Life at Nic’s…
May I present, my (mal)nourishment store.
The Cream Soda bottle is water bottle #3.
Not shown, due to default reasons: Mrs. Ball’s chutney, salt, sugar, tea & rusks, i.e.: ‘the staple stable’.
…and all of those millions of women spend a fortune on fancy diets, trying to stay thin. Pshaw.
At first, there was Survivor. Then came Big Brother. Now, it’s time for… Extreme Bachelor.
Some people truly do lend credence to the argument for abstinence.
Is this a suitable retort for a slanderous bovine with a devious disposition?
“You, mad’am, should have been tied off and disposed of in a tissue, along with the garbage.”
I believe so.
People with progeny…
To avoid your spawn suffering the displeasure of being told, oft & repeatedly, to fornicate thineselves elsewhere, please ensure that the first word & phrase that they use, and understand, is:
2. Thank you.
To the rest, who have yet to comprehend the magnitudinous implications of these fundamental responses, sit and rotate, you rude halfwits.
‘The Helmet Guy’ profiled me from two aisles away, declaring, confidently, that I was definitely (only) a Medium. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been daydreaming so much in class in my time at school…
The parallel conundrum in this equation was that I had recently bought a set of gloves, for which I’d been fitted with a pair labelled as ‘XL’.
It worries me so, in a philosophical manner, that I am so dimensionally-irrationally equipped in the bodily component spectrum.
My jacket is an XXXL, but the parachutist manner in which it envelopes my person whilst upon my motorised steed, calms and soothens my upset, greatly.
Given some further thought, my unmentionables are a ‘L’, my trousers are always half a foot too short, my shirts are sail-like in their span, in order to fit my neck suitably and I seem to wear a shoe size that has escaped the range of seemingly all known cobblers.
By all accounts, I should look like The Elephant Man.
Happily though, I can report that I look as ‘normal’ as anyone I’ve come across and at least several people and two delightful canines love me no end.
An unruly Std. 3. pupil has been reported as contravening the laws of decency in parliament.
Fear not though, for whilst from the outside, Nkandla, the nation of the state, and home to the harem, the public private pool, several goats, a number of pigs, some farm animals, illiteracy, abject poverty & a clearly backwards mentality, may point to the state of the nation as a dire one, it, like its more notable ancestor, the once-formidable Berghof — now a lovely forest, reclaimed by forces greater than it; where many animals romp freely, frolic gayly and piss knowingly — shall return from whence it came; the ground. With time & patience, comes a full bladder.
If you’re a ‘musician’, and you create ‘music’ for telephone systems, you should know that I’m lobbying to have you registered as an Enemy of the State, eligible for capital punishment.
The assault of my ears, at 8 kbit/s, should be illegal.
Yesterday’s flight had me in Row 15, the ‘emergency exit’ aisle…window seat…directly over the wing & engine…
I’m a Big Child, which means that I get rather excited by the thought of big machines, speed, power, etc.. As a result, I tend to inspect certain things more than most.
When we boarded, I looked at the engine. When we took off, I glanced at the engine. In flight, I observed the engine. At all times, the engine was whole and appeared to be in good order…
When we were coming in to land, I happened to look down yet again…however, I was now peering directly into the engine! Imagine my surprise…
Do I worry? Do I call the hostess? Do I wait…for something?
I chose the latter, which was a good thing…as I later saw a cover sliding closed over what now made sense…the reverse thrust vents.
You know, they really should paint a sign onto the engine for clueless passengers that it’s not a case of shit falling off of the plane, when you happen to see a hole in the engine that wasn’t there a short while ago, but that panels do move, on purpose, and that you’ll live to tell the foolish story.