a long time. I think he liked the team colours to start with. He certainly never lived in the East End of London where the club is based. He can't even speak fluent Cockney, though he has managed to pick up a few useful phrases from when he used to go to see them play regularly. Here are a some of the most commonly heard Cockney phrases at a West Ham game.
"Ya dir-ee fakking norvun kant." (You are a naughty man from somewhere north of London.)
"Oh ya stewpid fakking wanka! Ah va Fak dija miss that?" (Golly! You were unlucky to miss the goal from that range.)
"Fak me ref! Yoora fakking chea-in fakking kant." (I don't really agree with that decision referee.)
"Fak this! We're losin' free nil. I'm gonna fak off 'ome now an get away before all these fakking kants hit va street. Mite even givda bleedin' missus one arfta sapper" (Since it appears that we are going to lose this particular game, I'm going to leave now and avoid the crowd. If I'm fortunate I might even have a romantic interlude with my wife after we've dined.)
I really hope that my male staff takes me and Badger to a West Ham game on our upcoming visit to England. I do love to learn new languages.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Nipples of Death
I just love having newspaper in the bottom of my cage. Not only to I get to do unspeakable things on the faces of my least loved politicians and celebrities but I get to learn stuff too. For example I had no idea that women could use their knockers as weapons of mass destruction. I refer of course to the American lady who was sentenced to two years probation for spraying two sheriff's deputies with breast milk as they tried to remove her from her car. The story didn't specify whether or not the milk came from a bottle or her boobs, but I like to think it was the latter. I can just imagine the scene.
Two cops approaching the car, speeding tickets at the ready. The car door bursts open and they're confronted by a woman with a crazed look in her eyes wielding a set of loaded hooters.
"Put the speeding tickets down and step away from the car." She says waggling her boobs a little. The cops hesitate. "Do it!" She snaps. "Or I'll give you both barrels." The two hardened policeman glance sideways at each other. One of them winks subtly, it's a signal they've shared throughout their many years partnership on the tough streets. They lunge towards the woman, but they're no longer young and fast and she's too quick for them. Before they make it halfway they're struck in the face by a deadly stream of warm milk. She's pulled the trigger, they didn't think she would. The cops heads were snapped back by the force of the blast, whiplash would dog them for the rest of their days and they'd never be rid of the milk stains on their uniforms.
The first cop tried to recover but slipped in a puddle of milk. The second cop, the one carrying the speeding tickets fell over him and sprawled in the road, dropping the speeding tickets into the milk. They were helpless as new born babies. The cold eyed woman casually walked towards them and the cops were mesmerised by the twin pink nipples of death as she approached. They had eyes for nothing else.
She stood over them. In a terrified, tremulous voice one of the cops said. "You'll never get away with this. The force always hunts down cop squirters."
The woman laughed, and those terrible boobs wobbled a little in the sickly yellow light of a nearby streetlamp. "Hah! No one can touch me while I've got these babies." She said sticking her chest out. "Now boys. Say your prayers." Her voice was as hard as an ice-rubbed nipple. One of the cops raised a hand but it was too little too late. Coldly, calculatingly, she took a small step back and fired. The last thing the cops saw on God's earth was a stream of milk - then everything went white.
Ah. I do like my little fantasies. Something else I saw in the paper was an advertisement for drag racing. What is that? Men dressed in their wives clothes running around a track in dainty little high-heeled shoes. I hope so. I'd pay to see that. I'd pay double to see my male staff in drag race.
Two cops approaching the car, speeding tickets at the ready. The car door bursts open and they're confronted by a woman with a crazed look in her eyes wielding a set of loaded hooters.
"Put the speeding tickets down and step away from the car." She says waggling her boobs a little. The cops hesitate. "Do it!" She snaps. "Or I'll give you both barrels." The two hardened policeman glance sideways at each other. One of them winks subtly, it's a signal they've shared throughout their many years partnership on the tough streets. They lunge towards the woman, but they're no longer young and fast and she's too quick for them. Before they make it halfway they're struck in the face by a deadly stream of warm milk. She's pulled the trigger, they didn't think she would. The cops heads were snapped back by the force of the blast, whiplash would dog them for the rest of their days and they'd never be rid of the milk stains on their uniforms.
