Saturday 7 June 2008

ROSIE RYAN,THE ESSANCE OF-WOMAN

I awoke from my slumber, at the first crow of the little, red rooster. My late, deseased daddy, my past on daddy hated two get up, he used two set the rooster an hour fast, so he could have a lie in. I was attired provokitely in American Army kar-kee sea-through baby doll pyjamas. There was a crest of a bald eagle over the crutch and on the back was rote, "FOR GOD-AND AMERICA". Because of the transparency of my nite wear and the tantalising effect it could have on men, decorum necessated that I wear a long black simmet under it, that came down too my bulbus, plump, girlish, maidenly knees.
My sun, Bon Jovi, was still asleep in his cardboard box, kindly donated bye Mr Kellog.
What should I do first? empty the po's or make the tea? It reminded me of Open The Box so many years ago, hosted bye Michael Miles, I smiled at the kat and roared.
"What should she do folks? make the tee or empty the po;s?" I swear, I saw the kat give a little smile, before it went back two licking--well, never mind, what it was licking-but you wouldn't catch me doing it
I opened the front door, kept it ajar with a hobnailed boot, picked up the too po's, observing that BOn JOvi's kontained a-floater and skipped across the road, like a fairy on Red Bull, I lashed both po's over a telegram pole, before I could make my return journey, three of SEan Quinn's big, green, cemente lorries, came thundering round the korner with the lights flashin' and the horns blarin', the trio of drivers, rolled down their windas and roared as one, "HELLO ROSIE, MAY HAND ON YER DRAWERS". "Go on you cheeky little rascels" I screamed, I like Sean Quinn's drivers, many a dinner of road kill they have provided for me and my sun.
CHuck Corona, my bow came round in the afternoon, Chuck looked positevly-radient, dressed as he was in tie-died tee-shirt,a scarlet neckerchief tied like a hangmans rope round his bull neck and a lovely pear of sandels, in a nice grizzly bare brown colour.
But the piece of resistance, that caught my eye, was his little, tite shorts in a beautiful primrose yella. I feasted my girlish occulars on him and trembled like a highly-strung race horse.
Chuck did knot come empty handed, he brought a pound of "special" mince, a pan loaf and a copy of Ireland's Own. After a good tightener, washed down with mugs of Iron BRue, Chuck sat back on the sofa and opened Ireland's Own.
"Rosie, my little peekineze" said Chuck. "Yes, my petite salamander" I cooed.
"Did you no" said Chuck "That Cleopatra, is over too thousand years old?"
I peeked over Chuck's manly shoulder and said "She's still a fine looking woman, look at that lovely dark hare". "Yes Rosie" said Chuck "But you do no that Cleopatra is a mummy?"
"Ah, Chuck, Chuck" I chided, "I'm sure that some man wood take her and bring the wain up as his own"
Chuck looked at me and said "Bay God Rosie, you ARE from Tyrone".
"Of course I is" I laughed "and we'll lift the Sam Maguire this year, you just watch."
"Any thing else in the paper?" I asked. "Yes" said Chuck "Some auld boy in his 80's is looking for a girl in her 20's ,, for, as he says, fun, frolics and how's your father"?
"The dirty auld brute" I ejaculated, "A boy like that should be castigated".
"Ah, don't be two sore on him" said Chuck "All this Vigra and stuff, is driving auld bucks into a frenzy. Instead of dying and making their will's, they are scouring the hi-ways and bye-ways looking for weeman" "What has cat-lick Ireland come two?" I said "Saint Patrick, should send back the snakes, if them auld boys found a sidewinder in the fork of there trousers, it wood put the auld sexy stuff out of their auld, grey, konfused heads"
REply, Chuck made-none, he just screwed up his face and crossed his legs.
I sat-with drool running down my chin, staring at his little, primrose, yella shorts.
Ah, Lamor--Age shall knot wither you, nor thyme dee-kay.

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