Monday, June 21, 2010

Dickensian Digestive

I'm reading Martin Chuzlewit by Charles Dickens at the moment. It takes me back to a bygone era where you could hit poor people with a stick and make a girl fall in love with you simply by traveling to America and getting sick with the fevers. It makes me feel like taking a big glass of rum punch warm as Dickens advocates and toasting the cockles of me heart in front of the coke burner. I think I could be a count or something like that quite easily. All I would need would be some pointy leather boots and some French slacks and I could go around eating bully beef with hot mustard and kicking people that aren't as fancy as me. 'Oh my countenance!' I would say and then lay the boot into small children, puddingly larder maids, and misely old scrooges with more money than me. This would be grand. I would probably procure some smoked meat of the ham variety from Spain and eat this while smoking some opium I got off the spice wharf.

Instead I'm at home and it's as ruddy cold as a sow's tit which is sleeping in the barn which is frosty as the winter has set in in rural Cumberland. This is not the style that I am accustomed too. I am the Earl of Parmesan. Once I saw the Earl of Danger Mazz (or The Public Transport Wristy Proffessor as he is commonly known). I knew it was him immediately as he had those sort of transition glasses that get stuck between inside and oustide so they look like some sort of non-committal sunglasses. My dad wears these and it makes him look like he's got some sort of iron deficiency.

These glasses coupled with socks with pictures on them put him in the realms of sex pest. What cemented his position was his pointy shoes. They looked unsavoury like a pair of boats that were headed for chair-sniff Island (Buswellton) . He kept looking at a girls legs and I could tell he was thinking about having the quickest of shuffles. He looked jumpy. He also had curly hair which is basically a tell-tale sign of being sexually deviant.

When I drink red wine my lips go purple. I catch a look of myself in the back of soup spoon and I realise I look like somebody that's tried to smoke a tampon. I walk around like this for hours until I notice. I must drink like some sort of bee sting victim. Actually you get all the taste through your lips. For real. You should try it.


henry higgins said...

ghastly woman..I too fantasize about putting the boots into those less fancy than me.

basil said...

DON'T mention the four! (rupert's minions)