The first cop tried to recover but slipped in a puddle of milk. The second cop, the one carrying the speeding tickets fell over him and sprawled in the road, dropping the speeding tickets into the milk. They were helpless as new born babies. The cold eyed woman casually walked towards them and the cops were mesmerised by the twin pink nipples of death as she approached. They had eyes for nothing else.
She stood over them. In a terrified, tremulous voice one of the cops said. "You'll never get away with this. The force always hunts down cop squirters."
The woman laughed, and those terrible boobs wobbled a little in the sickly yellow light of a nearby streetlamp. "Hah! No one can touch me while I've got these babies." She said sticking her chest out. "Now boys. Say your prayers." Her voice was as hard as an ice-rubbed nipple. One of the cops raised a hand but it was too little too late. Coldly, calculatingly, she took a small step back and fired. The last thing the cops saw on God's earth was a stream of milk - then everything went white.
Ah. I do like my little fantasies. Something else I saw in the paper was an advertisement for drag racing. What is that? Men dressed in their wives clothes running around a track in dainty little high-heeled shoes. I hope so. I'd pay to see that. I'd pay double to see my male staff in drag race.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Beethoven's Ninth Racket
Just this morning I'd scraped away enough of my bedding to see the newspaper that lines the bottom of my cage, and who should I see staring up at me but Robert Mugabe, with that nasty, mean little Hitler moustache of his. I was about to deposit a satisfying pile of bush chocolate on his face when something else caught my eye. It was a item concerning a sixty-three year old Californian man who had tried to operate on his own hernia with a butter knife. A butter knife!! Apparently he'd already cut his stomach open with this viciously sharp blade and was poking about inside his guts when his wife found him.
"Oh hello dear. What are you up to?"
"My elbows in my own guts."
Anyway she phoned 911 and then while they waited for the paramedics he removed the knife. The story didn't say whether or not she sewed him up with one of her crochet hooks, but I like to think that she did. The newspaper went on to say that the man was placed "in a psychiatric hold". Not sure what that is - probably a headlock.
Then I got to thinking My God! Is the American public health system so bad that people are reduced to performing their own surgery with a butter knife? Why don't the Republicans want a decent public health system? Are they scared that if people live long enough they'll eventually vote Democrat. I can't get my piggy head around it. Sure it's expensive, but then so are wars and the Republicans don't seem to be too averse to those. In any case, a good, well funded health system pays for itself long term. You just have to take the long term view instead of just looking towards the next election. Ah well, that's politicians for you. They all need their fingers biting and their laps peeing on.
Mr Mugabe never did get his face covered in bush chocolate, (Which he certainly deserves more than most.) because I was then distracted by a godawful noise coming from the other room. For a moment I though my male staff was taking a leaf from our Californian friend's book and was castrating himself with a butter knife. But no; a moment later he strolled casually back showing no signs of an injury. He peered into my cage and said, "Are you enjoying the music Billy?" By way of reply I grumbled at him and shot into my little red shelter and put my paws over my ears. He told me that the racket was Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. Hell's bells! Whoever this Beethoven bloke was you'd think after the first eight he might have realised that he was making a bloody racket. I hate this thing that humans call music. It's just noise to me. Maybe I'm tone deaf or something. Badger quite likes it. He sits in his little blue shelter tapping his foot and pretending to play a violin as if he's some sort of rodent version of Andre Rieu. His black and white fur even makes him look as though he wearing a tuxedo. Anyway, as far as I'm concerned, If music be the food of love - I'm going on a diet.
"Oh hello dear. What are you up to?"
"My elbows in my own guts."
Anyway she phoned 911 and then while they waited for the paramedics he removed the knife. The story didn't say whether or not she sewed him up with one of her crochet hooks, but I like to think that she did. The newspaper went on to say that the man was placed "in a psychiatric hold". Not sure what that is - probably a headlock.
