Shouldn’t that be ‘Moose’?
For the last time, will you stop interfering? [No. Ermintrude] I am sick and tired of these interventions. They make me look like an utter tit. [The truth always hurts. Ermintrude] Blast! Anyway. Great news! [You’re dead? Ermintrude] No! The garden fence is going up soon. The garden has been doing some rather good Somme impersonations lately, so it will be most welcome. According to ‘The Coven’ I couldn’t tell a flower from a fart in a trance. Huh! I had wanted to call the assembled bitches ‘Harpies Bizarre’, because, trust me, they are one seriously strange team. I mean to say; scented candles when they have a bath? How weird is that? They burn incense, joss sticks even, when the last time they should have done that was when they were in their early twenties. London was a swamp around that time, Emily Pankhurst had just burned her first bra, and second Home Secretary, and Playtex had invented the Cross Your Heart Bra. The Spanish Armada had been defeated by Queen Boadacea, and blokes could still admire members of the opposite sex without having the ‘Sisterhood’ call round for a swift gooly-ectomy. Brilliant grasp of history, or what? [Or what. Ermintrude] And still they all treat me like some wayward child with learning difficulties. But so what? EdZilla seems to have found a brilliant source of book design. Must speak to Mac. Okay; okay. So ixney the big tanned hooters, though I still think they lend a certain sophistication. I mean, look at Jordan.
For Whom the Bell Tolls
Bugger! That’s the bloody door! I hate being cut off in mid-rant. [Just wait till you’re cut off in mid-shag. Ermintrude] Eeeek! A parcel. Pour MOI? How thoughtful. Cow! Two books; ‘The Kama Sutra’, and a Haynes Manual for a Ford Cortina, with a small card which says ‘Can you tell the difference yet?’ Bitch! Trouble is, I can’t tell which particular wit, or rather ‘tit’ sent it. They all hate me you see. Penis envy probably. Never mind, I’ll ply the smart asses with booze on Sunday at Din Dins, and one, if not all of them, will let the mask drop at some time. Wire their dildo up to the National Grid; better to go out with a bang than a quimper.
The Enemy in Our Midst
And that’s another thing! What the hell gives with the computer, Ermintrude? Over the last couple of weeks I thought I had been making some really odd typing errors; when I discover it’s the bloody machine, interposing her own word when I come up with something too dead brilliant for her tiny brain to cope with. [Why not take the boxing gloves off before you start typing? Ermintrude] Cow! [Moo! Ermintrude] She’s probably in the pay of a foreign power. [Like Mothercare? Emintrude] I am not a child! (You could have fooled me. EdZilla) [And me. Ermintrude.] Humbug! Besides, I don’t care. I’m really a modern day ‘Invictus’; ‘bloodied, but unbowed’. (Bloody Big Girls Blouse, more like. EdZ)
I have got some new ideas for the cover again. (God, no! EdZ) How about some oil barrels standing not in a pool of oil, but a pool of blood. [Yours, preferably. Ermintrude] And in the right hand corner a black cross with a scythe leaning on it; and a pair of D cups at the foot in black lace… [He’s off again! Ermintrude] But Mac says that’s where he wants to put the words, ‘Murder, Mayhem and Multiple Orgasms’. EdZilla went strangely silent yesterday when he mentioned that; jealous she never thought of it, I suppose. But she’s much more tractable now; tact, discretion, and a shedload of chocolate. Can I handle chicks; or can I handle chicks? [No. Ermintrude] Like all women, what she needs is the iron gland in the velvet glove, to let them know who’s really in charge. (You wish! EdZ) Give a woman a mile, and she’ll take a xxxxxxxxxxx. (Lots of love; The Thought Police)
John J McCabe. Copyright.