I'm a little saucepot -- tip me over and pour me out onto a steaming plum pud.
It seems appropriate that I start my diary on Midwinter's Day, Yule, Alban Arthan, the longest night of the year. For the Christians in the audience, I've supplied the prerequisite image of dour Catholicism to flavour the season at hand. Ring in the festive season with your very own Nunzilla! Frankly, I'll take naked orgies and mead over midnight mass and a 3-pack of socks any day, thanks. Just don't expect me to kill a stag. At most, I can manage a red squirrel, but one must chose weapons of slaughter carefully when dispatching small rodents, especially those that move quickly and hang around flammable objects such as trees.
come hither - back off
I also hope an entry will stop the yammering of a certain someone who happened to suggest this public airing of dirty laundry to me. Repeatedly. By email. And instant messenger. And phone and fax and casually over a chai latté even though I was already in great pain from having had my buttocks pried open and a large chunk of vertabra sawed off and hauled out only 2 days previously and really didn't need anyone to add to my suffering but did that stop him? Oh no. "Shit, Smoog, it's a blast, a lark -- you really should try it. Do it once and you'll never stop. It's better than Aunt Marjorie's peyote sugar biscuits."
I'm counting on it. If not, there better be one hell of a surprise in the shortcake tin from West Yorkshire that arrives next week.
My diaretic timing is also apt in that today I have discontinued leaking. Seasons have turned, the sun is reborn, out with the old, drippingly. It was revolting. I do not enjoy sloshing while I slumber. I have no idea why infants put so much effort into moistening their nappies even as you lay out a crisp, arid replacement under their bottoms. How I'll survive incontinence in my old age, I'll never know. At least one can prepare for that. There's a reasonable expectation of what's to come. There is no reasonable expectation that a massive haematoma shall gush for 2 days through a small opening in one's back. It's simply not in the manual. I checked. I consider said leaking extremely unsportsmanlike, and have filed a complaint with authorities of 4 different faiths in hopes that the great referee in the sky will take note, pull out my scorecard, and make appropriate alterations. I have all the proper orifices, all of which leak on special occasions when they are called upon to do so, and I have absolutely no need for another. It seems grossly excessive that not only do I endure the indignity of knowing that, once I was anaesthetised in the operating room, I was hauled ass over teakettle while my surgeon hacked into my prodigious bum, I must also leak bucketfuls of what appears to be my mother's plum pudding sauce into the seat of my underpants.
Regardless of the high repulse factor, this experience has enlightened me. I was entirely unaware of just how much liquid the human body can store in normally non-storable locales. This is important to know should I ever need to reach my heavyweight status in the International Federation of Bisexual Shadow Boxers. When it's time to pull in a quick 5 pounds, I should be able to do so in minutes; the judges will never think to check for suspicious perforations, zippers, spigots, or corks if judiciously positioned.
There. I think that's worth a tuppence of peyote cookies. I'll be waiting for payment, red squirrel in hand.
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