I've been thinking a lot about cultivation lately. Mainly, if it's possible to cultivate tomato plants, is it also possible to cultivate bum fluff? I mean, both grow from fertiliser and seem to be in abundance. I've been up all night thinking about it, wondering about the financial rewards of bumfluff cultivation, and the possibilities it may hold.
Maybe it's just that I haven't slept properly last night and my mind is floating somewhere between dreamspace and reality, but has anyone noticed a distinct lack of eye floaters lately?
You know if you rub your eyes, sometimes you see a slightly transparent object in the corner of your eye that drifts around for a few seconds? It must be at least a year since I last saw one. Or at least remembered that I saw one. They used to come in different shapes. There was a long one that had two segments that I called Gregory, then there was a round fat one that I called Tuba. Sometimes, if you were really lucky, a slightly curvy one would appear called Beth.
Where have they gone? My theory is that Flying Rods have been eating them. Unless they just got bored and moved out of my eye. However, with the prime real estate that is my eye socket on the market, you'd expect another floater family to move in pretty sharpish. They never even said goodbye. I would have thrown them a leaving party too.
Speaking of parties, I have recently been informed of several legendary parties that I have missed. Apparently, there was an S Club party that slipped me by a little while back, and I'm told that there ain't no party like an S Club party. I also didn't see the Venga bus when that swung by. It's a shame because I've always wanted to attend an inter-city disco, ever since I was thrown off the 8:40 to Ipswitch for trying to start an impromtu rave. I tell you, those early commuters don't like thumping bass, especially when you press the emergency stop when MC Hammer comes on.
In fact, did MC Hammer have any brothers or sisters? I could do with a DJ Wrench and MC Screwdriver to fix a leaky fawcet. Is that how you spell fawcet? I just call them taps. I don't know what's real anymore.
The only rational thing in my life these days is my collection of talking cucumbers. As the world slides further and further towards madness the one thing that keeps my sanity intact is an evening cataloguing my caterwaling cucumbers. Mrs Addman accidentally chopped one up for a fresh salad, which made me sad and also a little fearful for my manhood. It's not my fault that cucumbers remind me of male genitalia! You can blame Freud for that one.
|Oh the humanity!|
Speaking of male genitalia, I have some of my own that I simply have to tend to. The amount of pube pruning I have to do should qualify me for a landscape gardening gig, but I never seem to get a second interview, even when I show them my handiwork. Anyway, tally bye!
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