Why the hole world wants to be Irish.

As the clanging and tolling bells of St Judas church, drifted over the wind-swept March cunt'ry side, my Sun Bon Jovi came out of the scullary hiking up his tattered saffron kilt. The cub and me was on us way too the St Patrick's day parade in Clougher. Some years, Clougher gets as many as wan or too bands!. Bon Jovi checked for the 100th thyme that his drawers were on and said. "Well, this is the big wan, this is St Patrick's day". "It is Sun" I said. "This is the day that the hole world want's two be Irish". Bon Jovi stuch his middle finger up his hooter and said, "Why is that? why does everyone one to be Irish? What did the Irish every do that was so grate?". I rubbed on too handfulls of rouge and replied. "Ireland is a bastion on Arts and kulture. A land of riters, painters and poets. Take auld James Joyce, Jimmy rote too books, U-lises and Figgians wake and them too books sold millions of copies, but were never red by anyone". "What else did Ireland give to the world mammy?" asked the cub. "The art of knavery" I said, "Tie-foid, from Tie-Foid Marry, rickets, sticky out ears, mad cow disease, foul pest, swine fever and too top it all, the ear-brusting roar of the Irish Tenner. Count John McCormack" I said, "Could stand bawling in Antrim and people in Scotland could heer him clearly. Ireland" I said, "Is loved and adored by eskimo, cannon-ball, hutu and tutu and by every wan in America". "If Ireland is so grate" said Bon Jovi, "Why don't the yanks come and live here and pay taxes and help Brian Cown out in his thyme of need?". "Ireland" I said, is like--well, it's like Purgatory, a place or state where people stay for a while before moving on. Everyone likes to visit Ireland" I said "But know wan wants too live in it". "We'll never leave auld Ireland, won't we knot mammy" said Bon Jovi. "Never" I said "Never-Never. Come wind, rain, blizzard, we shall remain, for me are the PEOPLE!" "NO SURRENDER!" yelled Bon Jovi. "Don't go yelling that in Clougher Sun" I said "Or someone wool brust your gub!"

Bon Jovi and in vitro fertilization .

It was morning in the abode of Rosie Ryan. The March wind howled round the house, threatening, at any moment, to turn my idical, rural, rustic cottage into a heap of deb-ray. My Sun Bon Jovi was sitting crouched at the breakfast table, with the heel of a pan loaf clutched in his juvinile hand. I could tell from the furrowed brow and the grunts coming out of him, that the cub was firing up his mighty brane, for what every the day threw at him at skool. I looked at the crouching Einstein and marvelled again, that such prodigal had sprang from my lions. Suddenly, and without warning the cub spoke. Bon Jovi looked at me and roared. "What are we going too do about this in vitro fertilzation malarky then?" I reeled and clung on to the dresser, in shock, amazement and unbelief. "Where did you hear about that?" I yelled "Have you bean listening to Gerry Ryan again?" Bon Jovi gave a contempus snort and said, "Every wan knows about it, it's the talk of the playground at dinner time". Ashen faced, I lowed my slim, slender, trembling 18 stone body down on a bag of meal and stared at the cub. Bon Jovi, leaned back in his chair, put both hobnailed boots up on the table and said, "It seems to me, and do bear in mind that I'm only a lump of a cub, but it seems to me that when the sperm cell fuses with the female egg to form a zygote, it doesn't know when to stop and makes too many and that is why that woman in American had as many wains as octopuses have legs" "Never you mind about that sort of thing boy" I roared "You should be out breaking windows or throwing stones at the police, instead of sitting there talking about-ah-ah-wains and octo-pussies" "Oh contrer" said Bon Jovi. "I inhibit this world, so it's well being is of parmount importance to me. Did not, and korrect me if I'm rong, did knot Oscar Wild say, "You know Lady Herringbone, in victro fertilization reminds me for all the world of FRank Carson, it's the very devil to get any of them stopped". "GET OUT" I roared "GET THE HELL OUT OF THIS HOUSE, with your auld talk about eggs, fusing and octo-pussies. What does it matter to you how many sprogs a woman has?" "It matters a grate deal" roared Bon Jovi, let me remind you of the words of the late, grate Tony Hancock. Tony Hancock was ahead of his time, he was a genius, a prophet. Tony Hancock, said there will come a time, when there are so many people, that we will be squashed together, with our heads up in the air panting for air and only those with the biggest hooters will survive. It will be Darwins selection of the species all over again. Mind you, you don't have to worry, because when it comes to hooters, you have a honk that an aunt eater wood be proud off. I literally LEAPT off the bag of meel and stoned the wee gulpin all the way down the lane, Bon Jovi dodged them all and hid in the eggberries yelling, "Is it a bird? is it a plane? NO, it's Rosie Ryans grate big hooter!". JUst what scifintic piffle are those teechers teeching the wains at St Judas skool for young gentlemen and ladies?

