Whither My Withered Buttocks

I'm as over-worked as Clare's memory stick. In fact, there was a moment during the early hours of Sunday morning when I thought I’d taken a break. Only, I was mistaken. I was not sitting on a tropical beach being sang to by the Sheila's Wheels nude choir. I’d fallen asleep in the armchair for a few minutes. Disgusted with myself, I rubbed some vinegar into my eyes and got back to work. I managed another forty pages before my body gave out and I fell into a thin restless sleep.

Before Ms. Baroque starts to worry that I was working on my masterpiece for her blog, that little gem was polished off earlier in the day. Instead, I was up late, going through the draft of my manuscript which Gabby finally returned to me, yesterday, full of her edits.

It took me seven hours to remove all her jokes. It was hard work, harder than the time I worked a room of female lumberjacks during the winter break in the Canadian log sawing season. I was picking pine needles from my underwear for months afterwards.

I don’t know what led me to lose faith in myself the other day, but asking Gabby to rewrite my novel with her own brand of humour wasn’t a bright move. When I reached page 50 of the redraft, I had begun realised that a Romanian sense of humour is a dangerous thing. Not only did most of it involve gloriously over-the-top mutilations of farmyard animals but most of the routines were stolen from Norman Wisdom comedies. Not that Norman ever went at a sheep with a machete, but you get the idea when I explain that the hero, in Gabby’s redraft of my novel, could barely stay on his feet for more than five minutes before tripping over and skewering a goat with a pitchfork. Oh, it was funny at first. But, by page 200 and the body count entering into triple figures, I was feeling pretty unwell. I'd happily never read another account of a sheepdog going tail first into a corn thresher.

So, today is a fresh gore-free day and I continue to work. I still worry about my buttocks (above) being to big. I wonder too if my comments will drop off as my visitors feel ashamed of visiting. I’m also concerned about those quiet visitors, who I value as much as any, who come here every day but never introduce themselves. How have they received my buttocks? I’d love to know.

Wallace Stevens On Buttocks

I’ve agreed to write something about Wallace Stevens for Ms. Baroque’s blog this week, while she takes time away to have her internal organs recalibrated and tuned to racing perfection. It’s why I was working late last night and fell asleep across my keyboard.

I woke up this morning with a stiff neck and it only got worse when I walked into the kitchen and Gabby slapped me.

‘What’s that for?’ I cried, rubbing my jaw.

She slapped me again. ‘You filth!’ she said and made to hit me again.

‘Whatever is the matter, woman?’ I asked, pinning her arms back before they could unleash any more Romanian fury.

‘That,’ she said, using her nose to point to my forehead. ‘How could you be so rude?’

A quick glance into the silvered side of the egg & muffin toaster revealed that the letters ‘RTYU’ were pressed into my forehead. I didn’t understand what had happened until I figured out that Gabby was seeing it in reverse and that in the Romanian alphabet (which, as you know, is much like ours only backwards), those four letters make up the filthiest word imaginable.

Well, I explained about my falling asleep jaw to spacebar and apologies were soon as plentiful as the orange juice and Alpen. I settled down and read the papers, contemplating Bryan’s excellent article on the nature of good and evil and the chances of peace in a world in which Romanians go to war with the mistaken belief that progress can come by smacking the filthy words from off a tired man’s brow.

It hasn’t been the start to the day I’d wished for.

The only good thing to come of it was that Big Frank rang me to say that all the tinkering with the site is done. I gave him my hearty thanks and asked him about his views on the narrative of ends and the moral quandaries of modern warfare but, to be honest, I think the trouble with my buttocks has been enough for the poor man. He mumbled something about fingers and pies and hung up pretty quickly.

I can’t complain. The site look particularly fine this morning and I think my buttocks look like all buttocks should, which, in the words of Wallace Stevens, is ‘up-rising and down-falling, bares / The last largeness, bold to see’.

Is This Blog War The New Stripping War?

I have a great feeling today and it’s all thong.

Wow! The tablets really worked last night. I’m feeling more like myself today. Funny how the sickness took me to places I’ve never been before. And I’ve had a hankering for classical music that just wasn’t right, so today I’ve put on the Rolling Stones and I’ve got back to practising my full catalogue of stripping routines. I’ve just finished a five minute warm up which ended with my sending my underwear flying fifteen feet across the room and coming to rest exactly where I’d aimed, hanging from my UK Stripper of the Year award

Not that I think that everything had happened over the weekend was lamentable. I mean, I wrote something. I discovered something. And for a while on Saturday night I thought I was a giant cactus baking in the Arizona desert. But for that we can just blame a bad reaction to the antibiotics.

And doesn't the world seems a better place this morning? I was happy to read that my namesake has issued a plea for the blogging war to come to an end. It’s about time that we come together as a community of bloggers and stop this senseless war.

It resembles to my own disagreement with Tom ‘Greasy Whiplash’ Iceland when he accused me of lying when I denied calling him a ‘nude nihilist’. I didn’t even know the meaning of the word but his accusations still came thick and fast. Then he started on Gary ‘Wierdo’ Forks, revealing the poor man had had buttock implants during his time at university. The whole thing grew terribly out of proportion (much like Wierdo's buttocks after the implants) and soon North Wales' stripping community was fighting among itself and became something of a laughing stock.

As you know, The Chipster is a man of peace and hates to see grown men quibble over things as trivial as politics or who first came up with the idea of dangling a handbag from between his clenched buttocks. The world is simply packed with too many good things, and with so many ladies to please with our gyrations, there’s more than enough room in the world for Chip Dale, Tom Iceland, and Gary Forks.