With One Leg On The Bar

I did two things last night that I’ve not done in a while. I nipped down to the Green Dragon Tavern to loosen my muscles with the first proper dance since my recent accident. The other was to return to writing a novel I’ve left for nearly a month. They were but two of the many reasons why people were commenting on the improvement in The Chipster’s mood.

‘Chip,’ said Samantha, the waitress at the Tavern, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dance as well.’

‘I’m feeling oddly limber,’ I admitted as I threw my leg up on the bar and touched my chin to my knee. ‘I think it’s November. Some men get gloomy about the shorter days, but I get cheerful because of the longer night. There’s more time for a man in a thong to impress the ladies and walk the stage naked.’

‘I’ve never thought of it like that,’ she said. ‘And how’s the book coming?’

‘Again, better than I expected. I read through the first 10,000 words this morning and I laughed at least five times on every page. That’s quite something. That’s writing to the levels established by Bill Bryson and Jeremy Clarkson. If I could get it to six times a page, I’d be heading into Wodehouse territory. Can you imagine that? P.G. Wodehouse with an expert knowledge of the tensile strength of a fully loaded thong?’

‘So you’re limber in both mind and body?’ replied Samantha. ‘And how is the blog going?’

I tutted as I pushed my chin to my knee a second time. ‘The blog is a problem. I’ve been annoying people with my slightly less than ebullient mood of late. I’ve even had emails complaining that I’m not the man they have come to know and love.’

I dropped my leg to the floor and threw the other one up to repeat the same exercise.

‘People like consistency,’ said Samantha. ‘If you didn’t come in here every night, dressed in your alligator jacket and luminous orange thong, I’d think there was something wrong with you.’

‘And there would be something wrong with me,’ I said as I gave my thong a snap for good luck. ‘There would be something very wrong with me indeed.’

Later, I got back to the flat and took a quick shower before changing into a casual thong. I sat down, turned on the TV, heckled Newsnight, and then listened to Gabby as she struggled with a mugger in the street below the flat.

‘Had a good evening?’ I asked when she finally appeared at the door.

She wiped a spot of blood from her cheek and gave me a kiss.

‘Gabby make him beg for his life,’ she said.

‘I bet you did,’ I replied and knew there and then that I was feeling much better with the world.

The thong is at 95% and still rising.

Big Chip Dale's Got Married!

I never imagined Armageddon would look like this. I certainly didn’t expect there to be so many shoes.

It began last night. The marriage ceremony had been short and relatively sweet. It had also been totally unexpected. I hadn’t planned on getting married this year, though if I had, my money would have been placed on a certain Romanian being the bride and there being a shotgun involved in the ceremony. Not that I would have expected Gabby to ‘be with child’, you understand. I just imagine that Gabby wouldn’t get married unless she were surrounded by friends, family, and her weapon of choice. Luckily, I didn’t place that bet. I’m now married to a woman called Trixy.

Gabby was at her judo class when the doorbell rang. I opened the door and saw a forlorn creature standing there, one shoe missing, and an overnight case in her hand. The rain had flattened the stranger’s spirits as well as her hair so I didn’t immediately recognise her.

‘Can I help you?’ I asked.

The woman smiled, brushed a stray tendril of hair from her eyes, before she collapsed into my arms.

‘Chip,’ she gasped, ‘it’s taken me ******* hours to get here…’

‘Do I know you?’ I asked, as I dragged her across the room.

She recovered before I could throw her over the back of the sofa. She pushed herself upright and gestured to my thong. ‘You are Chip Dale, aren’t you? Only you're more handsome than the photo on your blog.’

‘I get that a lot,’ I explained, ‘but I still can’t work out who you are.’

‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘Trixy, from the hugely successful blog, “Is There More to Life Than Shoes?”’

I looked at her feet and the missing high heel.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Ironic isn’t it? I lost it when the taxi driver threw me out of the cab. I don’t think I should have called him a ****.’

‘Alas,’ I sighed, ‘isn’t that just the way out here in the provinces? What passes as a clever use of swearing in the highly charged arena of Westminster politics comes across as overly aggressive in Bangor.’

‘So it ******* seems,’ she said.

‘I hope you don’t think I’m sounding unhappy to see you, Trixy, but can I ask what exactly are you doing here?’

‘Oh,’ she said, relaxed enough to kick off her remaining shoe. ‘We’re getting married.’

‘Who are?’

‘We are,’ she smiled. ‘You and me.’

‘Are we?’

‘Well, technically, we already have. Many people already think of us as man and wife.’

