ROSIE RYAN BOG WOMAN EXTRAORDINAIRE

I was asleep in bed, curled up coquettishly in the fatal position, like a big shrimp or a woodland faiere. I was arrayed-alluringly in ex-Israeli special forces kar-key pyjamas. Yehweh was ritten across the back of the pyjamas, it probably means, "All for one and one for all" in Israeli. Even when asleep, I could not help giving off a hi-frequenecy sexual radiance. I was softly-humming, like a nuclear reactor, sending out pulses and waves of pure feminine beauty, grace and attractifness. What a subject for a masterpiece by wan of the old masters, like Van-Go, Tight-Ann or Goy-Yah. "Rosie Rayan aslumber in her bude-wah" it could be called. Beauty, captured, for ever on canvas, for the titalition and indeed, delication of art lovers everywhere. As the rooster crowed from the midden of dung, I opened my oculars, threw off the bedcloths and prepared two meet another day. "Greetings little red caped farmyard foul" I cried. "Heralder of dawn, sturdy little, feathered sentinel, calling like wan of them boys up on a mosque, for the people too leap up and greet the coming day". I then went into my morning excercies, bend to the rite, bend to the left, running on the spot and trying too touch my toes. This dawnish exteration lead two much breaking of wind, which greatly inproved my constitution and red me out for the day. As the fowl gasses billowed up like veritable thunder clouds, I ran--lady-like too open the winda. I had too rub the condisencion from the pain of glass, before I could gaze at the pornographic vista which lay outside. The bog was still there, exactly where it was last nite. I am always feard that boys mite come in the middle of the nite and take the bog away in lorries. As the bracing, fresh air filled my room, I nudged the full po in under the bed with my big tow. One thing I abhor is cleaning up spilled urine, the chlorine brings tears too my eyes. Suddenly, my grate brane threw out a thought, could urine and onions be related? When one peels an onion, tears flow as layer after layer is exposed, could the pure, essance of-urine lie at the heart of an-onion? I must rite too the effing Ramsey cook too sea what he thinks. I may have hit on something that could change the cullinary landscape. "First dice an onion into a hot frying pan, if you haven't got an onion, just squat on the frying pan and release about 10 cubic centimeteres of-urine" It could revolunise the art of cooking. Young female cooks wood have two learn the art of squatting over a red hot frying pan without burning their under-carriages. And health and safety, wood probably insist on a-Brazilian, too decrease the chances of fire.
"Rosie" I said to myself "What a woman you are, you arise from your nightly slumbers and before you kan say, "Fats Domino" your mighty brane is spewing out thoughts and ideas like Gally-Leo, Pluto and the boy who invented the sliced pan loaf".
My Sun Bon Jovi looked at me with his good eye, as he stuffed a paris bun into his facial orfice and said. "Imagine this!, I go two skool-rite?" "Go on" I said As I gave the dog a riser for leaving feaces on the floor. "I go too skool" said Bon Jovi "I study hard and become a teecher, then I teech children and they go on to become teechers two!. !What's rong with that?" I said "You have a good job and you are looked up two in the community, what's rong with that?". "Let me expand" said Bon Jovi. "Recapping, I study to be a teecher, then I teech wains and they all go on too become-teechers and then the wains they teech go on too become-teechers, Do you sea what I'm getting at?" "I do knot" I said "You are spreading headcuation-like slurry on a field, you are making more teechers, what's rong with that?"
"The circle must be broken" roared Bon Jovi "If we go on, producing teechers ad nauseam and ad finitum, its just groundhog day all over again. Bye now, the hole world is-teechers, but ad interim, who is going two clean out shucks, grow spuds or make-pan loaves?"
I stood back in wonder and agogness, My sun, my only begotten-sun, he who had sprang from my lions had come up with that condimentum!. So young, so unwordly, so-fat and yet, there he stood, in unlaced hobnailed boots, coming out with a highly headucated cracker like that.
I patted the cubs big, round, cannon ball head and said, "Well done number one sun, but the answer is simple, the shucks will still be cleaned, the spuds grown and the pan loaves made".
"Who's going too do it?" yelled Bon Jovi.
"Elementally my deer Bon Jovi" I said. "The teechers wool do all those jobs during the big, long holly-daze they get".
The cub made a face, kicked the coal bucket and muttered softly-"Bollocks".
"What did you say?" I roared. "What did you say just now?"
Bon Jovi, gleeked up with a face full of innonence, but a craftey look in his eye and replied.
"I said-Pollocks, the Pollocks were all good painters, but Jackson Pollock, was the best painter of them all".
I watched the cub go off two skool, with his skoolbag trailing in skitter. Master Bon Jovi was getting too fly, too fly for his own good, I must keep him off skool one day a weak, in case he turns into a smart ass. No one likes a-smart ass, not even their mother. Saint Paul indeed was rite, when he rote two the phillistines, "A Little Learning Is A Dangerous Thing"

My book, Rosie Ryan's letters to Gerry Anderson is availabe from all Eason shops and from the igidt below.
jpmcmenamin@gmail.com
Go now to www.greatshowlastweekkid.blogspot.com
I must away now, po's too empty and bread to bake.