On Reaching The Big 2000

Too-day, on this mendacious day. I feel the hand of history on my shoulder. I feel it enkumbat on me too thank every wan who helped me nock up 2,000 thumps on my blog. It has bean a long struggle.
There were thymes, oh yes! there were thymes when I thought it wood never happen.
In the pits of desperate despair, I walked my boud-wah by nite. Hoping, praying that my illerate talent wood be recognised by the boys who run arts and kulture.
And low, low and thrice-low, it came to past.
I stand now on the spinacle of literary fame.
I is a household name. A komfort for the old and a shinning beacon for the young.
WHY ME??? Many thymes have I stood a top the midden asking myself the very same question.
WHY ME? I left skool at nine too look after swine.
My literary brane has just noticed a little poem there.
"I LEFT SKOOL AT NINE
TO LOOK AFTER SWINE
FOR THAT DADDY, THAT DADDY
THAT DADDY OF MINE".
Is is little bon mots. Little literary nuggets like that, which sets me apart from the maddening crowd and the lowering heard.
There was know golden spoon in my gub when I was born. OUT of the womb was I thrown.Like a drunk out of a public house. I was buck naked. I was konfused and I was bawling my big red face off.
Know Parker pen was put in my infantile hand. Know nanny whispered Latin verbs too me as I got stuck into a bottle of milk like a cannonball.
I was left to crawl over the germ infested floor.
I caught everything that was going. Chicken pox. Scarlet fever. Chillblaines. Gout. Hi blood pressure. Picnic attacks. Athletes foot, hands and bums-a-daisy. I fought off black death, yellow fever and a red rash on my juvinile derriere. I broke more bones than a Jack Russel killing a rat. Slates fell on my head. I fell down wells. I spent 40 days and nites in a bog hole. I was viciously attacked by, bulls, cows, rams, dogs. cats, rats, earwigs and marauding bogland snipe. My hart stopped three thymes. I was waked for a nite in a coffin, but leapt out at cock crow and got stuck into two buttered heels from a pan loaf. Much too the chargrin of deer mummy and daddy. Who had secreated the pan loaf heels for breakfast.
I am indescribable. As hard as nails. I is made from grantite and desil knot blood runs in my vains.
But the ills of my youth were as nothing kompared to the hankering in my hart. I was plagued by-hankerings. Night. Day. Hankerings invaded by brane. I was fair full of-hankerings. Other grate people have suffered from hankerings. But their hankerings, were nothing kompared to the hankerings that were driving me Do-Lally. I was driven mad by hankerings. Hankerings I could knot put a name too. Yet when the hankerings came, I knew I-hankered.
Hankered after-something etheral. Something-intangible. Something as hard to capture as a shadow on a Summer day. A will-o-the-wisp or the shy nocternal blindbat.
Then, one day I had my Your-eeh-ah
moment. I remember it well. I was emerging-meticulously from the eggberries where I had been squatting vacuating my bowls. As I tripped gaily and girlishly towards the portal of my abode. I fell over a clocking hen and fell on my mouth and nose. More nose than mouth, as the twin rivers of blood from both nostrils testified.
As I lay there groggy and non compes mentis. I was aware of the hens scratching in the dust. And suddenly I had an Episiotomy. The hens were-writing. The hens were riting in the dust. That was the moment my life changed. I sharped a stick and joined the hens as they wrote their blogs with beak and claw.
By the thyme I was a big lump of a cuttie. I had rote an illuminated account of the gospel of saint John on the side of the midden with a pointy stick. I rote the gospel in obtuse wild hard manderin and proudly singed my name with a flourish of the pointy stick.
The rest as they say is historinics. I taut myself Greek, Finish, Latin, Cretan, Moronaic and Arabic.
Grammer being the building blocks of language. I emmerced myself in vowls, verbs and additives.
"I before E, except after Pee" I entoned. As I sat hefted at the kitchen table. When all my I's were before E's, I wood hurry too the whins so I could now have a Pee.
I dabbled in poetry. I came 21st in Irelands Own with this little gem.
"WHY I LIKE GOD" bye Rosie Ryan
"I like God because he's good
On my table he puts food
In my cup he puts my tay
Well done God, Hip-Hip-Horray".
The judges said my poem had the simplicity of brane knot yet fully formed.
And I was only 28 at the thyme!.
Since then I have surfed the waves of knowledge. My head is fair stuffed with facts, figures and theorys.
It was me who came up with the invention I like to call musical nickers. A small music box, sewn into the gusset of the nickers, which wood play Handel's water music as a lady was hunkered in the whins having a slash.
I still plan to take that invention to the Dragon's den. I doubt may Dragon's will be OUT! As I give a demonstration on a po I have brought along with me.
Sometimes I wish my head was twice as big to hold all the ideas that are bubbling and fermenting in my noggin.
And so we come back to my 2,000 thumps on my blog. What lies ahead? Who nose. Books, balleys, operas and poems. Poems that tug at the hart strings and poems that will make you pee yourself with laughter.
In konclusion, I wood like to thank my mammy for producing the egg that made me and also, a big thank you too deer daddy for fertilising said egg.
I wood like too thank my skool teechers. Many of whom are dead or confined to menthol institutions.
But most thanks go to my loyal reeders. I could not have done it without you. It was you, who placed me at the spincture of arts and kulture. As I gaze down from my lofty position. I say a 'umble thanks and promise you, for Rosie Ryan, the only way is-UP!