I was confused. Moments earlier I had been sitting enjoying a cup of hot chocolate with Dragon’s Den. Now I was in the process of negotiating a post-nuptial agreement with a drenched London blogger with the mildest case of Tourettes.

‘It’s complicated,’ said Trixy. ‘The thing is: I went and ******* told Facebook that we’re married. I don’t want to go into the reasons other than I was looking for a man with fantastic good looks, a brilliant sense of humour, and with a chance of superstardom in the next two years. It was between you and Richard ******* Madeley but I preferred you because Facebook already recognises him as being married to Judy.’

‘Does that matter?’ I asked, thinking I was missing something.

Trixy laughed. ‘Does it ******* matter? Of course it ******* matters! A declaration of marriage on Facebook is a legally binding agreement in certain countries.’

‘Certain countries?’

‘Iraq, Peru, Norway and…’ she smiled winsomely, ‘Wales.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I said, not quite seeing. ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’

‘I do, actually,’ she said, dropping her bag and opening it. Unsurprisingly, it was filled with nothing but shoes. ‘We have to get to either a sea captain or a priest before midnight. Otherwise I’ll have broken the rules of Facebook and they’ll kick me off.’

‘Is that a bad thing?’ I asked, not being, as you probably know, Facebook’s biggest fan.

‘It would,’ she replied as she slipped on a new pair of high heels. ‘I couldn’t live without my account on Facebook.’

‘Only,’ I said, nodding towards the TV, ‘Dragon’s Den is on and there’s somebody about to get the force of Duncan Bannatyne’s considerable Scottish wrath.’

‘Sod Duncan Bannatyne!’ cried Trixy. ‘We have a wedding to arrange.’

An hour later, an unreasonably sober man crossed the threshold of his apartment carrying a woman called Trixy in his arms.

‘Did you need to call the taxi driver a ****?’ I asked, as I dropped her onto her again shoeless feet.

‘Force of habit,’ she said as she sank into a chair. ‘How’s your back?’

‘Better than I would have expected after carrying you three quarters of a mile.’

‘I’m ******* exhausted,’ she said. ‘I’d grab a shower but I think somebody’s already using it.’

That’s when my blood ran cold. I could indeed hear the noise of a power shower.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Trix, as the new Mrs. Dale likes to be called.

‘It’s Gabby,’ I said. ‘She doesn’t know.’

‘I’m sure she’ll be reasonable,’ said my darling wife.

‘Have you actually read Chip Dale’s Diary?’ I asked. ‘I know plenty of people link but only a few read. But don’t you know what kind of woman you’re about to cross? I hope you have shoes in that bag that contain high levels of neurotoxins cleverly concealed in a sharped toe?’

She looked regretfully towards her luggage. ‘I don’t think I do,’ she said, and suddenly brightened. ‘But you make me wish that I did! We could always go out and do some late night shoe shopping?’

But it was too late. The power shower powered down and a small shadowy figure appeared in the corridor. It was wrapped in a bath towel that did a poor job of concealing duelling scars.

‘Chip? Where have you been?’ asked Gabby. ‘And why are you dressed like you go wedding?’

I looked down at my crushed velvet jacket and purple cummerbund riding high above my formal black CofE thong. Then I looked at my poor wife who seemed oblivious to the fact that we were both about to witness The End of Days.

‘Gabby,’ I said, ‘I don’t want you to get excited. I want you to listen because what I have to say might sound a little bit strange.’

‘Who is woman?’ asked my girlfriend, always quick to feel jealousy when I have a wife sitting on the sofa and picking confetti from her hair.

‘I’m not just any woman,’ said Trixy before she added, I thought a little foolhardily, ‘I’m Mrs. Chip Dale.’

The towel fell and I gazed down at a perfect Romanian body with at least three orifices concealing more arms than an IRA weapons dump.

‘Chip got married?!’ she screamed.

‘It was Facebook,’ I began to explain, backing towards the door and Birmingham. ‘Poor Trixy here went and clicked on the relationship option and accidentally married us and…’

How we managed to get out of there, I can’t reasonably explain. And how Trixy managed to escape with her shoes will remain one of the great mysteries of the century. I do know that we are currently hiding in a Travel Lodge outside Essington on the M54. We’ll be moving on soon so Gabby won’t be able to track us. There might well be more to life than shoes, but from where I’m lying, there seems to be more shoes than there are chances of my escaping this little episode with my life. I do know that it’s hard to flee Romanian justice when you’re loaded down with so many pairs of ******* shoes.

