He’s doing it voluntarily he’s not getting paid,
It’s Goggle-eyed robot maniac Randy “on Dennis’s couch” Quaid
So I almost welched on this weeks blog, but you know I had a long look in the mirror, took a gaze at the guy on the other side. Kissed him on the mouth. Took a nap.
After all my troubling tribulations (one for the Star Trek fans there) I decided in the end, YOU the reader deserve a new dollop of creamy nonsense, dribbling over the edge of the bowl because you overfilled it you greedy galoot. You deserve it
You might have a bit of buyers remorse at this stage. That’d be fair.
The past week has been busy but fairly regulation. Meg and I are bighting the biker (I drafted this on my phone and autocorrect chose the image for me, highly appropriate) and finally decided to buy a car. Over the past two years Meg has been getting to work in a rickshaw pulled by a man who’s actual name is Richard Shaw.
No word of a lie, but read together as a sentence…
“I never killed your daughter. The rebels turned themselves into the military re-education council. A salad would be just as good.” Pinocchio = lying bollocks.
So we went to the local car buying house (I’m a total natural as you can tell) and blitzed about 8 different dealerships including somewhat foolishly some swish German ones. “No we will not accept a baggy full of belly button lint and a horsechestnut for this S-Class. Acorn or better Sir, otherwise you waste both our time!”
Considering how we’re so obviously a pair of rubes, it was hard to believe how resolutely ignored by everyone we were in the dealerships, like the shy little girl at the prom sitting on her own, eating oily, stinking mackerel from the tin that she brought from her home in the sulfur mine.
Sidebar, my girlfriend at the prom (called a debs in Ireland) didn’t eat mackerel from the tin however she did lock herself in the toilet, possibly because it was such a magical night (more likely because I went with someone else). Almost entirely her idea.
We were so desperately trying to get attention out of these car jerks, I was one frustrated moment away from taking my top off and bouncing around a little. Like they like.
And I thought I had the whole attention-seeking thing down pat.
Eventually after I had alienated the staff at the second to last dealership pointing at a mahogany jeep (actual quote) “who chose shit-brown for the for the floor model eh?” we got serious. Had to, my charm wasn’t really winning them over. Surprisingly.
“We don’t arrange the colors sir. Now here is a picture of a wreck in another dealership filled with garbage, richer than Christmas pudding and smaller than a seahorses danglers. You don’t want it. Leave.”
Larks. Eventually we sat down with a chap in Toyota and after entertaining buying a different car that one could accidentally inhale should one gasp with surprise next to it we eventually settled on a hoor-red Yaris with enough space for a talented blogger to have a tantrum in and still not break any windows. Before deciding to purchase we had a bit of a testdrive to make sure we weren’t purchasing a puce lemon. It was my first time driving automatic and indeed my first time driving since finally driving safely for 25 consecutive minutes and passing my test 6 or so months ago.
There’s no way for you to know I didn’t pass my test by just teaching Herman my tester how to kiss properly. Lots of teeth, that’s the key.
Okay Herman, you and I are about to break down some boundaries.
Joking aside I am still haunted (not to mention Meg loves bringing it up) how my first instructor Zsolt would in a panic grab my hands and swerve us away from traffic and after the emergency subsided he would lean back over to his side of the car and mutter “…sorry to…touch you.” Yeesh.
I hopped into the business end of the first automatic car I was ever to drive and as it was a new-fangled button-start car to boot (the boot was regular-fangled mind), I was instructed to just put my foot on the brake and press the button to start.
Then I planked my hoof squarely on top of the accelerator and kept prodding the button until the salesman’s embarassment was outweighed by his desire to get going and the error was pointed out to me. As I struggled further he had to advise me to take my left foot off the brake as it’s apparently not the done thing. More bloody rules and etiquette than a hot-tub party with the Queen of England!
Rule 1 – there are no rules
Rule 2 – Prince Philip gets to watch.
Okay Prince Philip is all done. Send in the corgis…
Ever the canny businessboys, we decided to head home to pretend-think about the purchase in case he threw in a punnet of goose-eggs extra to sweeten the deal. Meg’s Canadian. She thinks all eggs are goose eggs.
As the salesman stewed like a bag of sweaty giblets in a roast chicken (it’s called foreshadowing) Meg and I got to prepping for Canadian Thanksgiving as we do most every year.
Regular readers will know Meg was recently flummoxed into some purchases by a wandering meat man (apparently she produces the readies to any stranger willing to give her a flash of beef) and most went straight into the freezer. Among these items was an organic chicken we decided would be the flagship meat pile of this year’s calorie-drive.
After struggling to defrost the sucker in time I was gratified to see it good and floppy as I banged it into the oven. Oh and should you have missed it, there was an opportunity for a crude intercourse joke there, but I dunno, Trump has kinda ruined genitals for me for the foreseeable. Yours. Mine. Burn it all down and start over.
Anyway, I assumed the extra blood and general oily gore was down to the organic-ness of the chicken. Indeed it was because I had left a plastic bag of frozen guts inside the offending fowl and had roasted that bird all the same. I’d be lying if I said the next morning wasn’t a bit touch and go belly-wise but that’s why they put windows in toilets.
In other news I have recently been told I am going to Iran. On Sunday.
I have nothing controversial to say on that issue and I for one am welcoming this opporuntity to shut my dirty mouth.
Belly Buttoner Of Leek