Shite yourself silly

I am mildly ill.

What a terrible thing it is, to be unwell!

At least you've got your health, they say. At least you've got your health.

How right you are, oul' dolls of the world! I fucking hate being sick.

For years I was immune to all manner of contagion.

I could eat my dinner off a filthy toilet seat and be none the worse for it.

I was never off work.

I successfully defeated the AIDS virus in a head-to-head (a bit like Innerspace, except I beat up AIDS with my bare hands and a hurley stick, inside myself, in the future).

I was the picture of health.

Alas, this is no longer so.

I am mildly ill, and an insufferable bastard for it.

At regular periods I make bleak forecasts about my future, mostly for my own amusement.

-Call the Montreal Canadiens to make me a "Get well message"... I've not got long.

-End the suffering!

-I don't feel well.

-Will I ride a bicycle again?

Etc, etc.

I am mildly ill.

And yet, isn't diarrhea one of the more satisfying ailments? The body expelling its attacker in a thunderous, merciless flush!

Get out, ya cunt!

It's not that bad at all, now.

Why would you even bother with that Immodium shite? Bung you up, who fucking wants that? Crane drivers should take the fucking day off if they have diarrhea.

I went to buy some, anyway. With mixed feelings, I add!

I took it to the check-out at the chemist's, and the wee man behind the counter goes:

-Diarrhea, aye?

-Yeah...

-Fucking shiting your brains out!

This was odd for many reasons, but mostly because it's all French about here, and I didn't expect anyone around here to speak like that.

It was odd too because I'd never heard anyone use that turn of phrase before. So awkward and vicious. It didn't sound right.

This was getting very like a bad dream, and so I began to snivel.

Between gasps and stammered breaths I said haughtily to myself, and to anyone within earshot, "What an odd fellow!"

-I am in the Odd Fellows!

-W-what?!

-I am in a fraternal organization called "The Odd Fellows Club"

-What?

-They're a bit like the Masons...

-Oh...

-But not as secretive! Ha-ha. Just a wee joke. We raise money for charity and that! It's good. I enjoy it, anyway.

-Good... Good. OK. Bye!

As I walked out of the shop I heard him say "So it's quite apt that you think me an odd fellow, seeing as I'm in the Odd Fellows!" And he chuckled, and chuckled.

I ran back home as fast as I could without shiting myself.

What an odd fellow, I mused. What an Odd Fellow. The Odd Fellows. How very odd indeed. His wee joke wasn't even funny, I couldn't understand how he thought it could even be a wee joke. It was just a statement.

He looked normal, even handsome. That made it worse. I hope he doesn't have a family. He's too odd. It wouldn't be fair on them.

The Odd Fellows are actively involved in a variety of civic and philanthropic efforts on a local, national and international scale, I later read.

"T-t-that's pretty impressive!" I shouted to an empty house, sitting on the bog, fucking shiting my brains out.

Will I ever ride a bicycle again?

Pear of bastards

A pear of bastards.

That was the pear I just ate.

Pears are my favourite fruit. The feel really special in your mouth. They taste a bit like nail polish. The texture is like the sand at the bottom of a fish tank.

They are the best.

They have only been my favourite fruit for the last twenty minutes. I'd forgotten all about them.

I'd say that I went through the last two years without thinking about pears at all. I'd heard the word said, but it never went beyond that.

Once recently someone said they liked pear cider, and I absentmindedly agreed. But I never thought about what it meant to like pears. It was as automatic as saying sorry when you almost walk into someone.

But now I know all about pears!

Pears are classy and timeless. You can trust someone who likes pears. Every cunt eats apples. Oranges are messy and can blind you with their acidic jets. Bananas are to be eaten joylessly to keep you going, or as part of an elaborate dessert.

But pears are very special.

Here's a true story, if you enjoy them:

Yesterday I took wee Chub-Chub out onto our porch for a look at the street. Next door there was three people outside gathered outside the stairs, around a stove on the ground. A man and two women.

Montreal is famous for its windy outdoor staircases. They are on postcards and all shite like that.

These fuckers were trying to lift a cooker up the stairs, the man and one of the woman was.

Because I'm a nice wee fella, I offered to help, if someone would hold Sarah.

I helped the man lift the cooker up the winding staircase, and a girl held Sarah. I waved hello from the balcony to a puzzled Sarah in the stranger's arms.

-Regarde ton papa!

It was the right thing to do.

I am a nice wee fella.

I wonder what Sarah makes of all this, or anything? A load of random shite going on around her, and she is none the wiser to any of it.

She tried green beans today. Fucking hated them.

How droll

The days fairly fly by, don't they?

Fuck me.

I can barely keep track.

And there's never any time for anything, any more.

I woke up on Thursday last week, thinking it was Friday. I don't know why. I felt a mildly crushing disappointment when I realised it wasn't so. It still smarts. A sense of loss. I wish I had been off that Friday. I'd have gone swimming with Sarah and had a laugh. I wouldn't have been in work. Not that it's bad. It's just not as good as the other.

But life is good! It could be much worse.

You could be a clown.

A clown is a scary, strange man who is supposed to entertain wee ones. He doesn't though. He's a scary, weird cunt that nobody has ever liked.

The NCWC did a survey of 15 pensioners on the number 24 bus, and not one professed to liking a clown even a wee bit.

-I hate those cunts

-Scary fuckers

-Bastards

-I hate those cunts

-Reminds me of thon "IT" cunt from the films

-God bless us and save us

-Not funny

-Odd fuckers

Their words, not mine.

There was a thing on TV about a big charity dinner where rich cunts enjoyed a lavish meal, ostensibly to raise money for poor children. All these twats were fuckin' about in tuxedos drinking champagne and eating caviar and having a right old time.

Going up and down the room was a clown on a one-wheeled bicycle. What a cunt.

I think they had him there to emphasise the raising money for youngsters-ness of the whole thing.

I wept in frustration.

You could see that people didn't want him to be there. They all continued chatting away, apparently oblivious to a man with a painted face on a unicycle hovering awkwardly around them. But their strained smiles gave it away. They were as scared of him as anyone would be.

What's worse is that he was bellowing jolly clown-like sentiments the whole time, exhorting people to have a good time and acknowledge him. Mostly to acknowledge him though.

That's why clowns do it. They like to upset and frighten people, the evil bastards.

The ones who employ them are as fucking bad. Circuses, children's hospitals, parents of children having their birthdays. Cunts who throw big fundraisers for rich bastards. The news for showing them on telly. My telly.

The whole wretched affair put me in a foul mood. I had to put my foot through the TV several times to stop the pain and suffering.

Now I have no fucking TV, just a glass screen with a hole in it. My foot is really sore too. It's been bleeding ever since.

I called Info-Sante, and they say I'll probably have to go to hospital to get it looked at. We'll probably go to the Montreal Children's Hospital down the road. It's not far.

If a clown comes near by I'll kill the bastard.

I am an elderly woman

I am an elderly woman.

-"God love her"

-"Wee darlin'"

-"Poor wee thing"

Etc., etc. I say these things. That's the kind of cunt I am these days. I have my reasons. Wee Chub-Chub is sick. She's got diarrhea, poor wee thing. God love her.

She breaks your heart. I want her to get better. She is grand though. She still has her wee obsessions with buttons and colours. She is a trooper. Wee darlin'.

I have to go to work now. Fuck that. I want to stay with the wee Chub and make her day better.

For she always makes mine.

God love me.

Poor wee thing.