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Post NumberForty Nine (Final)

“A Dram of Blogmas Cheer”

Once more the season is upon us when we hear the door-slamming sounds of the blogs o’ the world coming to a close. Yes, it’s BLOGMAS TIME again! Blogmas Time: When all the joy-filled cyber-kids dance around the Blogmas Tree (before grinding it up and vaping it). When colourful Blogmas Condoms are nailed above the fireplace for the Blogmas Bunny to fill up with large– and it should be said: not very tasty– sultanas. When traditional drinks like BLOG-NOG (made from talcum-powdered eggs and a splash of Crème de Meth) are guzzled robustly from blog-nog tumblers. (NOTE: Alternative Blog-Nog Recipes are invited here.) When– (Let me clarify. What I mean is, you the Reading Person are hereby invited to POST alternative blog-nog recipes on the end of this Posting. I did not mean I was inviting the alternative MUSIC band, “The Blog-Nog Recipes”, to my house. Because The Blog-Nog Recipes– especially when touring– are notorious for such blog ‘n’ roll behaviour as:

  1. eating wafers without a plate {Crom help us}, then brushing the crumbs onto the carpet; and finally
  2. putting their blog-nog tumblers on coffee tables without using tumbler coasters.

 

And that’s heavy shit right now, man. Heavy Shit. Especially given the mood my Mum’s been submerged in ever since she discovered I was harbouring an escaped scumbag {i.e. her brother} for a few days.)

Where was I? Ummmm…Oh, who cares? It’s BLOGMAS TIME! Try t’ loosen up a bit! Ploise! Get the fuck FESTIVE! Because from this moment on there gunna be nuffin’ but Good News from D.D.T.

ITEM ONE: (Yes, by popular demand, I’ve selflessly gone back to the “I” word again.) My grave doubtings and hesitatings re: the possibility that Mike’s “N’Tasha” may very well have been the same person (more or less) as my “NA-Tasha” have now been frog-marched off to oblivion. Why? Well, obviously because I have now actually met Mike’s N’Tasha (der!) and she was (and is) (as expected) a plump little African chick who looks nothin’ like my Natasha. (That is, apart from the fact they’re both Black.) And so those final moments of trailing away at the end of my previous Posting (48) were built on unfounded foundations o’ fear. Which means my wooing of Natasha Mach One may now resume.

ITEM TWO: I killed Alistair Vivekenanda.

ITEM THREE: More good news! Your Correspondent (me) (and you should know that by now) bumped into the GANOOSH BOYS the other day, and their nose-nerve issues are, like, fully sorted. Of course, they must thank you-know-who (Your Correspondent) for that, because I was the angel of salvation who first offered First Aid. All aid that came after mine was merely Second or Third Aid (though, in fairness to the wide world of Healthcare, things never got so bad that the boys needed FOURTH Aid– otherwise known as “an autopsy”).

Yes, it was I and I alone who did the lifestyle-saving procedure called (in medical circles) The Mighty Snip– without hearing so much as an AGONIZED SHRIEK OF THANKS, I might add (hmph). Instead, the now-late Alistair Vivekenanda got all the plaudits from the kids’ Clan, as well as (I’m guessing) at least some of the celebratory bazooka-fire that should’a been aimed at my house, damn his worm-filled carcass!!

Meanwhile, my keen eye for rotting flesh noted how the twins’s noses had become a worrisome shade of purple. When I pointed this out (just in case either of the boys thought it was only the other one’s nose lookin’ festy) they said their doctor (misquote) “in Toyland” (un-misquote) already told them a bit of nasal festiness was “normal”– even for those who never even had naso-surgery.

Now, for a couple of minutes, I thought I knew the reason they had their plastic surgery in “Toyland” of all Zeus-forsaken places. It was obviously because that’s where the plastic toys are– including the plastic SURGICAL toys which promised (and for all I know, delivered) Hours of Surgical Fun for kids, ages 5 to 55 (because older and younger kids were deemed a “swallowing risk”, according to the box). Wasting no time, I went there (i.e. Toyland). I suppose you’re wondering why. The answer is pending, but first some back story.

See, it so happens that the boys didn’t have their plastic surgery in “Toyland” at all. They had it in Thailand. Furthermore, the doctor who removed their Nerves de la Nose went by the name of (yer gunna love this) TOCSIN RASHAPOON!!

But that’s not all.

Doctor Tocsin Rashapoon earned his rep as a special kind’a specialist who (hold onto your seatbelts) extracted a massive STRASSBERG from the rectum of a guy called “Sam”– the same Sam who ran (you better sit down for this) AN INTERNATIONAL SAUSAGE-SMUGGLIN’ SYNDICATE!!

So that’s where Michelangelo Spilligan got the bright idea to pretend all sorts o’ shit pertaining to the above!

Then the pennies dropped off my eyes. If those Ganooshlets got the pronunciation of Toyland-slash-Thailand wrong once, then why the flippin’ heck would they not get it wrong TWICE?? Meaning, of course, that Alistair Vivekenanda was not (quote) “in Thailand” but in TOYLAND!!

Immediately, I sprung into anger, cursing those nasally-accented boys who sent me packin’ to the wrong sort of “land”– one full of Thais (and other haberdashery) instead of plastic knick-knacks. Then I set off (again).

When I got there (i.e. Toyland) having hitched a ride on the Toyland Express, I decided the best thing would be for me to lose myself among the consoomer kiddies, blending in so that Alistair wouldn’t see me. This wouldn’t be hard because I’m a Dwarf– which means I’m roughly the same size as the average kid (or to put it more accurately, I’m the average-sized one whereas YOUR CHILDREN (Mums ‘n’ Dads o’ the world) are nothing but humongous, monster-sized freaks… Which is fine! I mean, I’m okay with it… Really… Having been born without nipples myself {and therefore qualifying as a “freak”, too} I think it’s great…)

And yet size does count when you’re hiding from a ginormous Bastard– especially one formerly (not “formally”) employed (when he was alive. Hence “formerly”) as a Toy Shop Shelf Stacker. That was the state I caught him in right then and there, at the top of the ladder scanning items with a beep gun.

A LAW AND ORDER QUESTION: Am I alone in considering the scanning beeper gun a dangerous weapon? Let’s hope not. The second I saw that working class thug Alistair pointing his beeper within 180 degrees of where I stood, I dived headlong for the frisbee shelf, groping for an equal and/or opposite weapon to counter-beep him with; and in the process of so diving (because I was, like, SO diving) I bumped his ladder with my Elbow of Steel, thus causing the ladder to topple and Alistair Vivekenanda to land flat on his head, snuffing his life out instantly.

That is my diagnosis.

And as an expert on Death (having died once or twice m’self) I know my diagnosis is correct. So in this–the most festive (and least festy) season on the laptop calendar– I’ve been given the greatest gift of all: the Gift of Death. From personal experience I know exactly how great that gift is. And if Alistair Vivekenanda manages to recover from his death (as I did from a couple of mine) then he should thank me.

Just like I’m thankin’ YOU, Glorious Reader!

FIN