Born in a cave by horned Norse demons
It’s elemental whitefro maniac Richard “erotic glance” Simmons
Once saw him on a train platform (could be true, you don’t know). Oozes a raw animal magnetism that makes me want to sweat to his oldies by which I can only assume I meant something hilarious.
Chim chim chicken limbs! Another week of this crazy helter skelter (had to labor to convince my phone to not autocorrect that to “belted smelter”) gauntlet we call life. Life is calling will you accept the charges? The charge is MURDER! Murder most foul? Murder most fowl. Back to those chicken limbs.
As you might have gathered, I have nothing to say. Not a damn thing. You can show yourself out. Take a pocket full of jellybeans from the big bowl on your way. They’re there for visitors. I’m trying to watch my figure.
You’re still here?! I thought I told you to leave! Get out! I don’t care if the bus is on strike. Get out and walk, princess.
I’d call you a worm, but Terry here would get offended. And he’s already been pretty off with me since I told his kids about the Tooth Fairy. Now they feel like they’re missing out.
If you’re still reading, you passed the test and good on you. You will now receive your reward. With my writers wand I shall weave for you a tale that will let your emotions soar like the noble kestrel and bring to mind such sorrow and tragedy as hasn’t been seen since fair Juliet cleft her bosom in twain at the slumbering frame of her beloved Ro-ro. Which was her nickname for him.
Also I got a bunch of coupons for unlicensed beauty treatments down at my gym. They will wax anything no questions asked. They can do it so cheap because they hire all these young karate students as interns.
Wax on wax off. Proper belly laughs there. See? Aren’t you glad you kept reading.
Now to the meat of our tale. It’s veally good. Veal is a meat.
For this past Yuletide as well as dropping the routine of relaying Christmases between Ireland and Canada, we instead flew to France with a decent (and occasionally indecent) portion of my dear familia.
As well as eating our way towards having a story to tell every time we went to the terlet, we generally swanned about achieving little to nothing and standing out like a D minor 3rd in Mozarts Concerto number 7.
I listened to some classical music in the week and I’m getting ideas of my station. I don’t even know if any of that crap I said is real. What the hell’s a Mozart? Is it that little stick the fancy butler waves around in the music place? When he makes the guys with musical instruments make squeak boom swoosh noises?
Cronk no know name of thing good like you smart people. Cronk sorry. Teach Cronk to love. Cronk will cook you lima bean casserole. Cronk see on Jamie.
Cronk’s the best.
One of the most significant ways we stood out from the Frenchies was by taking part in a Christmas Day swim. Meters from the Croisette, the A1 promenade of the Cote D’Azur I and several of my kin disrobed and shuffled miserably into the grey surf like so many of our country(wo)men were doing at home and absolutely zero French. Shivering, lobster-pinkened gams are not the Cannes way of celebrating Christmas apparently.
To be fair there was one lad far over the way who got a bit nude, walked towards the water and then pissed off, but I think he was hoping the water contained someone else’s wife with whom he could adulterate. On discovering the smell was seaweed and the squawking was not female humans but vomity seagulls, he packed up right smart.
While unlike him, my folks and I shuffled around in the water for a good 20 minutes. Swim 5 strokes. Do a wee. 3 back in the other direction. Float. Spit. Check if nutcutlet number two has receded. Stub toe on rock. Little more wee. Swimming!
It was so pleasant in fact and the water so relatively warm I went back the second day for another awkward shuffle in the… spume (one of my top ten words there). On both occasions I was imbued post-float with a hearty satisfaction that I had ticked off a solid amount of accomplishment for the day, which left me the rest of my diurnal cycle for cheap rose, eating mustard flavor crisps (you haven’t been BORN until you’ve got into those bad boys) and collecting paper sweating bags of pain au chocolat from the bakery under our apartment.
There was also some spinning logs of heaven four doors down, including one which was stacked with veal. As you may have gathered from my earlier veal joke, I’ve been thinking about it a lot.
Unsustainably delicious geography.
After achieving quite the nothing for several days we returned to bleak old Blighty where Meg and I started the laborious task of forcing ourselves through the house repository of chocolate, macaroons and several things we had bought new forgetting that we were about to go on a diet. The cruelest bite. As they say.
Before that though we had then birthday girl (she is now furious with me), my dear mater on our doorstep for New Years. She was adamant that she would not spend New Years day, her birthday waking up on our couch after over indulging on my paint-thinner margheritas so I had to walk her back to the hotel in the first minutes of the new year while both of us struggled to digest a Patron’s ransom in tequila and lime.
In other news, Meg is convinced that I peeked at her wedding dress because I knew about some feature that she had previously told me about. Well if had ever considered taking a peek, I could never do it now. Smart money is she’s booby trapped the fecker and two teeth down on the zipper to the bag it’s in, I’d find myself covered in fire-ants soaked in cat piss. She has means that one.
Cronkoner of Leek