Post Number Forty Two

“How Date Night Went Bad”

And so my rage was reborn (again). Reborn– to some degree– by the pick-Pick-PICKINESS of the Bowling Rink Walla, who didn’t mind so much when my Date used a bowling ball to knock a few “bottles” down, but threatened COP ACTION when I did the same. Of course, the bottles I demolished were in a glass fridge behind the bar… But fuck, man! FUCK!! When they encourage that sort’a thing wha’ d’ they expect?

I tried making that exact point with said Bowling Rink Walla (see above) but Natasha De Nasha boldly stepped in.

“You’ll have to excuse my pet human,” she said. “He’s a bit retarded.”

“Good,” I whispered. “Good plan… The Insanity Defence… Tell her the two of us are jus’ plain spastic.”

“You’re the ‘spastic’ one, Drooligan!” she cleverly fibbed, keeping the act up. “Now let’s get out of here before we end up having a dinner date in SEPARATE jails nex’ time.”

“Not without my bowling ball,” I stubbornly declared.

“That’s our bowling ball!” the Rink Walla butted in.

“What, y’ mean they’re not complimentary?” I boggled. “Like match-books? Or beer jugs? Well, if that’s the case, then I’m afraid I shall have to take my vandalism elsewhere!”

Which I did. With as much righteous indignation as an offended multiple offender could muster.

I wasn’t only raging because of the pickiness o’ the Rink Walla, though. She was what they call an “escapegoat”. Because I was using her “goat”-like tendency to butt in as an excuse to “escape” my troubles– for most of which I had only one person to blame: UNCLE MIKE SPILLIGAN. Yes, Mikey-Mike himself, who texted me a whole alphabet-soup-load of grief.

Needless to say, date night was aborted. Sure, I’m okay to blog about it NOW because I’ve chilled. But straight afterwards I got so clogged up with rage that I had Constipation of the Brain. Could not get me thoughts in order. All I could manage was the occasional brain fart, which sounded like a snort of annoyance and got me some weird stares on the train ride goin’ home.

When my thoughts became clear a few days later (because I stuffed some anti-flatulence charcoal in my ears to stop the brain farting) I decided to find out what was going on. So I phoned Uncle Mike and actively queried him. Yes, I knew that was a risky tactic. Michelangelo Spilligan is not the sort of hombre who likes to be actively queried. He’s Old School. Prefers to be passively queried, if at all. But there were answers I needed– and soon. Answers to questions like:

“How did you stumble upon my worst enemy (i.e. Alistair) when– being a prisoner– you are (shall we say?) hardly the Great Outdoorsy type?”

He said he didn’t actually meet Smelly Stare “indoorsy” (meaning jail), but rather met someone else indoorsy who knew him outdoorsy. That someone had the surname of (brace yourself) GANOOSH. What possible reason (I wondered) could a “person” from the Clan Ganoosh be locked in jail for? Apart from… y’know… firing bazookas at people’s homes ‘n’ shit.

All beside the point. The thing that really mattered was how this Prisoner Ganoosh felt he owed Alistair a favour for (get this) “fixing his twin cousin’s’s nose-hair problem”. So when Uncle Mike felt a bit glum that I “failed” (in his opinion) the Tocsin Rashapoon Test, he mentioned he needed someone else to become “that Rashapoon dood”– and Priz Ganoosh recommended you-know-who. At which Michelangelo (get this) texted him an offer, and Alistair Vivekenanda texted back a big, fat MAYBE. Which means Alistair is now the NEW Tocsin Rashapoon! (Maybe!)

Just wait until Wangadang Singalot hears about this.

That’s not the only piece of Mike-related news I got, either. Because he also told me, on the prison land-line phone (in what you would think was a dangerously loud voice) that he planned on ESCAPIN’. Seems he’d (quote) “had enough” o’ the dungeon after nearly two long years.

I was dumbstruck and said: “I thought you liked it in there.”

He replied: “Once upon a jail time I did. But that was before I found out the place is… well, it’s… it’s full of Unwelcome Queries”.

“No!” I blurted.

“Yes!” he counter-blurted.

“Well, can’t you just… I dunno… tell people t’ mind their own beeswax or somethin’?”

“Alas, nephew, I cannot,” he sadly sighed. “For they are a persistent breed, the Queries.” (Hunh?) “I’m afraid the only place I’ll ever be truly free… is in those bits o’ the country that aren’t jail”. Then he added: “Even though there are heaps’a  stinky… germy… FEMALES out there.”

Oh, Judge Him Not for his criminal words, Kind Reader! Those words that have perhaps a hint of sexism in ’em. Remember only this: Michelangelo Spilligan comes from an older generation than yours ‘n’ mine. Four years older, to be precise. Than mine, anyway…

But when you stop ‘n’ think for a moment, you might remember what I said re: Mike’s dislike of being “actively queried” (see above). He does not “welcome” it (see above). That’s because Mike is an Old School hombre. The type of Man’s Man who does Man’s Man stuff. Like sausage smugglin’. And lifting shirts in the prison laundry. And polishing buoys in the prison sweatshop. And getting passively queried (if at all). And havin’ conjugal visits with Aunty Beryl and… her… strap-on… strassburg….


Actually, I’m starting to think that Mike might have other motives for his (obvious) urge to prolong his prison sentence by escaping (and eventually gettin’ caught again– as he will). And I bet you and me (both) have read the same tea-leaves on this one, Reader. Yes, it would seem that after nearly two full years trapped in a “boys only” environment, Uncle Mike Spilligan has become… institutionalized!