THROW ANOTHER FAGGOT ON THE WICKERMAN

I stood outside my cunt'ry cottage, drinking in the splendiferous, grandiferous beauty of-Spring. Ah, Spring, a thyme of renewal, a thyme of rebirth, a thyme of reproduction. The sap was rising and everything was at it. The birds were fluttering, the animals were jumping and leaping and even the insects were running round in a sexual frenzy, knot scene since the nite auld Nero set a match to Rome and then reached for his fiddle. The pregnant buds were swelling in the trees, the peacock was walking like Max Wall trying to attract a mate. Nests were being built quicker than houses in a monetery bubble. All that flew, ran, walked, crawled or wiggled was at it. Down in the green pastures, the very rabbits were at it like rabbits. There was a feeling of sexual tension in the air. A strange musk premenated all living things. Caught up in the all prevailing, all enveloping rite of-Spring, I ran round the midden, kicking out my sturdy legs and shrieking at the top of my voice. "The flowers that bloom in the Spring, Tra-Lah, the flowers that bloom in the Spring". And just for a moment, I wished I was a stoat, ferret, or weseal and knot a Cat-Lick who was only too aware of sin and had too confess all in confusions.
Oft in the blue misty distance I saw a figure. It was my only begotten Sun Bon Jovi who had rented my womb for nine months before he was born. As the cub approached, I could sea he was bent over, carrying something on his back. I adjusted my oculars into scrutising mode and perceived that Bon Jovi had a bundle of faggots on his humped, rounded back. What was a foot? That was the seventh bundle of faggots the cub had brought home this weak. What was the miscreant up two? What construction was the cub going too construct with-faggots. Was the wee brute going to build a consernation camp and inprison me within? I watched as the fruit of my lions approached, threw the bundle of faggots down and broke wind with a fierce, penetrating dunder. "Bon Jovi" I vocalised, "I must ask you, pray tell why you are fetching and hoarding bundles of faggots. I command you by the sacred twinset of Saint Lizzie who was marthered by the Normans in the fifth centary for refusing too play football on a Sunday. I command you SPEAK! what are the faggots for?" Bon Jovi peered at me through too puss filled eyes and roared, "I am going two revive the cermony of the WICKERMAN in clougher--and surrounding districts". I was--thunderstruck! I staggered back, my legs turned too jelly and my gizzard gave an involantry leap. My head was reeling, my vision blured and the sounds of the cheeping birds came from far, far away. "In the name of all that's holy and sacred" I yelled "How did you find out about the Clougher--WICKERMAN?" "I know all about it" said Bon Jovi with a smirk. "I know the wicker field was behind auld Juan McTwirdles barn. I know the wicker cermony was held on the last Saturday of March and I know that-YOU" yelled Bon Jovi "Was the wicker woman who set fire too the wickerman". My pagan past had come back to haunt me. "It was just a bit of fun" I stammered "Just some ignorant cunt'ry people setting fire to an auld heap of sticks". "LIAR!" screamed Bon Jovi. "Was it just a bit of fun for the poor crater who was burned alive in the wickerman?" I fell on my knees and groveled like a groveler. "It was a different thyme" I cried "You must understand, the harvest had failed for the third thyme and we were desperate Dan, I mean desperate Bon Jovi". Bon Jovi looked at me with scorn and said, "It may have escaped your notice, but Clougher has had too bad harvests in a row. Did you sea how small Padraig Mcwarblers wurzels were last year? why, they were mere shadows of their former selves". "Bon Jovi" I yelled "Don't meddle in what you don't understand. The priest said it was a sin, maybe even a mortal sin, too pull strangers off bicycles and donkeys and burn them in a wicker cage". Bon Jovi snorted and said "Korrect me if I'm rong, but does knot sacrifice lie at the hart of all religions? Listen mother and listen good, "I bon Jovi Ryan wool revive the wicker religion in these here parts. Building the wickerman will be easy peasy, but the difficult part wool be finding a stranger too sacrifice". The cub looked at me with a queer, malevelent look in his eyes and muttered, "Unless you were willing to lure Chuck Corona too the wicker field". At the mention of deer Chuck's name the scales of the old ways fell from my eyes. Burn my boyfriend? knot on your Nellie! I grabbed Bon Jovi and yelled "Begone you spawn of the devil" and I rammed the cub head first into the water barrel under the spouting. I water boarded the cub until his face turned blew and the eyes were bulging out of his big head like a frog. When I eventually dragged Bon Jovi out like a drowned rat, all thoughs of wickermen were erased from his evil, demonic, satanic brane. Later that night, I used wan of the wicker sticks to leave welts on his malignant derriere. Burn my boyfriend Chuck Corona? Knot when there's blood and piss in the veins of Rosie Ryan.

