Fighting talk…

29 09 2008

Gas cooker lament

My weak lemon drink is missing.

I don’t understand.

I left my last glass beside ol’ withery the withered, and now… it’s nowhere to be seen.

*sobs*

And now I’m parched.  It’s been 14 minutes and if I don’t get some more soon, I’ll likely have a finger fall off, or worse, an eyelash.  A brief interrogation of ol’ withery was pretty fruitless – I suspect that’s because ol’ withery is just a fairly pathetic clump of celery and as such, hasn’t yet evolved a mouth, let alone opposable digits or a love for daytime TV.

So my attention turned to Muggins McGinty who works as a purveyor of fine weak liquids and old Jenson Interceptors in the orangery.  A suspect of unquestionable certainty.  Yup.  I found Muggins in his usual state, up to his eyeballs in weak pineapple drink – a liquid of such bitter and intense sourness, I can barely stomach seven pints or so.  Muggins began bubbling me a greeting, but I had no time for such pleasantries.  I was swift and precise with my accusations and my verbal onslaught was surely a terrifying ordeal for my victim.  McGinty just bubbled a bit more and then surfaced with a slight phlooump sound.  So much for that.  Exhausted, and sure that I couldn’t repeat my accusational attack, I vaguely remember uttering  a couple of incomprehensible syllables and running for my life.

I guess I’ll have to leave that mystery unsolved for now and simply return to ol’ withery the lush and sated, as apparently Matron now calls him.

 

*sobs*

 

There goes an eyelash.

 

My life is all but over.





Miserable…

25 09 2008

Utterly miserable

Teething problems.  There’s only so many times you can be reconstructed before you’re inherently broken.

This time around Matron skimped on the immune system.

So I’m not well.

Not well.

Bereft of wellness.

Torn.

Tissue please.

Thanks.

So what’s to do? 

I need weak lemon drink.  Copious quantities.  Enough to engulf a small terrace flat.

Maybe more.

 

And so started my quest to create an eternal supply of the magical liquid.

It must be weak.  It must be lemon coloured.  It must be ever plentiful.

I care little for the taste, for it shall surely be lightly golden yellow and weak.

The last batch I had was orange and it smelt of curry.  I didn’t enjoy that one bit.  And then there was the batch that Matron provided.  It was robust and warm – not in the least bit weak.  I politely spat it into a nearby geranium.

So I’m still on my quest to find the best solution to my solution predicament.

 

Oh… and the geranium died.