Thursday, 14 April 2011

Corruption (Humour rating: )

Warning: some may find content offensive.

I'm probably giving myself one up the arse here, but it would be most appreciated if you could rate this post from 1 to 10 by sending a comment. Thanks.

Frankly, I was surprised at Gertie’s reaction.

“You did what?” she asked.

“I put some money in your bank account. Surely you haven’t got a problem with that?”

“How did you do that?”

“I paid a cheque into your account. You look a bit annoyed.”

“How do you know my bank details?” she asked, with a look of suspicion.

“I went through your handbag the other week.”

“Bloody hell, eez! You can’t do that!”

“Don’t see why not. Anyway, you left it open. And stop using your year of birth as your PIN number on your credit cards; everyone does that, it was the first number I tried.”

“You’ve used my credit cards?” She definitely looked annoyed.

“Gertie, I don’t see what your problem is. Most people would have no issues whatsoever having a couple of million put into their account.”

“How much? Did you say ‘a couple of million’?”


“Holy fuck! We’ll both end up in prison!”

I looked at her. “Why are we going to end up in prison?”

“Because, eez, that’s money gained from criminal activities.”

“I hope you’re not suggesting that I’ve been involved in dishonest or fraudulent actions!” I replied, feeling more than a little aggrieved.

“Oh, of course not.” She answered, with hands on hips.

I waited for the bollocking.

“Not for one moment would anyone consider selling bibles to recently widowed women to be fraudulent. I mean, the fact that the bibles only contained the Book of Genesis and fuck all else had nothing to do with fraud, did it?” 

“That was a printing error.” I said.

“You,” she shouted, stabbing her finger into my chest, “printed them!”

“Something came up. I forgot about the other sixty five books.”

“And,” she continued, “they were printed in Norwegian! How many bloody Norwegian widows live in Bogton?”

“Well, nobody ever came back to me with any complaints.” I offered in defence.

“You sold them in your dead uncle’s name!” 

“So,” I said, “you’re not comfortable with being a millionaire?”

“No, I am sodding well not! We’ll end up behind bars!”

“We won’t…you might, but I won’t.”

I don’t think I’d seen Gertie so angry since the time Limpy from the other side of town had failed to respond to her attentive customer services in the stockroom.

A little later, Barty was removing a piece of glass ashtray from my cheek, when an extremely large woman—you’ll find little else in the town of Bogton—walked into the Dog and Donkey.

She was pushing a baby buggy and struggled to get through the doors.

“Is anyone going to help me?” she cried out.

Barty, Gertie and I looked at each other.

We turned to her and jointly replied, “no.”

The woman taking the doors off their hinges was the wife of the new police chief.

The new police chief was a shite and his wife was an even bigger shite.

She hauled herself and the buggy to the bar and asked for a diet coke.

“I would like to speak to the manager of these premises.” She said.

“Hey, what a little cutie you’ve got there.” I said, as I tickled the thing in the buggy under the chin.

Instantly, her manner changed. “Do you think so? Only three weeks old. It’s my first. Who’d think it possible for a woman to carry such a big thing inside her?”

I looked at her; she couldaccommodate a meeting of the UN.

“What is it?” I asked, still tickling it.

“It’s a girl.”

“And the species?”

She left.

I turned to Gertie. “So, you don’t want to help me out. You want to see me pass into the darkness, having never fully achieved my potential as a public figure.”

“eez, just give it a rest, will you? I’m not going to have money from corrupt practices in my bank account.”

“Still banging on about the bible episode, then?”

“Shut up. You know as well as I do that you’ve been a crook all your life. For God’s sake, you’ve been registered as unemployed for the last fifty years, yet you have more money than anyone I know.”

“Gertie,” I moaned, “I just want to do my bit for the people of the town.”

I looked at the bottom of my glass. I let a tear well up in my eye.

“Christ, eez, you’re talking as if you want to be the next prime minister. Can’t you just retire and enjoy what’s left of your liver?”

I jumped up and kissed Gertie.

“That’s it! I’ll be a member of parliament. There’s an election in a few months. Piece of piss! Just look at some of the arseholes in government; I can be a bigger arsehole than the lot of them put together!”

“eez,” laughed Gertie, “you have no chance of being elected as a member of parliament; everyone knows you’re a corrupt, thieving, lying...”

Our eyes met.

No comments: