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Thursday, August 6, 2009

HIROSHIMA: The little boy fairly hated by 80000 not expecting lethal shitake tibbets in their breakfast, the dire result of tickling the dragon’s tail

Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

06th August 2009:

Thursday: Oooohh!!! the alarm was an object of my revulsion when it woke me from a deep sleep; nevertheless I obeyed its rude intervention into my reticular activating system suspended reverie, and dragged my arse up to face the day. It was close to dawn when I got to bed last night, and it felt and it showed.

The alabaster dragon was not home, having taken The Dear Leader shopping and gallivanting. However, it wasn’t too long before she returned, alone, and we set to preparing for The Babies’ visit tonight. A phone call from a relative had been distressing to my spouse, and she related it all to me; I knew all about it months ago, but had kept the confidence. The matter is deep, highly significant, and could have life long consequences; my faith is very helpful to me with matters like this one, as is my intellect, having advised the relative months back of a possible approach to find a solution, and I have more advice for when the opportunity best presents.

Late in the day, with much of the preparation done for tonight, the delirious dumpling jumped me, and I was forced to satisfy her deepest desires, until she flung me off like a brown onion skin to be lost like an autumn leaf, dessicated and forgotten, on the floor of a thousand carefree footsteps, while she soared and floated in the vapours of endorphin-drenched ecstasy. Finally free, I scampered off, cheapened, and set to and finished cleaning up the kitchen while the pampered pooch showered, before she set off to get The Supreme Leader for the evening’s festivities.

The Babies Ink&Peggletter joined we three for din dins, a very nice effort by the world’s greatest cook, my missus, and then we played Quoridor, Janny’s and my first time. And we loved it. And believe it or not, she won two and I won two of the four games we played, a world’s first here; that is, we wrinklies trounced the smoothies.

After they left I watched the last fifteen minutes of SilverToes’ Q&A, before Lateline: The (Leigh) sales graph: Looking delectable (with all things in consonance with each other, and her hair style and make up suiting her features, yet not quite the drop-dead gorgeous power dressing stun gun presence she was last night, despite those nice stones in her necklace), Leigh Sales conducted a most civilised dual interview with Tanveer Ahmed and Waleed Aly. You’ve got to hand it to Aly: he doesn’t let anything that could even at a stretch be possibly constituted as Moslem-knocking to slip under his radar, as his near interview’s end slight chastening of Ms Sales evidenced, with her ‘around the mosques’ question.

As if to regain the crown (not that she’d lost it for a moment) of the undisputed queen of the chicks of the ABC’s serious programming, Ali Moore appeared next in a pizzazzistic jacket from King Solomon’s harem (head wives’ section), with the cut of feminine elegance she’s famous for, its white blouse calming it with a soft touch, the almost not there necklace a lovely accoutrement. And as always with Ali, the subtle shades of make up she’s got down to a fine art. These women make it harder for we red blooded bull koalas to concentrate on the content; and that’s with a glass screen the thickness of Barack Obama’s The Beast’s windows and a cathode ray tube between me and them – what must it be like for the hapless blokes let in for an in-studio interview?

I had my head bitten off by the tantalising tastybit, who had fallen asleep in the Ibis, when I lovingly placed a blanket on her legs, for waking her with a start, and was sprayed with “You know I didn’t feel cold tonight!” sentiments spiced with an expletive. Oh, the lot of the long distance brow beaten husband.

I withdrew to the back room and computer to begin writing, my refuge, my life, my raison d'être, through the wee hours on this dead still night, moonlit, ethereal.


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