Thursday, January 29, 2015
Thanks to a cunning feat of spine-bending graft, my Intray once again resembles an actual tray.
Gone (for now) is any metaphorical nonsense about mountains or Madonna’s tits.
I could drug a rabbit and lay it down in my tray with its ears flopping over the rim — and still have space for a couple of trussed guinea pigs and a hamster in a straitjacket — such is the Innability of my Intray.
If I were dumb enough to post hilarious videos of myself to FaceBook or Tumblr or VoilaLeWankeure, right now, I’d be uploading a full fifteen minutes of my grinning self sporting my completely empty Intray as a badge of honour cum zany beret.
It won’t last, this rare moment of demandlessness, so forgive me while I savour the peace and quiet like a milkophobe tugging a cow’s udder through a mangle.
Any second, the phone could ring.
Any minute, my local tattooist could email me with requests for more abdominal haiku ideas.
Or I myself could give way to brute desire, and concoct from nothing a To Do List.
I am as a blissed-out nun afloat on the foam of all those bar-of-soap jokes!
I am the slap of Buster Crabbe’s sopping Tarzan loincloth against The Rock’s inflated ego of a grin!
May your spirits sing and your celery persist unfloppified!