Have you, dear reader, ever reflected on, and genuflected to, the wondrous properties of a botsey?
Do you know there’s even a word, “callipygous”, to describe “beautifully proportioned buttocks”?
Okay, fellows, cool it! One mention of buttocks and off you go thinking of Alison Hinds. She’s a decent married lady. Take your mind off her assets.
I got “callipygous” from Ridley Greene. We were at Pitcher’s party and Ridders eased up to a young lady with, “Say, miss, I couldn’t help noticing your callipygian figure . . . ?”
“Whuh? I look like a pigeon? Well, truth be told, yuh old parvipenic poppet, you . . .”
Life isn’t easy for NATION wordsmiths.
They seldom get their just deserts. Ridley never.
But let’s take botseys to a new level and introduce Sara Blakely.
Sara was selling fax machines door to door in Florida. She wasn’t happy with the shape of her botsey. So in 2000 she founded Spanx, a private company of which she owns 100 percent, to produce spandex underwear to shape botseys.
This year at 41 she’s on the cover of Forbes as the world’s youngest self-made billionaire.
Read all about her. My point here is, there’s money to be made if we Bajans can find the right product. And I think we have it – Froon juice.
Imagine a drink which could stop the fighting in Syria, the American killings in Pakistan and Afghanistan, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, the rush to develop nuclear weapons, violence everywhere . . . .
You know how prune juice loosens things up when you’re a little costive? Well, Froon juice slows things down to a mellow and mostly non-existent progress.
The idea hit me out of the blue. This country has almost come to a standstill. No one is working, nothing is happening. Projects and issues pile up like broken fans waiting to be fixed. Something must be dreadfully wrong.
After careful research here at our Morgan Lewis lab, I know what it is: Froon juice.
Actually it is a combination of the co-enzymes lethargin and procrastin in unique proportions. Somehow it’s getting into our diet, I’m not yet sure how, and slowing us Bajans down to a snail’s pace.
Or less than snail’s pace for the giant Africans are doing better.
I call it “Froon juice” in honour of our Prime Minister.
And it’s affecting him too.
I mean, do you think he doesn’t want to bring the Alexandra issue to a speedy conclusion? Straighten out Al Barrack? At least read the CLICO report? Appoint a new Governor General? Roll those heads in that cockeyed coup? Announce suitable support for the sugar industry?
He can’t. With Froon juice so prevalent, he’s powerless.
As is the firm which was coming to fix my digester. The guy who was coming for the manure. Another for the old donkey cart. Yet another for the tractor. Endless others who never show up for kids, hay or milk they’ve ordered.
Four Seasons can’t move. Road repairs never-ending. VAT refunds unpaid. CARICOM and capital punishment withering.
In any other part of the world, weather forecasters can state: “Sunrise will be at . . . .”
Not in Barbados. The young lady, to our great embarrassment, has to go with “the sun is expected to rise at . . .”.
She knows that if the sun gets a little Froon juice in his system, he may belatedly turn up at 10 o’clock some day.
To us this is all negative. But if I can get a grant, of say, half million, I could find the source of Froon juice in our environment and market it to the world. No one would have the energy to fight wars, build weapons. World peace at last.
We could make billions.
Unfortunately, the stray dogs have gone off Froon juice.
One brown dog with a white face killed Cocoa last Thursday, a beautiful animal who usually gives three, and once gave four, kids. She was expecting another triplet in a fortnight.
Last Tuesday, the same dog and another ripped up three more milking goats.
We are suffering bad. But, Mr Dog, reflect on that old song: Hoad cocoa tea, is a pizen to me. I sorry I drink it, ’cause look now where I be. Headed for the graveyard, never more to roam free; so give all dogs de warning, stay ’way from cocoa tea.
By the way, birthday greetings (next Tuesday) to style editor/banjoist Ridley. One young lady summed him up thus: “His grammar, impeccable; his pecker, impalpable!”
