“My driver stopped at Cherry Tree Hill,” enthused the lady, “and when I saw that panoramic Morgan Lewis view, those green rolling slopes, the swaying coconut palms, the spume-flecked Atlantic breakers, I caught my breath and sighed, ‘Yes! Yes! I can smell Richard Hoad all through these hills’!”
“Actually that’s not as far-fetched as you might think,” replied my wife, “especially as he’s been trimming our p**** buck-goat’s hooves this morning.”
It happens to us farmers every time. You’re out there in an old shirt you’ve worn all week till it’s giving off ammonia. Your underwear’s pulled up over your shorts because it (the underwear) has no elastic. But since it (the underwear) also has no crotch, you never know when there might be fall-out below, and . . . .
Your wife calls from the house: “Come quickly, there’s a lady here dying to meet you like if you’re Brad Pitt or somebody.” And, as you approach the house, you can hear her: “Ohmigosh! Ohmigosh! I’mgoingtomeetRichardHoad! Ohmigosh!”
And the worst part: she looks kinda nice.
Rochelle “Ricky” Goldman out of Toronto, a big name in the travel business with links to Barbados. And she wants to take a picture with me, buck-smell and all!
Okay, I’m no Brad Pitt. But do visitors always have to drop in unannounced, especially attractive female visitors, when I’m at my least Brad Pittest?
By the way, let me support fellow farmer Alan Graham, who took a stand when Rihanna stripped down in his field. I agree with him completely. And were Rihanna to expose her breasts and things in my field, be assured my stand would be even more rigid and explicit. Especially if I was still wearing those Ricky Goldman underpants.
Anyhow, we writers enjoy a little encouragement now and then. And THE NATION’s insistence on a public email address has turned up kind words from a governor general’s daughter (wunna think I sweet?), Nicholas Jordan, a “fan from the cold north” and many more.
All well and good. But I find that we’re increasingly living in a hostile world where often is heard a discouraging word and the skies are cloudy all day.
The Internet where identities are hidden is worst of all. Could so many people have such hatred in their bosoms to provoke those vile, negative comments on any and every subject?
And you meet it in everyday life too. I was once waiting at a garage and, by way of being polite, asked a mechanic (white) if he had worked on our car (admittedly, not the Ferrari).
“I don’t work on **** (crude four-letter word for manure)!” he spat out curtly. Was that really necessary?
And one night I misjudged the speed of an oncoming car and ventured out of a major stop.
The occupants (white) chased me down to vent their displeasure with: “What kind of a **** (crude four-letter word for the female pudendum) are you?”
The ABC Highway has become my worst nightmare. I must confess I’m confident neither with merging nor lane-changing. Partly because my 1990 pickup can’t accelerate too fast.
Partly because the main rear-view mirror shows a vehicle say, 30 yards behind while the side mirror shows it 60 yards behind. And the horn-blowers are waiting.
Once on that long stretch from Hothersal roundabout, I had to get into the right lane. But a fellow stayed just on my hip, slowing if I slowed, speeding up if I speeded, and blowing his horn like mad if I attempted to cross.
Nowadays I stay in the left lane. If I want to go right at a roundabout, I turn left, find somewhere to turn around and come back from another angle. Takes time, but I’m in no hurry.
Today’s world is no longer user-friendly. Thank Heavens then for the Ricky Goldmans. Despite disappointment at not finding Brad Pitt behind the Lowdown pen, she remained positive.
“I just love your pickup number!” she cooed, licking her lips lasciviously as she leered longingly at old A69.