The Iranian Tourist Board

Gabby informed me last night that she’d liked to see more of the world.

‘I grow tired of UK,’ she said, clearly remaining at heart as much the roving vagabond as the day I found her sleeping in the doorway to Timothy Whites all those years ago. ‘Gabby wants adventure, to see old ruins, drive through mystical landscapes, be attacked by local bandits and return fire from back of Land Rover.’

‘So why not have a weekend in Pembroke?’ I suggested. It wasn't that I'm against these exotic holidays but I do fear for the size of carbon footprint Gabby’s wanderings would leave on the planet.

‘I want to go abroad,’ she said with a thick pout.

‘England?’

‘Abroad abroad.’ Now she stamped her foot and a bayonet slipped out of her trouser leg.

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘you want a holiday. Where would like to go?’

A sheepish look developed over in her quarter of the room. I could see that things were not wholly unplanned. There have been plenty of midnight phone calls between the Cheeky sisters and I thought I could detect the influence of the slightly more hair-brained Monica in this unexpected turn of events.

‘I been in contact with the Iranian Tourist Board,’ said Gabby. ‘They tell me Iran is exciting country full of fun activities.’

You can imagine my surprise.

‘Fun activities?’ I asked. ‘Such as what?’

‘They tell me I would be very welcome. They like athletic young women who enjoy rough and tumble, likes to throw stones, climb cranes.’

I cradled my head in my hands, my hands on my elbows, and, most reassuring of all, elbows on my thong. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘do you really think Iran is a country for you?’ I thought about that for a moment and decided to start again. ‘Of all the places in the world, don’t you think Iran is a bit dangerous, even for commandos who’ve had the best that Romania has to offer in combat training?’

She jumped up from the sofa and picked up her laptop, which she dumped before me. The screen was already loaded and I was looking at the website for the Iranian Tourist Board, complete with personal welcome from President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.

‘You know,’ I said after a few moments of careful consideration. ‘I’m not sure this website is entirely legitimate.’

‘It real,’ screamed Gabby. ‘It say so. It say Iranian Tourist Board.’

I waved down her complaint. ‘It’s not that I would every doubt the words of a man like Ahmadinejad but don’t you think it odd that the Iranian Tourist Board would have a website with the tag, “There’s More to Iran Than Missiles”? If you ask me, this isn’t entirely official.’

She snatched the laptop away from me. ‘But Gabby want to play stoning game with people.’

‘The stoning game is not a game,’ I said. ‘And that’s it, as far as I’m concerned. We’re not going to Iran. Don’t you get enough kicks torturing the innocent in your duties as a traffic warden?’

‘No,’ she said, simply. ‘No I do not.’

Half an hour later she comes crawling back, tapping on the door to my den.

‘Chippy,’ she said, her voice trailing sincerity like a slug trails slime.

‘Yes, Gabby,’ I sighed. ‘What is it now? Can’t you see that I’m busy curing these thongs with my mallet?’

‘I don’t want to go to Iran for holiday.’

‘I’m glad you see sense. Horrible place.’

‘We stay in UK instead.’

‘Fine idea.’

‘We got for week in Newcastle.’

The mallet hit my finger and I cursed a foul word. ‘Newcastle?’ I pushed the pile of new thongs aside and grabbed my own laptop. ‘You know,’ I said, ‘perhaps Iran isn’t that bad an idea. What did you say the address of the Iranian Tourist Board is again?’

The Chipster's Book Review

Her fist. My jaw. The rattle of china.

Only then did I realise we don’t own any china. It was my teeth, clicking and clacking like a domino world record attempt going wrong. It ended in a firework display of pain somewhere around my groin. I fell to the floor, the dull nausea of crushed gonads beginning to spread through the lower half of my body. I wouldn’t have believed reviewing a book could be so hard, let alone produce so much thong trauma.

‘What is Chippy doing with this book?’ demanded The Gab, holding up the quality hardback.

‘Reviewing it,’ I groaned, nose buried deep in the shag pile.

‘Likely story,’ she answered and spat on her knuckles as she prepared to deliver one of her haymakers.

I waved her off me as I scampered back into my office and closed the door. From there, I explained how the man with the unfairly mistreated testicles had been asked to review the book based on the internet blogging sensation of the same name. Only the name seemed to be Gabby’s problem.

‘What next?’ she screamed. ‘Is Chippy thinking of writing “My Girlfriend is a ****”?’

‘Well it does have a certain ring to it,’ I replied.

