I’ve never met him, but suspect he wouldn’t like me,
No one knows what city he’s from but his name’s Spike “Whitey-Lover” Lee!
He wouldn’t like me because I’m a Dallas Mavericks fan. Not because I’m white. I assume he loves our historically adorable race. Everyone does…
So a dollar short and about 8 days late, this blogpost has shlepped over the line like someone doing a no-prep marathon. Thighs glazed with urine from mile 15, head swimming with gone-off adrenaline and the body digesting its own hair for caloric input.
Hey, who wants to go to the hospital?
I really should be asleep or doing something more recuperative than clickety clacking my nonsense on a filthy keyboard. And yet I clack on.
Meg and I moved this weekend from our unnecessarily large and modern apartment (which with the best will in the world was a bit, Christian Grey) on the high street to a maisonette. AKA bitch-sized house. Truthfully the move couldn’t have gone smoother but nevertheless we are now strung out like we’ve been inhaling oven cleaner.
Because we have been inhaling oven cleaner. I can’t tell you if that oven is any better looking than when I started, but I am now unburdened of nose hairs and I can see a great falcon in the sky that protects me while forcing dread into the hearts of my enemies.
The ultimate irony is that my arch-enemy is the still-dirty twin brother of my own oven. I slept with their sister. It’s a Melrose Place thing.
The endless cleaning and the general joint-straining sweat festival of moving has completely kicked Meg and my little butt-butts. We’re now constantly starting sentences that go nowhere and decisively placing wooden spoons on chairs and then walking away with a nervous smile like we’d accomplished a great deed. The falcon will be pleased.
You can’t tell from this angle, but he’s got a total rager right now.
As well as moving house and eschewing the profreshional (fell like someone in the housekeeping industry owes me a few shekels for coming up with that one) cleaning of our vacated premises I am still periodically recording podcast episodes for an upcoming invasion of your earbuds. It’s going well despite events having superceded our topic for episode 5 and forcing us to require recording some edits. Thank you very much Mossack Fonseca.
That gives it away that the topic was Panama, but I’ll never tell you what one we recorded this weekend it was the Isle of Man. Didn’t think I was going to tell you that did you? I’m a PR master.
Bringing up Panama allows me to plant this little beauty here. Top Panamanian songsmith El Chombo, with Maccaron. He’s made it into the blog before. Because he’s the king. OOOOoooohhhh yeeeaaahh! Listen on.
He keeps me honest. This was the quality of madness that didn’t get included on the Panama podcast. The Isle of Man by comparison has the longest underwater AC power cable in the world.
You stink Isle of Man!
The job this week takes me to the Warsaw of Eastern Europe… Warsaw! As my body jerks periodically in its frankly arrogant bid to stop me flopping into unconsciousness like one of those rangy mixed-martial arts guys at the end of a fight just before the other guy jumps on him and rubs his athleti-thong (patent pending) on his fallen opponent’s upper lip.
It’s the cup of grace. It really is like ballet or some of that deep “sensitive” shit you guys.
Kill! Kill! Kill! Now go limp and tell me how this is an allegory for the birth of Czech nationalism. Sensitive.
Apparently there’s a miniature golf course at the rural Holiday Inn we’re staying in (your jealousy is frankly embarassing), so I have brought my swimming togs (incidentally –og is one of my favourite vowel-consonant pairings) in part assuming there might also be a pool, but if I’m being honest it’s moreso to intimidate the fellow patrons of “Put-Put Polska!” Parties of ten get a free round of Sprite.
On my love of the -og (which sounds like a harlequin romance novel about gittin’ it on with a neanderthal) noise, it reminds me of two particular pieces of nonsense from my school days that both provoked hilarity in a way I assume you will not share. Listen on! I suspect my amusement comes solely down to the inherent humour in the –og noise and our combined terror at the age of 12 that we would be singled out for any reason.
In one such tale, a chap by the name of Khalid told us a joke which consisted of the following, “There was this guy right and he loved salt. And he loved bananas. So he gets his banana and sogs it in the salt and eats it. And he still loves bananas and salt. So he gets another banana. And he sogs it in the salt. And he still loves banan…”
This went on for about ten minutes.
In other such event from the waybacks, my desk mate from 2nd year maths kept getting asked for a dowry, preferably a duvet with a high tog value.
“Where’s my fuckoing dowry Eamonn! You said it’d be high-tog!!”
This kind of crap is why I can’t speak Spanish.
Not that it would ever be useful to me to speak Span- OH JESUS CHRIST YOU’RE SO BEAUTIFUL I WANT TO MURDER EVERYONE WHO HAS EVER SEEN YOU BUT ME!!!
In other news we are trying to adapt to living in the new place. On the plus side our neighbour no longer has the dickhead-tourettes (he just can’t stop himself) but on the flippety flop we no longer have the sweet access to ready and plentiful wine and general booze vendors that we used to. It was also handy for the one time every 6 months (like clockwork) that I go and eat a jumbo pack of peanuts late at night alone.
The oily skin backlash can be tough to look at, so it’s boot polish on every mirror for a week and maybe staring longingly into a non-glossy image of Señor Bardem.
¿Donde esta, mi amor? I learned… for you. For us.
Falconer of Leek