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You know I was just thinking last nite, it's hard to beat the heat from a WICKERMAN!!!

ROSIE RYAN AND THE BLACK HAND GANG

I was busy Spring kleaning round the house. I was flourshing a feather duster, moving, soot, dirt, dust and grime from one place to another. I had my thick, matted mass of red hare, held back from my alluring face bye an old pear of tites that had scene better daze. Like the wee boys who followed Snow White, I whistled and sang as I worked. I found the muffified remains of a stoat under a chair, kicked it out the open door like Ronaldo and sang shrilly and piercingly. "Oh, If you're Irish, come into the parlor, there's a welcome there for you, If you're Irish, come into the parlor and get stuck into a bowl of stew". When my Herculean labours had bean compleated, I looked round the house and said, "Rosie, knot only are you a scholar and an intellectual genie, you are a house kleaner of redoubtable vigor and vim. When it comes two Hi-Jean, you are up there with Dettol, Bleech and Jeyes Fluid". I tried to give myself a pat on the back, but was impeded by the prominence of my bisom. I looked at the clock, Bon Jovi my Sun and air wood soon be home from his seat of learning. A tear came to my eye, when I thought of my only begotten Sun, lumbering home with his head full of cypers, set squares and pies that were waiting too be squared. What a cub he was and the unsual thing was, that his big, fat, cannon-ball head and the vacent look on his visage, gave know clue too the grate brane that was churning inside his head like a threasher. Fore o' clock and know Bon Jovi, a half fore and still know Bon Jovi!. What could be keeping the cub? Had he stopped by the wayside, to work out a problem about the curveature of space and time, or was he trying too measure the cubic capicity of a donkey by the size of it's ears. Worried, I went two the door two look for the cub, only too find a note that scent me into fierce hysterics, bordering on the brink of mental unhingement and chronic Do-Lallyness.
This is what the note said. "Hi, we have kidnaped your Sun Bon Jovi.Do knot inform the police, fire brigade, post office, or any other branch of law and order. If you want two sea your Sun again, leave, a five pound note, a bottle of Iron Brue and a packet of biscuits, (Hob-nobs prefered) in the hollow tree behind the midden. If you don't we wool send you his ears in a jam jar. Yours Sincerely, THE BLACK HAND GANG.
I swooned onto a meal bag, with my too sturdy legs straight up in the air, giving an involantry flash of my primrose yella drawers. "MY SUN!" I screeched, "My sun has bean apprehended by the notorious-Black Hand Gang. BON JOVI!" I screeched "I'm coming, your poor old mammy is coming to get you!". I grabbed a fiver from my purse, a bottle of Iron Brue and a packet of hob-nobs and set off post haste for the roundy-view. But I'm knot as green as I'm cabbage looking, I also had strapped too my back, a double-barelled shotgun and my primsoe yella drawers hung low, due too two pockets of cartridges koncealed in the pockets, one on each side of the fork. I wanted my Sun back, but a fiver was a fiver and if I got a bead on the black hand gang, I wood also leave them with black arses. I left the ransome in the hollow three and then crept into the eggberries to await the arrival of, the black hand gang. Soon, I heard a fistle in the undergrowth, I put the shotgun too my shoulder and squinted through the site. Then, I saw a small humpty, ugly creature approach the tree. I took careful aim, the kidnapper turned and I saw his ugly mug. "BON JOVI!" I screamed, as my finger tighted on the trigger and the gun went-BANG!. It had all bean a set-up, Bon Jovi had staged the hole thing. There never was any Black Hand Gang. At the last moment, I raised the barell of the shotgun and a shower of buckshot flew over Bon Jovi's big, round head. The cub was scared but unhurt, apart from an involantry bowel moment that had ruined his good, grey short trousers. I broke a branch from a willow tree and thrashed the legs of Bon Jovi, as he ran home in front of me, like a calf with skitter. The cub crawled into his cardboard box, stuck his thumb in his gub and moaned all nite long like a demented polekat. I peeped in and said, "Well, if it isn't the leader of the notorious Black Hand Gang. If it isn't Black Bart himself, crouched in a cardboard box and rocking back and forth like the feardie kat he is. Your rain of terror is over" I yelled. "I am the Sheriff around these here parts and we don't take too kindly too kidnappers. After a fair trial tomorrow you wool be hung from the cloths line". I heard a hi squeak and a rusle of straw from within the cardboard box. I smiled, as I hung up the shotgun, I wood let Black Bart, aka Bon Jovi worry all nite. Then in the morning, I wood give him a good riser and send him off too skool, with a flea in his ear, if he thought I was going too comb his hare with a fine comb, he was mistaken. So stranger if you ever mosey up too Clougher, don't meddle with Rosie Ryan, my grate beauty is only matched by my grate desire too hurt and cause pain. YEEHAW!

