I’m going to write a book. Or at least a short story. Something. But not right now.
It’s going to be about the Crimean War. British infantry troops will be trying to cross a river. They’ll fight adverse conditions and rain, snow, poorly sewn jackets made of primitave vulcanised rubber, uncomfortable tents and they’ll complain a lot.
I’m going to call it “Crimea River”. I’ll make millions. (Man, i hope someone gets that… then again maybe it’s for the best if no one does…)
Messed up little puns like that drive me insane. They fly into my head and get stuck there, like bugs smashing into the windshield of my soul. They usually hit when i’m driving too, which sucks, because every time i make a move to write them down i narrowly avoid smashing a little old lady carrying a basket of eggs to little yolkie bits. So i always forget them. Take that thing about the old woman, i had an absolutely kick ass pun about that. Gone, like to boobie bird (yet another pun waiting to happen)
I thought of one as i was driving along today. Not exactly a pun, but it’s one of the few things i’ve retained. It’s about Golf and why it makes perfect sense for men. The whole point of the game is finding that hole way, way off some place that you can get into and then spending the whole rest of the game trying to get into it. See? And this is the stuff i remember. It’s a sad, sad state of affairs, friends.
Golf (which i always want to spell as Golph) was invented by the Scottish. I have no idea why. So was curling.
Scottish always makes me think Scotch. Scotch always makes me remember that morning i was walking home and realized i had lost my socks and had no idea where they’d gone. I Still had my shoes though, which was good, because i’d had to pretend to be sober for the Staff meeting i was walking home from - it having been earlier that morning.
That would have been hard enough considering an hour earlier (and for several hours before that) i’d been sitting on a car with a friend taking rum and scotch shots, but to pull this off with no shoes would have been impossible, people equate them with sobriety for reasons i’ll never understand.
I think i may have burned them, the socks that is. I defiantly wouldn’t put it past my self, and there’s a gap of about an hour around 4am that night i can’t account for. I also vaguely remember smelling something so horrible, so paint pealing that it drove an elderly lady from the campground we were in. A guard came by around 6 and informed us of this and several other very damning things some people matching our descriptions and levels of intoxication were reputed to have done. I dunno though, because i have no memory of that woman OR her kitchen.
Meah, fun is fun.
