Murpheys Revenge

25 03 2010

Have you ever had one of those quiet evenings where you sat by yourself in the kitchen, at the table, with a big plate of hot chips?

Your mind wanders aimlessly from one thought to another, as though you’re in a car but not holding the wheel.

You’re contemplating what kind of underwear Boy George might have worn, and you don’t care that you’re thinking that, because who’s going to know?… unless you’re stupid enough to blog about it.

Chips are a strange thing to eat by themselves, they have a monotony about them, like an endless desert road has, just a long stretch of dirt, that goes on and on… poles at the side of the road, one after the other… pole…. pole…. pole….

Then you put “the” chip in your mouth, the rancid one.
Have you met the rancid chip? rancid chips are pretty rare,
but once in a while, you’ll get one.

They taste like they’ve been wrapped in a footballers sock, or Boy Georges underwear… which has been floating along the sewer, The point is, rancid chips are pretty darn bad.

Suddenly there’s a change in that long stretch of road,
with it’s endless poles.

One of those poles has fallen across the road, you’ve hit it, and now your car is fifty feet in the air, you’ve lost control,
you try in vain to hold on, but there’s nothing you can do.

You lurch and contort in your chair, your face turns a sickly shade of green, your stomach twists and lurches, you contort, tears running down your cheeks as you gasp for air… and like an erupting volcano you eject the contents of your stomach…

All over the cat.

Wolfie!

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