Sunday 30 November 2008

EVeN THE MICICLES HAD ICICLES HANGING FROM THEIR NO'S

"When tempest blast and rain doth pour, wench arise and,SHUT THAT DOOR!" (Shakespeare)
The cold rain was fair lashing off my winda and icy blasts of sleet beat against the door. Wind blue down the chimney, making my fire of bog oak, milk cartoons and an old plastic bucket flare up and illuminate the dark, gloomy room with heat, warmth and unbounded snugness.
I was langushing-gracefully on a meel bag, Chuck Corona my boyfriend and Free State Latherio lay over my knee, like a beached, blubberous bull seal. I looked down at my lover, Chuck Corona, the only wan, apart from mammy and daddy, who new about the pentacle shaped birthmark on my rite hip. We had know secrets, I new Chuck's body like the back of my hand. The wild hairy back, like a babboon, the dunt that Shane McGowan gave him on the ribs and the squelching sounds his oxters made, when the sweat was fair lashing off him.
I gazed down at Chuck from under my red, bushy eyebrows. I scrutinised my-paramour, the squat, round head, the rugged pox-marked face, the nose, bent slightly too the left, dew too a batter from Eamon Dumphy. The deep set eyes, covered by wan black hairy eyebrow. I lowered my eyes-demurely, and imagined his swirrly belly button under his lime green gansey, a belly button that could hold more blew fluff than any man I new. Chuck gazed up at me with too black eyes, eyes as black as a bog whole with know bottom. I spat out a glob of flem and smiled down at Chuck, Chuch responded by pulling back his thick, rubbery lips and revealing his mouthfull of uneven gnashers. "Look at-you" I cooed.
"Look at-you" growled Chuck. Static electricity ricocheted off the walls, like bullets from an AK47 assualt rifle. Chuck pursed his lips out like a hen trying to lay a giant egg. I gazed in wonder, at a stream of silvery, saliva running down the deep cleft in his chin. I bent over Chuck, my matted mass of red hare obscuring his charming visage. Our lips met with a-PLOP, I was overcome with the aroma of Coldgate toothpaste and John West tuna. Chuck nibbled at my bottom lip like a ferret. I grabbed Chuck's sticky-out ears with both hands and wrung them like a dish cloth. Chuck's Hush Puppie shoes, were scrabbling for traction on the cold, cement floor. My too sturdy legs were going into spasmodic spasms, making my hobnailed boots beat a tatoo on the floor. LOve was in the air, I could feel it in my fingers, I could feel it in my toes. It was a nite for--lamore, a nite for-love. With a girlish wiggle, I manuvered by slim, slender 18 stone feminine body to get a better grab at Chuck. THEN, the meel bag tilted over and I was through on my arse too the floor, up two the oxters in hen meel. Chuck pulled me out from the tsueami of chicken nourishment-but-the spell had bean broken the magic was-gone. I got demurely and gentilly too my feet, grabbed by sore ars--derriere and roared, "Hell, Damn, Bum and Blast" and I began too kick the be-jesus out of the bag of meel with my hobnailed boots.
Later, after a supper of fried stoat and John McCain oven chips, I deposed myself and calmed down. "Chuck" I riposted, "What are we going too kill and eat this year for us Kristmas dinner?" Chuck pursed out his thick lips and replied "What ever you like, my deer, I'm easy, what wood Bon Jovi like for his Kristmas dinner? For Kristmas is for the wains after all". I threw my slender, girlish, maidenly arms up in the air and yelled. "That sun of mine wood eat anything that isn't nailed down. I have never scene such a varocious appetite in a cub, I reached the wee gulpin the buttered heel of a pan loaf the other day and he nearly took the hand of me. The cub is a--rottweiler, a veritable-rottweiler". Chuck laughed and replied, "He's a growing boy, a growing boy wood eat you out of house and home". "But Chuck" I schreeched "the cub is knot growing UP, the cub is growing-OUT!" "Don't worry about the cub" said Chuck "Nature is just laying the foundations, when the foundations are sound, the cub wool spring up like a skyscraper. "I hope so" I said, biting my nails, "I don't want too be known as the mother of the cub, who is built like a brick shi--outhouse". "The cub wool be all rite" said Chuck "Now come and give daddy-some sugar". "Oh Chuck" I shrieked, "you have the sexual appetite of a pole kat" and I tripped-daintly across the floor and threw myself into the welcoming arms of-Chuck Corona. And daddy got his sugar, Chuck got more sugar that Tate and Lyle could made in a day.
But remember children, don't try this at home, Chuck Corona and me has an understanding from the boys in the Vatican. We have knot bean given the green lite-but we are on amber.

My book Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson can be had an any Eason Shop or from below.
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Go now to www.greatshowlastweekkid.blogspot.com
Oh, my bum is still sore from when I fell off the meel bag but is getting better by the day. rosie xxx

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