October 14, 2004

Ground Control to Major Tom

I was delighted to receive an email today from Major Tom, a security officer under the former Liberian president, who wishes for me to mind the princely sum of €11.1 million in my bank account (although, he'll understand if I need to spread it over three) for a wee while as he tries to sort out his tax problems, or whatever. My favourite line from the mail:

"Having got great affection and absolute appreciation for your human and personality, I wish to contact you for absolute help."

Well...I'm not one to blow my own trumpet, but I do have a wonderful human and personality. My absolute help will be on its way to Major Tom faster than you can say "David Bowie is a trannie".

I got my credit card bill today, the first since my wedding/honeymoon. As soon as I stop crying I'll be donning one of my housemate's raggedy jumpers to sit outside Central Bank in Templebar to collect the minimum payment. (Big Issue, please?) I have found that takings increase if you rub a little soil on the face here and there. If this fails, I will simply withdraw a little of that €11.1 million currently resting in my accounts. Major Tom will never notice...the interest will cover whatever I take.

I don't get embarassed about much. I'm even used to my father telling racist jokes at this point. But this afternoon I sent an, er, racy message intended for K, to a friend. Oh dear. Luckily she assumed it was just my sense of humour...I'm not sure what that says about me. I redfacedly cleared up my mistake to which she sadly replied..."Oh. I thought I was onto a good thing there."

If K ever tried to have an affair, it would be a rotten failure, because he, in contrast to my blunder, sends all text messages intended for his other friends, to me. Daily I get "Hi Andy, sure thing, see you Sat" or something similar. He even gives my number to other people from time to time when they ask for his. My number has obviously been branded into his brain. I take a deep satisfaction from this knowledge.

It has only recently come to my attention what a bloody crackpot WB Yeats was. He married some chick when he was fifty years old (still not over Maud Gonne and her daughter though!) with whom he had little revelatory quadi-spiritual seance-type sessions, where she revealed to him truths of the cosmos, which then acted as his inspiration for his later work. Totally crackers stuff.

A couple of weeks ago I read his poem, "Leda and the Swan" based on the Greek myth where Zeus, the king of the Gods, rapes the woman Leda, in swan form. Yeats manages to imply that Leda is enjoying the rape...which is of course the mentality that a rapist/paedophile often has regarding their victims.

Well, what woman wouldn't enjoy a good rodgering from a big old swan?

Speaking of dressing up as animals, along with my credit card today, came a little notice from my church, inviting me to a Hallowe'en party. With glee I began to plan our costumes...corrugated cardboard, sellotape and white paint would build me a socket costume, and K, a plug. How amusing! My hopes were dashed when K came home and pointed out that it was a party for the church children...an alternative to wandering the streets and burning the arses off themselves with cheapy fireworks bought on Henry Street.

The disappointment is overwhelming.

Posted by neuro-praxis on October 14, 2004 05:04 PM, in the category Teriyaki Steak