13 February 2009


I think it was the Mountain Man who used to tack 'suckers' onto his pronouncements from Mount PERLion.

Always liked that: kept the peons on our toes, made us feel there was a hidden catch.

Yes, well, eek, yikes - it's Valentine's Day tomorrow as ever is and I've sent no  cards, no prezzies, not even the electronic kind and it's Friday the Thirteenth today so I'm not venturing out.

I rather like the idea of that himote bunch.

Oh go on. Make me feel good. Tell me that animated gif across there is the crudest rudest crotch-bulging pulsing pack of heart-shaped Victor's Secret Y-fronts to grace a family blog. (Yayy, I got the VS link in)

It is exaactly like a mandrake root straining at every Fruit of the Loom fibre.

Throb ~ Pulse ~ Puisse ~ Surge.

Oh pshaw, don't be such prudes. It's only once a year and then I go back to demure mode.

Speaking of Vickie's Secret, I used to take Cost Centre #2 - The Spitfire - up to Kitsap Mall where I'd hand over a pittance of pocket money and watch her vanish into the fray, her pert derrière going tick-tock the way young things' do when they've got the loot and the Agèd P has at last been mall-trained to siddown, drink the Kool-Aid 'n' shaddup. (Do you know, I swear I read somewhere that it wasn't actually Kool-Aid that Jones doled out. If that's true, what a wogging PR disaster to be landed with).

But back to The Spitfire, a gal who knew how to play her dad. She should write a book.

I'd take out a crumpled $20 she'd go "That's fine, dad, dad that's fine!" to which of course I'd add the crumpled $10 I'd been palming. "Dad! That's fine!"

"Sweetie, $30 is nothing." Toss of the pony-tail, off she'd strut.

Thirty minutes later, back she'd be, cruelly encumbered by caskets and creels and shiny bags and whatever.

"Goodness!" I'd exclaim, "Did all that fit into the thirty? Clever you."

"Of course not, dad. I got change" and out comes all these notes ... talk about the shopping of the 5,000 and turning water into a double-decaff latte.

So one day I said, "OK darlin', leave this stuff here and go back and spend the change and here's another tenner." Glint in her eye - yayy suckah!

So off she goes and I fancy a walk around so there I am meandering and draped with bags from *all* the right shops, as I can tell from the discerning glances by passing chicks of the spitfeuer 's age.

One of the bags is the distinctive pink of Victoria's Secret. I don't think anything of it except that I'd've expected that store alone to gobble up the 30 smackers.

Suddenly towards me comes a couple - ordinary podgy husband and exceptionally podgy wife - and she's pointing right at the VS bag.

"See? He buys his wife stuff from there ...."

The man looks daggers at me as if "Traitor! Do you have to be walkin' around blowing it for the rest of us." She gives me a benevolent smile as if, "Thanks, hon - right on cue."

I suddenly think, "Yeh! Yeh! - right on! I'm still in trim, I *am* the sorta guy to have a hot honey at home who'd look good in that sexeh skimperie ... gimme a private showing - nudge wink, know what I mean, squire?

So I strut around, keeping the pinko bag on the outside for all to see. (Yo! Dudes! Who else has a li'l chickadee at home - purty face, chantilly lace? You, suh? How's about you, bubba?)

My rêverie suddenly shattered by appearance of la tigresse:

"Daaad!! How long you been walking around like that? Why didn't you hide it, put it in another bag so no-one sees it? Oh my gahd, all my friends come here, they coulda seen you. Give them here, and walk back there and don't talk to me." Frozen mask features, loping stride not looking back. Silent drive back until we reach DQ when she has to soften if she wants a good ol' junk food lunch.

Later I'm telling S about it and she asks, "And you took it? You allowed her to bully you like that?"

Erm, don't you? I mean, she's got this killer sulk.

"Not with me, she hasn't. Anyway, what about this martinet atmosphere she chafes under? She comes back looking glum and persecuted and talks about how strict you are ..."

I'll tell you how she comes back - laden down with goodies that indulgent pa pays for.

"Well, I give her money, too."

You do? Ack ptui! I've been so impressed at her shopping on an impossible budget, I even reward her with even more wampum.

"Listen to me. Sweetie? Don't ever become a parent - you're not cut out for it. With your luck you'd sire some ... some ..."

Some Spitfire?


Aaarrrggghhhh! Mercy!!
There is no God!!!

"Buffoon. But look after yourself.

I might dump her on you next Wednesday, so why not take her to the Music Project? She likes seeing you do your monster raving loony Dave Lee Roth act."

Eddie van Halen.


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