Wednesday, 24 August 2011

Rosie's Midlife Krisis.

Deer Gerry Anderson, it panes me to say it, butt the receptable of your love and affliction is suffering from a midlife krisis. Every morning I wake up misconstrued and repressed. Dark visions haunt me and my eek-way librum is up the Swanny. I peer into the dark tunnel of life like a ferret. Seeking hope, the persuit of happiness and the life-giving nourishment of brilliant, illuminated-lite. All is dark. All is gloomy. All is the reverse of, "With a hey and a hoe and a hey-nonny-noo".
What a fierce, tarra hanlin' that Rosie Ryan, beauty and brainaic should be waylaid on her journey through life bye thoughts of unattainable somberness and inexplicable yearnings. Last nite, when going through Kays katalogue my menthol instability forced me to order a pink thong and a toy bugle!!!!!!!
I have more chance of getting into the bugle than I have of getting into the thong.
UNPREDICTABLY, in all its many guises has taken kontrol of my brane. I am as a wind-blown kite, a rudderless ship.
A leaf, falling from an Autumnal tree. Spinning and swirling at the mercy of the wind. Knowing knot if I wool fall on good ground, the weeds which abound in the hedgerows or the stones who reside in profussion bye the high-way.
In desperation Dan, I mean-Gerry, in desperation I fell to my knees and preyed to the Mother of peculiar sucker. The results of my imploring was, diddly-squat. So one day in the throes of a fierce midlife krisis, I donned brown, duffle coat and set off confused, preplexed and highly agitated to sea the doctor. I burst into the doctors surgery and offered to, "Drop them" but the doctor told me to take a seat and give vocal utterances to my ills. "MIDLIFE KRISIS!" I yelled. "A midlife krisis has came upon me like a thief in the nite".
I was subscribed hard core tranquillization in the hope that transquillization would transform my state of turmoil into tranquility.
I took the little green, capstans religiously for too weaks. After submitted myself to quackery on a grand and glorious scale. My midlife krisis has increased by leaps and bounds. Knot only that, my hare is falling out, one eye has drooped and my stools have turned puce!!!
Needless to say, a sharp letter ritten in green crayon is winging its way to the Medical Kouncil.
My doctor advised me to, keep taking the tablets. I adviced the doctor to take a swim with the other ducks in the pond. "QUACK! QUACK! QUACK!" was my final riposte before I stamped out, slamming the door behind me.
I have returned to the religion of my four fathers and three mothers. Every nite I fall to my knees beside the po and prey. "Oh Mother of peculiar sucker, remove this damned auld midlife krisis what is hanging over me like a hangmans hood. . Bring back my gaity de-tour and optimalization. Oh Mother! OH Mother of peculiar sucker give me a window of opportunity to dive through like a swallow flying back to its nest. Where there is war, let me bring piece. Where there is death, let me bring tea and sugar for the wake. Where there is hate, let me bring lamour and where there is doubt, let me bring clarity and transparancey. Now! and at the moment of us deaths-AMIN". If that doesn't work, I will be forced to turn to the black arts, in which I am well versed!.

Wednesday, 10 August 2011

Rosie's La-Bedo Is Back.

Gerry, my old Apache, 'tis I, Rosie Ryan the Eva Peron of Clougher. I am suffering from, what the medicinal profussion call, "woman's trouble."
Whisper it low, my la-bedo is on the wane. My yearning for the mail of the specimen is diminshing rapidly. I first became aware of my condition, when wee Friedrich the postman brought me a clatter of junk male with the fork of his trousers lying wide open. As my eyes beheld the open barn door, knot a stir in my lions. No Hi blood pressure and no maidenly blush sprang to my big, oval, beautiful face.
"Something has gone ah-rye in the complicated construction of pipes and tubing which abound in my under-carriage" I yelled. As I pulled on my late mammys, brown duffle coat and set off post haste for the doctors surgery. "Ah, Mrs R" said the doctor. "Long time know sea. What can I do for you?"
"Womans trouble!" I yelled. "My la-bedo is regestering low on the passion meter".
"It happens to us all" said the doctor. As we get older, our la-bedo, like an unwound clock, runs slow and then-STOPS!".
"Why was I knot told of this when I signed on to be a woman?" I roared.
"Are you in an inanimate relationship?" asked the doctor.
"I am KNOT!" I yelled. "But my la-bedo is like my shotgun. I may knot use it for months, but when a fox appears I except it to go off with a BANG!". "Why knot accept it Mrs Ryan" said the doctor. "Take up nitting buy yourself a kat".
"NEVER!" I yelled. "I am Rosie Ryan. Goddess of beauty. I drive men mad with poise, grace and wild goodlookingness. Without my la-bedo, I am an empty vessal.A clanging symbol blowing in the wind. It is unnatureal" I cried. "You have wee blew tablets for men, give me some pink tablets for women".
"There is no Vigara for women" said the doctor. "The only thing I kan do is reject you with the mail horrormone-testosterone.".
"The side effects?" I said clicking my fingers. "The side effects, come on, lets be having them".
"Your voice will get much lower" said the doctor. You wool clean your nose on your sleeve, slash standing up and a wild, unkempt beard will grow on your face."
I lifted my skirt, dropped my red flannel drawers, bent over the desk and roared. "Pump me full of that Testorene boy.Without my la-bedo I am as barren ground, a desert blowing in the wind, an oil-less wick and a figure of fun and division".
I feel the effects already Gerry. I shave twice a day and stand slashing by the roadside as a matter of routine.
Just wan thing worries me. I now find my old friend Nellie Granite wild good looking. I am consumed with an overwealming to leave my bed at nite and steel a pear of her grate, big bloomers from her cloths line.
I suppose that's just my la-bedo a bit confused as it rises from the ashes like a Fee-Nix.
"My la-bedos back, bring on the crack.
There ain't no good a crying.
I am a red blooded sun of a gun
And my name is, Rosie Ryan.
(Fancy a boys nite out Gerry?)