The following is merely intended to be a fictitious, humorous story.
Most stories in this blog carry something of a ‘social message’.
No story is intended to be judgemental.
Some readers may find content offensive, but there is little that one wouldn’t find in a post-watershed sitcom.
An accumulation of unfortunate events had seen me investigated by MI5 and subsequently put on curfew.
I was only allowed out the house between the hours of eight in the morning and five in the afternoon.
An electronic ‘tag’ had been put on my ankle. It transmitted something that allowed someone I’ve never met to know exactly where I was at any given time.
To me, this seems grossly unfair. I consider it to be nothing less than stalking done the easy way.
I tried everything to get over the problem: I wrapped several feet of aluminium foil round my ankle; I attached magnets to my leg; I hit the tagging device with the largest hammer I possess; I had Barty stamp on the tag; I even microwaved my foot. But nothing stopped the authorities knowing where I was.
The wife had informed me, in writing (she wasn’t talking to me), that I was an embarrassment to her and I should be totally ashamed of being the oldest person in the town to have ever been electronically tagged.
I had informed the missus, verbally, that she was an embarrassment to me, to all of mankind, to Darwin’s theory of evolution, to all that was decent in this world and was a pox-ridden, disease-infested, suppurating pustule on the face of humanity.
The good lady sent me a letter stating that she wasn’t writing to me anymore.
I sent the good lady a letter stating that I couldn’t give a shit.
She sent me a letter stating that, if that was going to be my attitude, she’d never talk to me again.
I got bored.
And yet again, the wife failed to keep her word.
“Don’t you feel just a little ashamed of being prosecuted for civil insurrection, public disorder, rioting, assaulting a police officer…”
“Hey,” I shouted, “it was your fucked-up daughter that caused all the problems!”
“Oh, she’s my daughter? She’s not your daughter, also?”
“Well, as I’ve said before, I’m of the opinion that I was on the lash with the boys in Brighton when you copped the spud juice, so I have a doubt.”
“Are you accusing me of having slept with another man while you were way?”
“Of course I’m not! Look at yourself!” I answered. “But I would point out that the Bogton Sperm Bank opened its doors for the first time, in the same week as the she-devil was conceived.”
“You’re disgusting!” she screamed.
“You have a face like a bucket of offal, a complexion akin to a cauldron of simmering shite and the breath to match!”
“Do you know what I think?” she spat at me.
“I doubt I could lower my intellect that far.” I replied, bored.
“I think I must have committed some awful crimes in a life prior to this one, to deserve such an awful husband like you!”
“You only ‘think’ that? I can bloody guarantee it. You’re just carrying on from where you left off,” I paused.
“Are you really expecting a different life the next time round? You’re a vicious, life-sucking bitch who can look forward to several lifetimes in the form of a turd worm, if there’s any truth in the laws of reincarnation!” I hollered.
She ran from the room, crying.
Though still bored, I felt a lot happier and poured myself a large whisky.
The doorbell rang.
“Would you be interested in solar panels, sir?”
“Don’t know. What are they like?”
“Here, let me show you a photo, sir, and I’ll tell you a bit about them.”
He started to talk as I looked at the photo.
I interrupted him. “They’re black and flat. The other week, I saw a mole that had been run over. That was black and flat.”
“I don’t follow you, sir.”
“How much do they cost?”
“Only fifteen hundred pounds per panel, sir.”
“I reckon it would be cheaper if I used moles. If they’re flattened properly, they cover quite a bit of area.”
“But, dead moles don’t generate electricity.”
“Of course they don’t! Whatever made you think they did! Are you stupid? Get off my property and don’t come back ‘til you know what you’re talking about!”
I poured another drink and sat at the kitchen table.
I saw the wife’s flatulent, anosmiac (don’t guess, google it) sister coming up the path.
“Get out the buckets and incontinent knickers.” I called to the wife. “Your sister’s here.”
As the sister-in-law approached the door, I gave my sphincter the rest of the day off and released the vilest of vapours. Knowing she was going to visit that evening, I’d held them in all day.
My internal organs re-arranged themselves, my eyes started to water and the kitchen became Chernobyl.
I opened the door for the wife’s sister and ran from the kitchen.
The wife passed me in the hallway. “Why are you running?”
“I’m getting an ashtray for your sister.”
I ran like fuck and returned with a lighter and an ashtray for the sister-in-law before the missus had reached the kitchen.
Again, I ran from the kitchen.
“She’s started already,” I told the wife.
I heard the flick of the lighter.
My ears popped.