Ye Gods... Will It Never End? (#4)

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.

damn upham. you slay me.
did anyone else get visions of monkey butlers reading this??

Ahhhhh… Monkey Waiter… Would that there could be a monkey waiter wearing a tie dyed beanie singing a song of love and truth under a Jamican moon in june tied to a baloon and a baboon, soon soon soon says the wall paper godess of love and chedder. I never met a cannon i didn’t want to fire, right off a pier so the fishes can kill each other off slowlybut in such a way as to keep the world fed and happy for years to come.

Or maybe i should just go to sleep

Yes, I think sleep would help…although, I don’t think there’s anything that can help you anymore…pats you there, there.

I’m not sure if this is a stream of consciousness or a sewer. No, it’s too clean for a sewer. Plus there aren’t any alligators. Or crocodiles. Come to think of it, the sewer’s a great big ecosystem, isn’t it? Goodness, it’s just swimming with alligators (or was it crocodiles?), bacteria, single celled organisms, spermatazoa (damn shower masturbators), and all sorts of things. It’s almost as if it’s alive, huh? And if it’s alive, then it must think (there’s a flaw in dualism somewhere, I swear), and if it’s thinking (kinda like the Dreamcast), then that must be a sewer of consciousness!

[sub]Or not…[/sub]
::dodges barrage of rotten vegetables::

Hell, I got visions of monkey butlers writing this.
Sometimes I think Upham has a room full of monkeys and is testing that theory about the complete works of Shakespeare thing and every once in a while, one of the monkeys comes up with something like this.

If I was 10 years younger, unmarried and in Canada, I would screw the crap out of you.

You are the type of guy that I LOVE…wickedly funny and demented.

Instant Sig line! Sue, my darling, why let such tiny diferences hold you back?? Did i mention it’s lovely in Canada this time of year?

Running gauntlets of over cleaned medical equipment and huge dobermans straining at ropes of braded bailer twine sings a spunkey monkey waiter and a colored fishing line, he’s running down the gauntlets path on a mission to the sea with angry bears and split end hairs and a rather wondered me. I dunno just what he’s up to, it’s getting to be way too narrow a subject for my head right now. It’s all addled on Chamomile Tea and the left over rum i found in the cup board which is senceless cause it’s neither a board nor does it house any cups. It is, simply, a rum hole.

And the glass i drank it out of came from the sink, damnit, which is going no where at all much less being sunk any more then it is sunk into the counter top but fuck that hardly counts a lepers knee in this crazy mixed up world of Vegimite and crackers offered by a perfect stranger with an odd little grin on her face and nice boobs.

I’m so god damn tired and i have no choice but to get drunk tomorrow, dear god, do you know what that’s like? i HAVE to get drunk tomorrow, starting around 2, go figure, hopefully nothing will catch fire cause i’m SURE i’ll be in no condition to deal with it soon i might be yellow is a color in a Jimi Hendrix song i used to listen to back in the days when i used to sneak out of my dorm really really lately i’ve been thinking maybe it’s time to go to New Zealand and build a shack and pick Bananas for breakfast like a distant dead relitive my Grand Mother told me about, and she knows there the center of the universe is (no joke) and told me and i’m gettin blitzed there come spring, brother, cause that’s where the Local Rebelion started 200 years ago and, friends, this is where it will end.

[sub]chew on that[/sub]

Don’t feel bad, Upham. That’s the story of my life too. Everyone’s got an excuse. :wink:

They also invented Scotch. When they invented golf they were obviously drunk. It makes little sense to a sober man.