Well, back to reality with a thud. The house was still there. Still as big, still crammed with stuff. Two weeks worth of mail to sort through, bills to pay, and no Internet on any of the computers. But of course, getting the network sorted out was MY responsibility.
Jesus Wept! I changed my mind….I can’t sell my house, unless everything inside is included. I am afraid to go outside the house. Not only because of Stalker Barbie, but I think the Dustmen have put a contract out on me. The other day, I double-parked down the street until they finished at my house. I really thought four little Mexicans might jump me, screaming "Senora has mucho trash!" and other epithets in Spanish.
Thankfully, friends are pitching in to help; otherwise, the temptation to just drive to the airport and get on the next flight to London would be awfully attractive.
On a more cheerful note, thanks for all the ecards and mail for The Queen’s Birthday. Unfortunately, mine is actually not until August. But if there are birthday parcels winging their way to King of Prussia…sure, it’s my birthday, too.
Happily, Her Frumpiness did not disappoint, in a lurid neon pink ensemble of coat and goddamn ugly hat. Eighty year old Queens, whether male or female, should abstain from pink. I know I’ve asked this before. WHO DRESSES HER?? Dame Edna?
Thanks to the Irish lad for the birthday card with MY likeness on the 50 Quid Note. I assume that the subject in German said, "Jeano is the best" or something like that. Duh! I don’t speak German. I barely speak British. I guess Terry has forgiven me for saying he was less than pulchritudinous as a transvestite. If Stewie ever sends the snaps, I promise to post them. Note to Terry: UPDATE YOUR F*CKING BLOG. You’ve probably forgotten how wonderful the dinner I slaved over for you was. (That was a hint of what to write about.)
Poor Pinkie is busy slaving over her dissertation for college, "Mammary Glands; Why Some Men Find Them Addictive". Truthfully, she has been not much fun lately. I offered to ghostwrite the damned paper for her, and use big words and everything. But, no, Pinkie has to do it herself.
I’ll end with a joke today, provided by Karen. The fact that it’s an Irish joke is purely coincidence.
Three dead bodies turn up at the mortuary, all with very big smiles on their faces. The coroner calls the police to show them what’s happened.
A Detective Inspector is sent and is taken straight to the first body. "Englishman, 60, died of heart failure whilst making love to his mistress. Hence the enormous smile Inspector", says the Coroner.
The DI is taken to the second dead man. "Scotsman, 25, won a thousand pounds on the lottery, spent it all on whisky. Died of alcohol poisoning, hence the smile."
Nothing unusual here, thinks the DI, and asks to be shown the last body. "Ah," says the coroner, "this is the most unusual one. Irishman, 30, struck by lightning."
"Why is he smiling then?" inquires the Inspector.
"Thought he was having his picture taken", replies the coroner.