Then I got to thinking My God! Is the American public health system so bad that people are reduced to performing their own surgery with a butter knife? Why don't the Republicans want a decent public health system? Are they scared that if people live long enough they'll eventually vote Democrat. I can't get my piggy head around it. Sure it's expensive, but then so are wars and the Republicans don't seem to be too averse to those. In any case, a good, well funded health system pays for itself long term. You just have to take the long term view instead of just looking towards the next election. Ah well, that's politicians for you. They all need their fingers biting and their laps peeing on.
Mr Mugabe never did get his face covered in bush chocolate, (Which he certainly deserves more than most.) because I was then distracted by a godawful noise coming from the other room. For a moment I though my male staff was taking a leaf from our Californian friend's book and was castrating himself with a butter knife. But no; a moment later he strolled casually back showing no signs of an injury. He peered into my cage and said, "Are you enjoying the music Billy?" By way of reply I grumbled at him and shot into my little red shelter and put my paws over my ears. He told me that the racket was Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. Hell's bells! Whoever this Beethoven bloke was you'd think after the first eight he might have realised that he was making a bloody racket. I hate this thing that humans call music. It's just noise to me. Maybe I'm tone deaf or something. Badger quite likes it. He sits in his little blue shelter tapping his foot and pretending to play a violin as if he's some sort of rodent version of Andre Rieu. His black and white fur even makes him look as though he wearing a tuxedo. Anyway, as far as I'm concerned, If music be the food of love - I'm going on a diet.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
A Fistful of Bush Chocolate
Just like Martin Luther King, my male staff had a dream. Except his wasn't about racial equality. It was far more profound than that. It featured Badger and yours truly. For some reason he'd taken us both on a bus. This in itself is peculiar as my male staff never sets foot on a bus in case he catches something unspeakable from the proletariat. It was a crowded bus and he was forced to stand at the front next to the driver. He was holding Badger, but he put me on the dashboard so that I could get a really good view of where we were going. You'd think the driver of the bus would have been a little distracted by having a big hairy creature running up and down the dashboard in front of him, but he seemed unfazed. Remember, this is Queensland, so he was probably struggling to see through the cannabis haze anyway.
After a while the bus stops and the door opens with a pneumatic hiss. This scares the living bush chocolate out of me because I think it might be some sort of vicious hissing bat, and I hightail it for the open door much to my male staff's dismay. Off I go down the road ducking and weaving under and between cars and trucks, trying to put as much space between me and my male staff as possible. By the time I ducked down an alley he'd handed Badger to some poor lady at the bus stop and told her to wait there while he retrieved me.
On and on the dream went. My male staff getting more and more desperate, running as fast as his little fifty three year old legs would carry him, but I was always just out of reach. Isn't that always the way with dreams. Then I ducked into a labyrinthine apartment block and after an hour or two running around the endless corridors where my male staff would just catch a brief, tantalising glimpse of me - like in that creepy Donald Sutherland movie of a few years ago - "Don't Look Now" in which Sutherland's character keeps seeing his deceased daughter's red mackintosh clad figure frustratingly briefly and always just out of reach. The most famous thing about that movie was the sex scene between Donald and Julie Christie, which was said by many to be real. I hasten to add that there was no steamy sex scene between me and my male staff in this dream.
All the time he was calling out to me. "Stop Billy! Come back!" Like a guinea pig is going to listen to that sort of thing. It always makes me have piggy giggle when you see that on British cop shows. There's a fat middle-aged copper armed with a small stick yelling after the young, fit teenage crook, "STOP..... POLICE!" As if the crook's going to think....Gosh! I'd better stop. There's a fat, balding middle-aged guy with a small stick chasing me. I'd better not vault over this wall and get clean away for ever. I'll just wait here in this dead end alleyway so that he can arrest me.
Anyway, finally I zip into an open door and find myself in someone's apartment, where I hide under the bed while my male staff turns the place inside out looking for me. Under the bed would be the most obvious place to look for a guinea pig - you'd think, and in truth I was exhausted by this time and hoping that he'd find me and that he'd have a nice lettuce leaf or a tomato to give me. But no. He starts turning out all the cupboards, including ones that are six feet above the floor, honestly! What does he think I am? A bloody spider?
