Post Number Thirty Nine

“My Lerrrrrve-Detector Goes Beep”

ITEM: Oh, to HELL with itemizing every damn thing I do, “just for economic reasons”! Better to make a long list of reasons why I shouldn’t be itemizing stuff. And right at the top o’ that list would be this: economics is a MYTH. Yair, that’s right: A MYTH. Like Jesus. Or G-Spots. It’s a complete fiction dreamt up to distract ordinary people from their day-to-day job of putting MONEY on the table. Which raises the question: Who do we blame for spreading this myth? Hm? Well, if we pause ‘n’ think for a change, it looks like we can only blame one person:

The Government.

Yes, the buh-LUDDY Government again. If only they’d spend a bit less time dwelling on these man-made myths like “economics” and a bit more time BUDGETING THE NATION’S MONEY, then perhaps I wouldn’t have the Global Financial Crisis I have today!

And I’m not saying all the above because I now (allegedly) “owe” the (so-called) “Government” a sum of (quote) “money”,  either. On the contrary, I’m saying if it wasn’t for this Government (whoever they are) making a total mess of the whole… foreign… money… swap… thing by allowing me to deceive myself (of all people) into believing that the Mighty Baht (as I now call it) was much less Mighty (as in, like, leaning more towards the “Puny” side of Mighty) than what I mighty thought, then I mighty not splashed out so much! Instead, I would’ve… I dunno… PLOPPED out. A bit more. With just a little plop here and a little plop there, instead of one great, big, filthy out-splashing.

So take some free advice from an older, wiser Duncan Dooligan, kids: if you ever go abroad, promise me that you will only “plop out” in manageable portions.

Meanwhile, back in the real (that is, un-economical) world, I had the great good fortune of getting scanned by NATASHA DE NASHA when I got back to my local Airporting Zone. I wondered (aloud) why– this time– she was checkin’ the incoming passengers, where before she was tweakin’ the outgoing ones. She told me she “swung both ways”, then added:

“Unlike your Uncle.”

Which is true. Mike is a straight arrow. And speaking of “straight arrows”, I had one o’ those in my pants (chortle) as Natasha de Nasha hovered her Metal-Detecting Tool above- and around m’ junk.

“Is that thing… only a metal detector,” I snickered, wickedly, “or does it also beep when a chap has WOOD?? uh-YOWZAH!!”

(Because {like I said} I had this charming little wooden arrow souvenir in my pocket that I was really pleased with. As you prob’ly guessed by the size of my Yowzah.)

And speaking of things in my trousings, I was momentarily distracted by “it” when it gave me the ol’ “downstairs twinge” to get my attention. We all know the twinge I’m talkin’ about. The one that most of us get in the todger whenever we stand within ten metres of any female we think we’ve got a reasonable chance with. (NOTE: It’s also the same twinge that rapidly escalates into a throb when we verbally exchange anything more than “helloes” with said female.)

Once the Downstairs Twinger got my divided attention, “he” (as it calls itself) said that word his kind often says: “PSSSSST!”

“Aw, what NOW, Cock?” I groaned, in a non-orgasmic way. “Can’t y’ see I’m up here workin’ me magic?”

(Luckily, Natasha De Nasha was recharging her metal detector’s batteries at the time, because that was when my cheese hose got vocal.)

“Now, do remember what one said, Old Snort,” he snorted. “If one plans on giving her one, then please– I repeat, PLEASE– endeavour to lubricate one’s head with a liberal dash of spit.”

“Why would I put spit on my head?” I wondered. “Some chicks might be turned off by that, smoochy-woochy-wise.”

“I meant my head, EEJIT!”

“Oh.”

After a few minutes, Natasha finally got her batteries up and running again. Then we began that mating rite commonly known as The Dance. I fluttered my eyebrows. She flared her trousers. I raised my expectations. She lowered her hemline. I threw my hat in the ring. She fingered it. Until, at last, I made the ultimate move– in asking her for a date.

“All RIGHT!!” she melted. “Jus’ give me back my metal detector!”

Which (after a brief tug-of-love) I did. So now I have a date with Natasha De Nasha. WOO-HOO!! I’m so nervous. What shall I wear? Shall I wear formal wear? Or tupper wear?