*** One-off bloggery by Special Request! ***
There are those who claim that Jesus walked on water. All too true... although the water in question be of the icy persuasion, and the walking consisting of the Torville & Dean variety by way of a line of sheckles arranged "in-line" along the underside of his sandals.
And naturally, for every ice skating Saviour of Mankind lazyass louging at the right hand of God there is a evil minion, lackey or cat's paw of Hades, praying for the day that Hell freezes over.
And lo, Tonya Harding, knobbling kneecapper of rival skateressessessess, has her wish, and taken possession of Rock Chicks at cock rock night! Rather than duff up mulleted Nancy Kerrigold types, she takes to "shhhhhhup shhhhhhup shhhhhhup"ing up to the tables on the slippery surface of tiled floorage!!
And seeing as "hell would have to freeze over" before any bird would go out with me, the arctic floorage* of Hades would indicate I'm now in with a chance. But probably only with Greek chic.
Who are probably them feminine types who carry about follicle accoutrements to airbrush their furry forearms, and leave suspiciously phallic whore's handbag scented stench mask lying about the sofa.
Still, could be worse. I could be married, then abducted off to Turkey and forced to get a divorce and engage in Civil Ceromonies of a rectally invasive element in the local baths. All the more worrying for me, seeing as Bag Lady types think I'm one of them bisexuals, ripe for gay forced marriage in Instanbul.
Bisexual my best hat! More like "Bye sex y'all", which being a short, fat vision of ghastlyness topped with an unmoveable barnet of mulletness, appears to be my lot in life! All my sex appears to be going to that döppleganger of mine, who is apparently identical apart from the ludicrous locks atop the cranium area/ Said locks performing the same feat as unmaskings of Scooby Doo villany, except, rather than:
"Good grief! It's the owner of the mine/fair/town! Why the ridiculous costume?"
It's more:
"Good grief! It's you! What the fuck you done to your hair! Hold on. You are you aren't you? You are you? You are the you I'm thinking you are, aren't you?"
Apparently, I'm trouble! I caused quite a kerfuffle of a troublesome nature, the nature of which I'm unaware of, but I have it on good authority that I was the source of disputation. That authority being an expert in identifying bagfolk and spouses ripe for Turkish delights, and authority of that ilk deserves respect.
I wonder if it was that foxy lady with the air(filled) guitar that was accompanying me upon the shimmying stage, fighting with some other hot dame over who would get to have me first, but were despatched into the night by the doorfolk before they had a chance to ravish me amidst the auditory cacophony of Twisted Sister and other big-haired bandanarama type rockfolk.
And to top it all, it was raining - they could have fought each other in the mud (well, flowerbeds) opposite KFC in their pants! I'd've joined them dancing all naked in the rain! Blue pearl? Well... wasn't that cold for Lady Oysters...
Oh well, there's always next month...
* WHAT A MISSED OPPORTUNITY! THEY SHOULD RENAME SPUNKY MONKEYS TO ARCTIC MONKEYS, AND GIVE THE FLOOR AN ICY COVERANCE. PREFERABLY ICE CREAM, COZ IF YOU TOPPLE OVER, YOU GET A GOBFUL OF LURVELY CORNISH CLOTTED VANILLA-Y YUMMYNESS! ALTHOUGH YOU'D HAVE TO AVOID THE RASPBERRY RIPPLE IN CASE OF NOSEBLEEDS AND TIME-OF-THE-MONTH ACCIDENTAL SEEPAGE. AND SUCHLIKE.
