KALAMITY!-then-QUACK,QUACK,QUACK

I danced daintly like a bally-rena, as I slipped demurly into my alluring, bewitching red flannel drawers with the stout treble gusset. I yelped, like a pup with worms as I felt the groaping, icy fingers of Jack Frost futtering round my secret, maidenly nooks and grannies. With a mighty heave, I pulled the drawers over my plump, voluptuous ars--rear and with a TWANG of elastic, anchored them two my freckled belly. Now I felt secure, Now I could face anything, knowing that my reproducing organs where konceled by the stout red flannel, that used two be used to make sales for sailing ships. Its hard two believe, that the same material that clung to my lithe, slender body, had once powered ships like the Bounty.
I daintly flicked away a cobweb from the suit-stained window and glanced out at the coming day. The North/East wind was veering from Gortin and surrounding districts, bringing with it the aroma of fried bread and dirty wains. I sat, legs akimbo in front of the turf fire. I could feel the life giving warmth permanate the parts that central heating could never reach. I reached, languidly for the buttered heel of a pan loaf and stuffed it with maidenly grace and grate fin-ese into my waiting gub. I took a slug of Punjanna and said, "Rosie Ryan, give thanks, give thanks too the good Cat-Lick God, that gave you grate beauty, poise and grace. People have kompared you too Kate Moss, the model who snuffs obnoxios substances up her hooter. Your sun, Bon Jovi, the boy child who sprang from your lions, is a cub of extraordinary ability. That cub wool make his mark in Hi-finance, doctoring or driving a big, red dung spreader. Your boyfriend, Chuck Corona, is a prince among men. He is a squat, round headed, pox-marked example of what a homo-sapien should be. You have plenty of turf at the haggard, a midden, full of good, ripe dung and a wheel barrow, with know squeaks in the wheel. Your water barrel is full of clear, sparkling H2o and your newly half soled hobnailed boots wool propell you threw any ice, slush or snow drifts that the coming Winter mite send. You are as happy as a door-mouse in your snug little nest. Let it rain, let it snow, let the cold wild Winter blow, you and your sun wool be happy". I arose-gracefully from my refractins and pulled on my mammy's brown duffle coat, with the wooden toggles on it. I needed excercise, I felt a compulsion two walk in the wilderness of the bog. Throwing out my knees with abandon and mulling over the reason for so much dark matter in the Universe and surrounding districts. Off I sallied threw the rushes, a slim, slender, statuesque 18 stone maiden, with the beauty of Cleopatra and Helen of Troy rolled into one. I could see, in my minds eye, the God's on Mount Olympus looking down and saying, "Hark, look there, in a bog adjacet two Clougher, walks a made in the form of a kuman, yet her bearing and her beauty testify that she must have come from the God's". I smiled-demurly, skipped like a would-land sprite, jumped a shuck with grate decorum and yelled at the top of my voice.
"UP TYRONE, WE'RE THE BOY'S WHO KAN DO THE DOUBLE" Then, Kalamity! Heftness came upon me like a thief in the nite. I ran, frantically for a large standing stone. With grate urgency, I divested all my under-carriage cloths, and squatted down, like a rhode island hen about two lay an egg. OH, the relief, It seemed as if a grate weigh had bean lifted off me. I remained in the squatting position. A frolicing zepher of wind played with my matted, mass of red hare. My scrutinsing occulars took in the beauty of nature. My lug-wholes were attuned two the cheeps of the birds in the air. A rabbit hopped up too me and gazed at me with twitching nose. "Hey, what's up Doc" I said in frivolous fashion. I was in-gay, carefree mood, as I squatted there, where long, long ago, the Druids sacrified virgins and then danced the nite away too the music of pipes and boran. SUDDENLY, a mental hand-grenade exploded in my head. I had know toilet paper! I looked around, frantically for grass, but the place where I squatted was devoid of vegetation. I searched my pockets for tissues--NONE!, What could I do? The beauty of the bog, was devoid of bum fodder. In desperation, I began two prey two saint Gunter, the patron saint of people with know toilet paper. "Oh, saint Gunter" I shrieked, "Look down with favour on your squatting daughter, send something, anything, two ease my plight-AMEN"
No sooner had the words left my lips, that a wild duck appeared, leading a flock of ducklings. As each duckling passed, I picked it up--used it and then picked up another one. Luckily the wild duck had hatched a large brood. So-soft, much better than the labrador pup. I arose from my squatting position and left that place, giving glory two the Lord for creating the humble wild duck, oh so handy two those in need. The morale is--never leave the house, without a piece of newspaper in your pocket. For as the good book says, "You know neither the time or hour".
My book, Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson, would make a good Christmas present for a loved one--or your husband. Contact this boy..
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
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www.greatshowlastweekkid.blogspot.com