Thursday, December 31, 2015

Mucoid Lang Syne


   And so 2015 ends as it began — in a blaze of unwanted mucus and uneaten mince pies.

    Truly, I have bounties, plentitude, and while it is not considered PC these days to flaunt any kind of ingratitude, I am pissed off with this state of affairs.

    Have I really been so badly behaved all year to deserve a last gasp mucusgasm of such nasally tsunamaic proportions?

    Especially when so many mince pies remain to tempt me with their momentarily unpalatable delights?

    They are as a dying Spock behind glass, their cries of Live Long And Prosper lofting heartily from pastry perfection only to plop into the snotty cesspool of my malaise.

    But all is not lost as germs proliferate and handkerchiefs are obliterated.

    There is pause for reflection in the wheezing, dripping hiatus.

    Where a healthy Whirl might have squandered his time on unnecessary DIY or ironing, cruelly bacteriafied Whirl has turned fate’s end-of-year curse into an opportunity for much lying down and reflecting.

    Dosed up, I may be, but I am clued up and schemed up also for the coming adventure we are all agreed is called 2016.

    For now, I spray on the honey and lemon, exorcize all mince pie flavours from my mind’s taste buds, and ooze juices as a braised tomato lolling on a rump steak.

    Tomorrow, I shall be triumphant.

    Enjoy the fireworks tonight — and if you can’t, blast fountains of snot at the stars.



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