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PS I never did get the wee grey trousers clean, they were beyond redemption. It really was a bowel movement of gigantesque porportions.

REFLECTIONS ON A DOOZY OF A BOWEL VACUATION

I was sitting outside my abode, legs akimbo on a three legged stool. My frame of mind was excelent, just prior, I had beaten a path to the whins for a shi--- bowel movement. As you kan imagine, i have experienced bowel movements before. Most bowel movements usually leave one feeling unsatisfied. One is inclied too think, "Is that all there is?". But knot this thyme, this thyme I got red out big time. I suppose a good bowel movement is akin too a cosmic occurance, when all the constituant parts are in alinement, cosmic forces interact too put on a spectacular display of perfection. Little did I know when I went too have a dump, that I would look back on said dump with wonder and amazement. I must, unwittingly have choosed the rite time, the right place and behaved in such a manner, which made it impossible for fate, chance, cosmic interaction, not to form an alliance and combine in producing a bowel movement of unparalled power, complexity, grace and if one may use the word in such a context-beauty.
As I crouched on my stool, I felt at one with the Universe. I felt-serene, fulfilled, my inner clock was in sink with time. I also felt, curiously light-headed. Now that my intestines had bean well and truely vacuated, the blood was coursing through my veins like faeces down a sewer pipe. When the pounding blood entered my brane, which hither too had bean sluggish and stagnant, my brane was caught on the hop and unable too cope with the tsueami of blood. Sparks flew as the recepters in my brane, produced electricity and lit up deep, dark recesses. The thought process was temporary nocked haywire and the brain began too spew out unasked for memories and imagies from my past. The back of my retinas was bomb-barded by pictures and imagies from my past. My memory bank was throwing out information willy-nilly. When I tried too hold on too a memory or image, it wriggled out of my mind like an eel and another took it's place. There was my daddy, smoking his pipe, my mammy, smoking daddy's pipe, my granny, smoking her own pipe. There was my first wee donkey called Barney. Me going two skool, with my skool books slung over my shoulder in a meal bag. There was me in a hey shed with.... "No, No, No, take it away, I was drunk that nite". My first communion, the first time I fell into a shuck, my first..now we were back in the hey shed, "No, I told you I was drunk that nite, some wan must have put tablets in my stout". So many memories, so many images. All stored in my brane. What a thing the brane is, if we could only harness it, we could do anything. Ah, perhaps the full power of the brane is really the forbidden apple, that wood turn us into Gods. I must rite too the boys in the Vatican about that, when I get a knew Bic pen.
