Wednesday, 23 December 2009

Another Kristmas

Deer Gerry, it is late as I rite this Eeh-pistol too you.
My boyfriend Chuck Corona has long gone home. Leaving me tingling and vibrating from a vigerous, yet tender groaping and fissling.
My boy child, the fertile fruit of my lions, wee Bon Jovi is in his cardboard box. He has knew HEY! so should be quite warm.
Well Gerry, another Kristmas is almost upon us.
Kristmas is a hapy time. And yet, par-a-dox-icaly kan also be a wild, tarra sad time. I am thinking of the empty chair Gerry. The empty chair at the head of the table where deer Pappa used to sit. Before the dirty auld gulpin took up with a painted trallop and left wife and family in search of karnal pleasure in the form of idolitery.
Sins of the flesh Gerry. Sins of the flesh make countless thousands mourn. Saint Paul said that in his letter too the Ulster/Scots.
All married men should be chipped like the dogs they are. Then if they stray. Their wives could track them down and batter the face of them.
And any painted tramp who wood lure a married man from hearth and home should be tatooed on the forehead with a big S, which stands for Slapper.
Woe betide the painted trallop who wood cast a macared eye towards the forkal region of Chuck Corona. I wood be dug out of her. I may bee a mere week 18 stone woman. But I have honed my fighting skills by watching Mike Tyson. I wood bite the tramps ear off and spit it back in her face.
I wood pulverise her guts with body punches.
I wood brust her bust and knee her repeately in the under-carriage.
I am a temperate woman, but once riz I wreck havoc and lay waist to all around me.
They did knot name a hurricane after me. I was named after a hurricane. I am hell on wheels when I get going.
I suppose you have got all in Gerry for a good tightner on Kristmas day. I wood say you were never off the road with your wee bicycle. Ferrying spuds, sprouts, Birds trifle and Chivers jelly.
Now you kan put your feet up and relax-eh-voo.
KRACKERS! Gerry. Did you get the Kristmas krackers?. Kristmas wouldn't be Kristmas without a kracker. I look forward to a good bang at Halloween and Kristmas.
I suppose the wee boy, coming from a poorer part of Derry. Wool get stuck into the gruel on Kristmas. Hoping against hope that he finds the silver sixpence in his bowl.
The poor you have with you always Gerry. And if you don't believe me. Just look through the glass. What do you sea? That's rite. The poor.
If only he hadn't left skool so early and kept of the roofs of them auld flats.
How are the girls doing Gerry. I often think of the girls when I'm lying in bed. Languid and weary of Ireland's Own. I often think of throwing my leg on the auld bicycle and taking Janet and Emma for a girls nite out. We could meander down to the docks and look for little sailors. I'm sure the girls have bean there many's a time. But it wood be all knew two me.
How is the Undertone doing? Don't take know buck from that boy, just because John Peel has something rote on his tombstone. He's just like the rest of us. He puts his trousers on too legs at a time just like we do.
Do knot put up with uppitness. Don't let people with gold teeth cow you. Just look at him and say.
"There but for the grace of God".
I must away Gerry. A terrible urge to make use of the po has come over me. Have a hapy Kristmas. And when you feel the coma coming on. Start lowering yourself towards the floor. You don't want to split yourself at Kristmas. I gently lift the hem of my nite-dress now with slim, slender hand and glide lanquidly towards the resting plaice of the nite vessal.
Good nite sweet Prince. Good-nite.

Friday, 11 December 2009

Rosie's Kristmas Preparations

Deer Gerry, good to sea you again. As the blind man said to Jesus, after Jesus cured him outside Gallellio.
Now that Religion has made such a big inroad into the commercial festival of Kristmas. I said, "Too hell with it" and got stuck in two.
I have pulled out all the staps. This Kristmas wool be solely devoated too the ancient art of Kristanity.
I have a crypt. Into which I shall place all the cast members of the Naiveity. Pride of plaice shall go of course too Francie and Josie.
Sorry Gerry, I'm so excited. I meant to say, Mary and Joesph. I have a little baby Jesus. A manager, a donkey and a lamb. But I found in impossible to find three wise men in Clougher. So I got three Ninja figures and pasted on the faces of Peter Robinson, Martin McGuinnes and wee Reg Empty.
Jesus, as you may have heard on the grapevine. Is the SUN of God. I two have hatched a fertilised egg, that turned into my SUN Bon Jovi.
Bon Jovi doesn't no it. But I have bought him a lovely soot for Kristmas morning.
The soot is made from shiny velvet and has white lace ruffs round the neck and cuffs.
The boy who sold me the soot said the colour is Damson Plum.
But it looks more of a bright puce to me.
"Mrs Ryan" said the shop man. "I kan reinsure you that know cub in Clougher, will have a soot like your SUN on Kristmas morning".
Hi praise indeed. From a boy who spent all his working life in ladies nickers.
All the cruising shall be cooked by my own lily white slender hand. Food and beverages we shall have in abundance.
There will be a choice of road kill.
Ranging from sweet, succelet door mice up two roast badger.
The badger got a dunt from wan of Sean Quinn's big green cement lorries. A big lorry pulled up wan day. The driver opened the door. Threw out the dead badger. Yelled. "May hand on yer drawers Rosie and a hapy Kristmas" Then he drove away. And kept his hand on his horn, until he nearly deefened me.
Hangels. That's what Sean Quinn's drivers are.
Wee heavenly-Hangels.
The vegetation for Kristmas wool be.
Karrots, Par-snips, spuds, docken leaves and suelugs. Something there to tickle the fancy of any Gor-May I think.
After the meel, Bon Jovi and me has a little yuletide concert planned.
First, Bon Jovi in his knew puce velvet soot, shall sing a song or too. Then the cub wool do a trick with a hard boiled egg that has to be scene to be believed.
I don't no how he does it. You wood think the egg wood fall out when the cub walks.
Then Bon Jovi wool do some impersonations of our neighbours. Bon Jovi wool screw up his face and yell.
"Is that rite? Is that rite?"
You wood swear it was auld Mandrake McTwitter. Who lost a lung when he fell into a shuck blind drunk.
It wool be up to me to interject a little arts and kulture into Kristmas. I shall don white nite-dress and dance the dying swan.Which comes from the opera,Swan Lake. As I flutter down, popping clogs as I go in front of the coal bucket. I am sure the raw emulusion wool get too Bon Jovi and he wool ball his eyes out.
After that, Bon Jovi wool crawl into his cardboard box and go too sleep.
This will be my cugh to get stuck into a bottle of the crater. As the crater takes hold. I may sing, dance, pull faces, kick up my legs, or pick up a hatchet and go and settle some old score that has bothered me for years.
PIECE, is what I wish you Gerry. PIECE. May God and his holey hangels look down on you on Kristmas nite.
As you lie behind the back door pissed as a newt.
Seasons Greetings Two All At Radio Foul.
Mrs Rosie Ryan XXX
PS. I wonder what the knew black wool be next year?