1265. International stardom

I was asked to perform at the Moulin Rouge in Paris, but I said “No!” Nerves.

I was asked to perform at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas, but I said “No!” Nerves.

I was asked to perform at Sadler’s Wells in London, but I said “No!” Nerves.

I was asked to perform at the Opera House in Sydney, but I said “No!” Nerves.

Anyway, I’ll be singing in the shower down at the Shelter for the Homeless on the 15th, if anyone’s interested.

1264. We are not a-meow-ed

I am simply astounded by what is written on this bottle’s label. Astounded!

This rich Merlot offers elegant aromas of blueberry and plum with soft hints of raspberry. Enjoy with a simple chicken or pork casserole and roast dishes.

That’s disgusting! What on earth’s wrong with having just meat without all that fruit? I shall write to the paper about it. We are not a-meow-ed.

Yours sincerely,
Pussy Cat

1263. Corectly speled

It’s such a sad indictment of our modern, and by modern I mean say roughly in the last hundred and fifty years, education system which, unlike that experienced by great stylists such as John Ruskin, Lytton Strachey and Charles Kingsley, and even Cardinal Newman although he ever so slightly dirtied his copybook by going over to Rome, was the norm and produced writers with flair who knew how to write both with a flourish and with something to say, and I am including Charles Dickens in that list although he was something of a popularist in reality, rather like William Makepeace Thackeray possibly, to say nothing of the women who wrote, such as Elizabeth Gaskell, the Brontes, and George Eliot, although being women they wrote with style but very little depth of thought, has produced few who can compose with skill and in a manner that highlights beautifully the intricacies of the English language not in simple subject-verb-object sentences but writing that is both complex and striking, for unfortunately the contemporary reader appears to have the inability not to comprehend anything longer than three words in a sentence and that neither hand-writen nor corectly speled.

Poem 69: Sorry you didn’t. Loser.

(This week’s poetic form is nothing other than nonsense – sort of fugal nonsense!)

I can’t recall the way I wasn’t.
Remember things? I simply doesn’t.
Invent the past? I shouldn’t mustn’t.

O I could kick a ball all day.
O I could read a book in back seat moving car and not feel sick.
O I could eat ice cream. French vanilla with guava topping.

I can’t recall the way I wasn’t.
Remember things? I simply doesn’t.
Invent the past? I shouldn’t mustn’t.

O I had girlfriends coming out my ears.
O I had sunshine coming out my bum
O I had quantum mechanics for breakfast. Yeah. With milk.

I can’t recall the way I wasn’t.
Remember things? I simply doesn’t.
Invent the past? I shouldn’t mustn’t.

O I, did I tell you? once climbed a mountain.
O I, did I tell you? once drove a big articulated truck from Moscow to Paris.
O I, did I tell you? shook hands with nobody. Nobody at the same time. Altogether. Both hands. Beat that.

What mustn’t wasn’t.
What mustn’t doesn’t.
What doesn’t shouldn’t.

Sorry you didn’t. Loser.

1262. Name change

When Fontanelle discovered that there was a brand of bird seed using her very name as a brand name, she quickly changed (she was fifteen years old and her mother said she could) her name to Maybelle, totally oblivious to the fact that Maybelle was a brand of baby wipes. Couple that with the fact that her family name was Bogjiss, which no one knew how to pronounce, and that school acquaintances called her Boggy for short.

Fontanelle retreated into her shell considerably. Now that she’s older and married, she doesn’t give a stuff. In fact, when she married she convinced her husband to be the one to change his surname to Bogjiss. These days, Maybelle and Mjassischtschew Bogjiss are as happy as a box of birds.

1261. Terminal

Look, said the doctor, I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your cancer is terminal.

Oh but doctor, said the patient, how long have I got?

You haven’t got too long, said the doctor. Maybe a month, six weeks. During that time we’ll make you as comfortable as possible. There will be days of discomfort, but nothing that can’t in the main be relieved.

But doctor, I don’t want to die yet. Can’t they operate or something?

There’s very little can be done. It’s too advanced, said the doctor. Would you like me to tell your wife, or is that something you’d prefer to do yourself?

I don’t know. I’m just bewildered. Shocked and bewildered. I don’t feel that sick. Maybe there’s a mistake?

I’m sorry, said the doctor.

OK, said the tutor at the Med. School. Times up! Swap roles now. The one who played the patient now plays the doctor. This time, you are to role-play breaking the sad news of terminal cancer to the spouse.