For those with exempt sagacity, spot the one replete in pleonasticism.
Dad crashed into my cock last night.
Let me explain.
At 2:30am this morning I heard a loud ker-thunk. Immediately followed by a manly screech, and obscenities ranging from “what the fuck”, “what the fuck is this thing...a fucking bird?” “Tasteless piece of shit...” “The bloody cock fell on me.”
I have a giant wooden rooster statue in the entrance hall. A large white bird. It nailed him on the foot and, like a true man, the world has come to an end because “he can't walk now.”
I examined his foot with a “there there Dad, what about a nice cuppa tea?” To which I got, “The bird fell on my bone, Peas. Look at my injury! I'm in dire pain....Dire.”
The final word was a breathless dramatisation. I got this message while I was tapping away at a review yesterday: Under Panado sedation for rooster bite. Please bring home a walking stick.
The problem with men and their ailments is – do you take their threats seriously? “I'm dying.” Maybe they are really dying?
Because when I say I'm dying, Mr 747, it's when I've truly hit the bottom of my mortal demise. Do you really need a walking stick Dad? Maybe he does.
Does this make me a shitty daughter if I'm slightly skeptical?
Either way, Dad needs mothering. My gran has long passed, so he has no mum; he has no wife, and God knows what's up with all the girlfriends. I don't even ask anymore.
On getting home, “This chicken is a bloody disgrace. It's jaw punctured me.”
So I will make him tea and marvel in the way his bruise looks oh so very purple.
And so...we shall perdure as ere:
My progenitor crashed into my rara avis last night.
Allow me to elucidate.
At the aurora of 2:30 ante meridium, I heard a loud cacophony. Immediately followed by a manly malediction, and obscene licentiousness, such as: “What the fornication is this thing...an ornithological effigy?” and other offalic detritus.
I have a giant cockalorum simulacrum in the threshold atrium of my apartment. It lacerated him on the foot, and like a true male australopithicus afarensis, the world has come to a cessation. Because “he can't walk now.”
I examined his retractile with a “there there Dad, what about a nice thermogenic beverage?” To which I got, “This poltroon fell on my osseous matter, Peas. Look at my affliction! I'm in moribund indisposition....moribund.”
The final utterance was a breathless dramatisation. I got a communiqué from him while I tapped away at an apalogue: Under Panado sedation for rooster bite. Please bring home a pikestaff.
The problem with men and their exigent importunances is – do you take their fulminations seriously? “I'm in extremis...!” Maybe they really are indubitably perishing?
Does this make me a countrified offspring if I'm slightly dissenting?
Either way, I must enmatriarch my Dad. My gran has long passed, so he has no forebearer; he has no spouse, and God knows what's up with all the sexual compatriots.
On getting en domicile, “This chicken is an ensanguined disgrace! It's mandible perforated me.”
So I will make him a recalescent brew, and marvel in the way his haemotomic contusion looks oh so very purple.