I was aroused from my reverie by the site of Nellie Granite coming up the road on a bicycle. Her big red face was bleezing and her too big lumps of knees were going up and down like too bald headed dwarfs. She leaped off the bike with a horrible, loathsome breaking of wind and roared. "Bay God Rosie, that's a wild warm day, my drawers is fair soaked". "Still suffering from incontiguous Nellie?" I said "Know" yelled Nellie "It's sweat, knot pis..it's knot the other. Here Rosie" she guldered. "You better shift yourself, I passed your cub Bon Jovi on the way, the wee get stoned me, he wool soon be home from skool and looking for his tay". "Never you mind Bon Jovi" I yelled. "That cub sprang from my lions, knot yours, every wan knows that your Bert has the sperm count of a dead cadaver". Nellie put an auld girn on her face and said. "You no Rosie when I passed Bon Jovi, I couldn't help thinking he was the dead spit of auld Rosco McNoodle, the town drunk, who had both legs ate off him with gangerene and then arsed round Clougher until he was run over by a dung spreader. If I remember rite, there was some talk about you and him beeing scene coming out of a hey shed, the nite Daniel O'Donnel came too Clougher" I leaped off the stool full of ire and fierce anger. "Get too hell" I roared "Go on, get off this street, are I swear by the little flour, I'll be dug out of you, you big bocken". "Nellie leaped on the bike with a flash of tattered blew drawers like Frankie Detorri and peddled away. I grabbed a handful of stones, bricks and small boulders and ran after her. Then Bon Jovi appeared round a korner and Nellie was caught in a pincer movement. Mother and sun pelted auld Nellie as she peddled like a frenzied fiend for the safety of the open Hi-way. Later, as Bon Jovi got stuck into the buttermilk and three heels from a pan loaf, I scrutinised the cub. Could he be? Surely knot. Could I have given birth to a sun, whose father was the town drunk and had met his demise by death by dung spreader. It was then that my bowel movement came two my aid. Suddely I had a vivid memory of Mammy duck-taping my nickers too my belly before I went two sea Daniel O'Donnel. So it was inconceivable that I could have conceived in the hey shed. I gave a skip, gave thanks for my doozy of a bowel movement and began to sing.
"THIS IS NUMBER ONE AND THE FUN HAS JUST BEGUN, ROLL ME OVER LAY ME DOWN AND DO IT AGAIN.
ROLL ME OVER
ROLL ME OVER
ROLL ME OVER, LAY ME DOWN AND DO IT AGAIN"
As my dulcet tines rang over the bog, I gave thanks that I came from a good kristian family and that I, Rosie Ryan, was a paradox of virtue.

