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Mind-altering glugs
May I begin by saying sorry to anyone I may have met and offended in the Unlicensed-small Arms yesterday evening, afternoon and morning.
I genuinely didn’t intend to drink more than was physically possible but these things do happen when it’s other people getting the rounds in.
Special apologies to the old girl whose party trick was belching the 1812 Overture, the guy called Doogie whose beard was dripping with saliva, the West Indian weirdo with the liver-spotted tongue, and the so-called performance poet over whose head I really shouldn’t have broken the hot-pie cabinet but it sort of seemed appropriate at that precise minute.
After that it gets slightly blurred, but wasn’t there a heavily tattooed dwarf from Alabama, or two, or three or four or were they quins, it kept altering somehow?
I am extremely sorry about what happened to the former sub-editor of the Salisbury Review and I do hope he’ll be able to write his book again, it was only 500 pages after all, and he should have known better than to leave me with a cigarette lighter and a huge stack of whisky-stained paperwork after my eighteenth snakebite, shouldn’t he?
Dimly I recollect clasping the buttocks of, and showering burning kisses upon, somebody I sincerely believed was the great love of my life who turned out to be the bandmaster of the Salvation Army, or a phone box or fire truck or a visiting Welsh rugby team, it’s all a blur, but someone does seem to have broken several of my bones, or possibly all, so I hope they feel that’s the end of the matter as I can’t face another court appearance at my age.
Anyway, it’s already 8.30 am, and I just wanted to clear the air a little before I see you all again, half an hour from now. What an irksome duty alcoholism can be.
P.S. Aaarrgghh – it turns out someone was filming the whole thing…
AIMLESS said…
By some inexplicable path I came to find myself at a website that pretends to place a monetary value on blogs. I therefore investigated the value placed on Toasty's Futon.
The answer I received struck me like a ton of something hard and heavy with uncomfortable edges, rather like bricks or paving stones or along those lines.
It seems that Toasty is sitting on a gold mine here, worth at least one thousand times what he paid for his entire wardrobe - more than $11,000!
That is wonderful news and should result in a massive shift of lifestyle for Toasty. Now all we need to do is contact that website to find him a buyer. Should be easy-peasy, Bob's your uncle and all that.
AIMLESS added subsequently…
I am still agog over this. But it is fading.
AIMLESS added, even later…
After long and mature consideration, I am transferring my entire stock of unbridled enthusiasm from my earlier agogery over my discovery concerning the monetary value of Toasty's Futon and I am reallocating it to this rather tasty foot-long sandwich with pastrami and Provolone cheese - until further notice.
Stand by for future communications on this subject.
CAROLINEM said…
A Prairie Oyster and some bog cleaner should do the trick.
AIMLESS said…
This just in!
The reason for Toasty's long absence from this blog is that, in accordance with his lifelong fascination with spiritualism (not to be confused with minstrelsy) he has undertaken an experiment hitherto never performed or even attempted: he wishes to convey the text of his next blog entry entirely through the channeling of a spirit medium - one Mrs. Velma Harkness of Leith.
A fair amount of difficulty attends this experiment, not the least of which is that Toasty is not dead. Nor has he informed Mrs. Harkness of his exertions in this direction, apart from Toasty's communicating with her 'familiar spirit' - a rather chirpy old chap whose 'earthly' name was Alf Higgins, but who now insists on being addressed as Poor Little Buttercup (no one can tell why).
As you might guess, all this rigamarole takes time, effort, and large quantities of indifferent Scotch.
If you are interested in contributing to the production of the world's first 100% spirit-amaneusis-written blog, Toasty suggests you send him, under plain wrapper, a much better grade of Scotch. Laphroig would be acceptable, I am led to believe.
TOASTY replied…
True, every word of it. As you will discover here.
But really, Aimless, I’d have expected you to know that the correct spelling of Laphroaiagg is Laahpfhraoaoiggahhhhhhhh. And you a Welshman and all.
AIMLESS said…
Toasty, I said I was daffy, not Welsh.
TOASTY continued…
Oh, Aimless, these evasions, these subterfuges – they’re so demeaning. It’s time to affirm your ethnicity. Lots of Welsh people live perfectly satisfactory lives, you know.
Now then, I apologise for my failure to respond to your excitement at the top of this thread. (I was away in Omdurman, doing a little job for the Foreign Office that I’m not allowed to talk about.)
I take it the site you found was Blogshares? It’s somewhere I’ve visited in the past, but neither my maths nor my financial knowledge was up to the task of comprehending it (still haven’t puzzled out how my hit counter’s meant to work, and I’ve had it for months) so I drifted vaguely away and started licking the window of a bookmaker’s instead. Pastrami and Provolone cheese are a much sounder investment.
As for Prairie Oyster + bog cleaner, it’s something I never touch until the meths and hair lacquer have run out.
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