Then he woke up, so he never did catch me. His biggest error however, was telling my female staff about the dream. She stood there glaring at him, tapping her foot in annoyance. When he'd finished, she said. "Well that was bloody stupid wasn't it? Why the hell did you take them on the bus in the first place? Honestly! I can't leave you alone for five minutes." She then hauled me out of my cage and stroking me gently, said "Oh poor Billy. What did the nasty man do to you? Did he frighten you?" I could see that my male staff needed to have a lie down, but it was his own fault. He should have known better than to mention the dream anyway. A couple of years ago my female staff dreamt that he was having an affair with a redhead. Boy did he cop it in the neck for that. It made no difference that he pointed out that it was "her bloody dream". He was still a no good philanderer. What I'm wondering though, is what happened to the poor woman who had Badger thrust into her arms. Is she still there, waiting at the bus stop for my male staff to return. By now her hands will be full of bush chocolate.
After a while the bus stops and the door opens with a pneumatic hiss. This scares the living bush chocolate out of me because I think it might be some sort of vicious hissing bat, and I hightail it for the open door much to my male staff's dismay. Off I go down the road ducking and weaving under and between cars and trucks, trying to put as much space between me and my male staff as possible. By the time I ducked down an alley he'd handed Badger to some poor lady at the bus stop and told her to wait there while he retrieved me.
On and on the dream went. My male staff getting more and more desperate, running as fast as his little fifty three year old legs would carry him, but I was always just out of reach. Isn't that always the way with dreams. Then I ducked into a labyrinthine apartment block and after an hour or two running around the endless corridors where my male staff would just catch a brief, tantalising glimpse of me - like in that creepy Donald Sutherland movie of a few years ago - "Don't Look Now" in which Sutherland's character keeps seeing his deceased daughter's red mackintosh clad figure frustratingly briefly and always just out of reach. The most famous thing about that movie was the sex scene between Donald and Julie Christie, which was said by many to be real. I hasten to add that there was no steamy sex scene between me and my male staff in this dream.
All the time he was calling out to me. "Stop Billy! Come back!" Like a guinea pig is going to listen to that sort of thing. It always makes me have piggy giggle when you see that on British cop shows. There's a fat middle-aged copper armed with a small stick yelling after the young, fit teenage crook, "STOP..... POLICE!" As if the crook's going to think....Gosh! I'd better stop. There's a fat, balding middle-aged guy with a small stick chasing me. I'd better not vault over this wall and get clean away for ever. I'll just wait here in this dead end alleyway so that he can arrest me.
Anyway, finally I zip into an open door and find myself in someone's apartment, where I hide under the bed while my male staff turns the place inside out looking for me. Under the bed would be the most obvious place to look for a guinea pig - you'd think, and in truth I was exhausted by this time and hoping that he'd find me and that he'd have a nice lettuce leaf or a tomato to give me. But no. He starts turning out all the cupboards, including ones that are six feet above the floor, honestly! What does he think I am? A bloody spider?
Then he woke up, so he never did catch me. His biggest error however, was telling my female staff about the dream. She stood there glaring at him, tapping her foot in annoyance. When he'd finished, she said. "Well that was bloody stupid wasn't it? Why the hell did you take them on the bus in the first place? Honestly! I can't leave you alone for five minutes." She then hauled me out of my cage and stroking me gently, said "Oh poor Billy. What did the nasty man do to you? Did he frighten you?" I could see that my male staff needed to have a lie down, but it was his own fault. He should have known better than to mention the dream anyway. A couple of years ago my female staff dreamt that he was having an affair with a redhead. Boy did he cop it in the neck for that. It made no difference that he pointed out that it was "her bloody dream". He was still a no good philanderer. What I'm wondering though, is what happened to the poor woman who had Badger thrust into her arms. Is she still there, waiting at the bus stop for my male staff to return. By now her hands will be full of bush chocolate.
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