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FIGHTING WITH A LUMP OF A CUB WHO IS A RITE GULPIN

"COME ON WITH THE DIGGER" yelled my only begotten sun Bon Jovi. "I spun round on my hobnailed boots, like a Balley-Rena and yelled, "SHUT YOUR MOUTH BOY". There he sat at the head of the table, with a big wooden spoon in his hand waiting for his dinner. "Listen" I roared "This road kill, pee's and spuds wool knot cook themselves, if you kan't wait, stick the heel from a pan loaf into that big mouth of yours". "Listen Mrs Dumbo" roared the wee get, let's get some ground rules here. You sit at home all day, farting and scratching your arse, all you have two do is feed the lump of a cub when he comes home from skool, surely, even a stupid, illiterate, head banger like you can understand that. So, once more I say unto you, "WHERE'S MY DINNER? COME ON WITH THE DIGGER". Brusting with grate ire I was just about to go at the cub when I happened to glance at a holy picture on the wall and saw a look of rebuke on the saintly face of the Little Flour. My bisum was heaving with rightous anger but I deposed myself by taking a few deep breaths. I turned the road killed stoat with a fork and stirred the pee's with a rigid digit. "Thymes have changed since you were an ugly wee sprog" went on Bon Jovi. "I attend a seat of learning, which qualify's me as a working cub. When you crawled out of a cave two go too skool, all you had two do was draw a picture of a house and learn how two spell kat. Thymes is changed, if you only new the amount of brane power I go through each day you wood be amazed. Take today for instance, this morning we got stuck into sums, we did adding, detraction, diversion and muli-cation. And don't get me started on the despictable point, that wee bugger keeps moving all over the place. You never no from wan day too the other, where to stick the despictable point. During play thyme" yelled the ugly wee gulpin, "I expanted more brane power by jumping, buck leaping, gallivanting and playing leap frog and the number of thymes I had too wipe my no's! I find that my snotters run copiously in the inclement weather. Then in the afternoon, the teecher, auld Miss "Turd Face" McGonnigle said, "Bon Jovi Ryan, stop playing with your snotters and come up too the big map and point to where Dublin is. But Dublin had moved from yesterday" yelled the cub. "That's knot Dublin" yelled Turd Face "That's Bundoran". "I beg too differ Miss" I said "When Orlando McTatters pointing out Dublin yesteray, it was here. If some wan moved Dublin, it's knot my fault" "SIT DOWN" she screeched "You're as stupid and thick as your auld mother" "WHAT!" I ejaculated "For too pins I wood jump on the bike and go down there and batter the big turd face of her" But once again, the Little Flour interjected with a look that seemed too say, "No, Don't, she's knot worth it" I ladeld out Bon Jovi's dinner and said, "Listen Sun, I know that skool is hard and I no how much it takes out of you, but you must control your temper, you must practice manners. You kan't expect to Lord it round here, like an Arabian Shriek, or a turbaned Sultana" "I no mammy" said the cub with his mouth full "I apoligise if I appeared short or uncouth, but headucation is important two me, I kan't box or play football, so headucation is the only avenue left to get me out of the getto of Clougher". I looked at the wee doat, crunching the femur of a stoat between his strong gnashers and a tsueami of mother's love filled my hart too over flowing, just like a po, after a good slash. I patted his big, round head and said, with tiers in my eyes, "You just do your best Sun, that's all you kan do and if the teecher keeps moving Dublin round the map, you just point two the West coast of Donegall and say, "This is-Dublin, because my mammy said so and when it comes too gynaecology, Rosie Ryan is in a class of her own". "The wee doat smiled, smacked his thick rubbery lips and said, "Mammy, this stoat is absoutootely delicious, what did you do too it? what little cullinary trick did you employ too get such-flavour, such-lightness, such, such-distinctiveness?" "Ah, Bon Jovi" I smiled "You do indeed have the palate of a Gor-May, if you must no, I left a little hair on the stoat too blend it with the secculent tender flesh".. "BRAVO" yelled Bon Jovi "You should send that little cullinary tip too Gorden Ramsey, the effing cook". "KNow way Hosay" I yelled "That auld brute done the dirty on his poor wife, I don't want him pawing and groaping at me". The son set in the West, as it is want too do, shadows lengthened, cawing crows flew home and we just sat there, mother and sun, fading into the darkness, as the sun set behind a hill.

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THE ROMANTIC I'DILIC LIFE OF ROSIE RYAN

Chuck Corona had his big strong hands around my neck and was throttling me. I struggled frantically and furiously, like a terrified rent boy in the clutches of the bald headed Boy George.
Chuck was growling like a black bare, I was whimpering like the dead and deseased Eartha Kitt when she was alive and at herself. Clumps of rushes were trampled, as the fierce struggle went on-down by the river side. Then, Chuck caught me under my newly shaved oxters and I felt my hobnailed boots leave terra firma. Chuck was as strong as a Pampas bull, he swung me round and round. My two hobnailed boots looked like an out of control kar-a-sell. I yelped, I shrieked, I guldered demurely and genteely. Black spots danced in front of my protruding oculars. My head was a mad whirly-jig of flashing images. I fought the vapors by pulling clumps of hare from Chuck's squat round head and trying to knee him in the ghoulies. With a mighty grunt and a ferocios breaking of wind, Chuck lifted me up in the air and threw me down on the wet rushes like a sack of spuds. I could feel the rank bog water seep through my sky blew gansey and permeate the grey simmet I took of my dead mammy before the coffin lid was nailed down. Waste knot, want knot, is the motto of us Ryan's. Chuck loomed over me, I gazed up at his raw, animal, savage mail beauty. The heavily cratered pox marked face, the broken nose, the too little glittering black eyes, covered by wan bushy eyebrow, the mouthful of uneven teeth, like tombstones in a cunt'ry graveyard. Chuck pursed his lips out, like a hen laying an egg and lowered them towards my feminine, rose bud mouth. Chuck's seeking rubbery lips met mine like a suction pump and threw every drop of saliva and drool out of my girlish mouth. I kicked, I flung, but 'twas all too know avail, I was lost, lost in the wonder and splender of-Lamore. My hart was leaping like a hungry canary in a cage. The blood was pounding in my head like the first signs of a stroke. My slender 18 stone body lay there supline as a boy with a broken back. Chuck kissed my cheeks, my mouth, my eyes, my nose, which saved me the bother of wiping it. I adjusted my girlish, maidenly body, which made the bog water gurgle seductively and wantonly. Chuck looked down at me, like the way man had bean looking at women since time began and mummered suggestively, "Rosie, wood you like a brandyball?" "Oh Chuck" I ejuclated, "A brandyball at this moment in time would be a joy of the utmost elegance and sophistication" Chuck and me lay in the wet rushes, crunching brandyballs with the utmost ease and contemtment. A snipe flying Hi in the air looked down at us, we looked up at the snipe, no communication passed between us and yet--we were all God's creatures, man, woman and snipe, all looking for love, happiness and a raison de'etra. I lifted myself up on wan elbow, which caused me to daintly break wind and make the bog water bubble. "Chuck" I simpered. "Yes, my deer" smiled Chuck. "Chuck" I repeated, "If you met a stranger, across a crowded room, how wood you describe she who is--Rosie Ryan?" "Chuck pursed his thick, rubbery lips, smiled like a boy who was having a stroke and replied. "Ah, how can mere man describe the beauty of a hangel? Your mane of red matted hare" said Chuck. "Your smile, would nock the Mona Lisa into a cocked hat. Your complection, only an out door girl could have a big wind blown bleezer like that, Your bust, like too bay windas, standing proud like the mountains of Mourne, or dumplings of gigantic size and mass. Your legs, too sturdy pillars of alabaster, tastefully motifed with blew viens in intrinsic swirlls and patterns that would do justice to the book of Kells. "Rosie Ryan IS-beauty" yelled Chuck. "The beauty of-Rosie Ryan is impossible to convey to mere-man. To any man who doubts the beauty of Rosie Ryan I say, Come and feast your eyes on her yourself and you will go away shaking your head and muttering, "In the name of God". "Oh you adorable wee doat" I trilled, kissing the gub off him and leaving him with more love bites than even Dracula could manage. Wen we came home, arm in arm, my sun Bon Jovi looked at us with an auld smirk on his face and said, "Well, well, well, if it isn't Romeo and Juliet, or should that be, Barbie and Ken". "Shut your face boy" I roared "and clean up the floor, I see you have bean disecting rodents and frogs again". "One must" said Bon Jovi "If one is to make one's name in the medical profession". "Bon Jovi" said Chuck. "Yes Chuck Corona" said Bon Jovi. "I was just wondering" said Chuck "If you, as the man of the house, have any objections to me going out with your mammy". Bon Jovi cleaned some mouse blood off his hands and said, "Knot at tall, I have bean trying to get her off my hands for years. But I thought fate was against me, what with the wild age she is and the big red bleezer of a face she has on her. Take her by all means, it wool save me having to put her into a home when she goes do-lally. But listen Chuck Corona, man to man, do the thing decent, take precautions, don't go showing up the lump of a cub before the neighbours, eh? that's a good chap". I lifted the poker and took after the wee gulpin, but I never did catch him, he's getting too fast for me, but I will bide my time and batter the big head of him when he is sleeping tonight. Old, with a big bleezer of a face am i? we will se who's face and ars derriere is bleezing tomorrow.

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