‘Misogynist!’ she screamed as her fist splinted the door and connected with my jaw. More china rattled in my mouth and I felt a crown dislodge and try to flee down the back of my throat. I wanted to follow it to safety.

Romanians, it seems, have a unique and not wholly healthy attitude towards swear words whereas we men of the thong appreciate a bit of earthiness once in a while. Not that this book is full of that. What you get for your £9.99 is a surprisingly polite and light-hearted romp through relationships and Belgium. (I hope you noticed how professionally I did that: you always have to get the price of the book into a review and use the word ‘romp’ at least once when writing about a comedy). You might have noticed that I mentioned Belgium just then and you might be wondering why. Well, Belgium is one of God’s finest comic creations and it is the perfect backdrop to Zoe McCarthy’s amiable ramble around her life.

The eponymous hero is her boyfriend and the book is written as a manual for living with him. I’m sure no other book deals as comprehensively with the subject, though I have to take McCarthy to task for claiming that it’s a guide for living with all men. She believes that all men share the same faults while I say that the Chipster is quite unique in his sins. I do not break wind in front of my girlfriend. Nor did I seduce her with a packet Cumberland sausages. In fact, to slip you a well-greased slice of truth: I’m nothing like her boyfriend at all. ‘My Boyfriend is a Handsome Welshman With A Love For Thongs’ would be a more accurate title, should she decide to write a sequel and should we have hitched up by then.

‘Hitched up?’ screamed Gabby, looking over my shoulder as I typed that line.

‘Metaphorically speaking,’ I said, trying to move the cursor back to edit it out. Only it was too late and my fingers were already shaking like those of a First World War infantryman who had just survived ‘a big push’.

‘I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss about a gentle little book which would make an admirable Christmas gift for the figure in your life you like to call your “loved one”,’ I said.

‘Chip wants me to buy him this book for Christmas?’ she asked.

‘Well, I’ve already read it during a chuckle-heavy session last night,’ I answered. ‘Besides, I already have my heart set on a refurbished Thora Hird heated foot warmer. But I do recommend that everybody else goes out and buy it. Make it a number one in the charts and prove that we bloggers are every bit as worthy of people’s money as every Rowling, Archer, and Vikram Solanki.’

‘Vikram Solanki?’ she screamed.

‘Or Freddie Flintoff. It really doesn’t matter. Cut your cricketer as you will, you’ll still find a best selling story somewhere about their gory whites.’

Gabby dropped the book and winced as it landed on her toe. 288 pages of neatly packaged hardback proves that you always get your money’s worth when buying something published by the good people at The Friday Project. And that’s not to mention the wonderful illustrations by Lucy Pepper.

‘Sure to be a Christmas smash,’ I said as I typed that line down. ‘Now,’ I said, turning to Gabby, ‘are you going to let me finish this review without any more of your violent insurrections?’

‘My Boyfriend is a swot,’ she sniffed as she licked my blood from a knuckle and left the room.

It was all too much for me. I crumpled over the keyboard. After all that trouble, the words wouldn’t come. I’ll have to sit down some other time and recommend this book to you. Sometimes I don’t think I have it in me to write reviews. Not when I have to write them in blood.

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’.

An Evening With Jan Leeming

I think we can all agree that it’s been a frantic few days and I haven’t really had chance to explain what I did during my enforced absence. But before I do that, I’d like to direct your attention to my previous post. For some odd reason, people have failed to read between the lines and left here with the impression that I asked them not to vote for me. Of course, I did ask people not to vote for me but do you really need any greater incentive to go and throw your car keys in the Blog Power salad bowl? You might end up going home with the Chipster. What more can I say than that?

So far I seem to have nominations in the categories for ‘Most Articulate Wordsmith’ and ‘Most Consistently Entertaining Blog or Column’, so please go and add your nominations to the pile smelling of hazelnut scented buttock scrub. If I get through the nomination stage, I vow to use every contact in my little black book to help my campaign for election. And when I become king of the blogs, things will change around here… All those people who mocked me, they will become the mocked. And if you've not been with me, then you've been against me and I shall smite yea with the wrath of...

Sorry.

The Chipster can get a little carried away when wearing his black leather thong of world domination.

Which, by a rather odd quirk of circumstance, is what I was wearing over the weekend.

I’ve been promising to tell you about my weekend but now’s my chance. I’ll be honest and admit that all my best thongs were in the wash on Saturday when it came to attending the charity bash I’d help organise in aid of the local leper hospice. A whole galaxy of stars were on hand to see me in my black leather thong and they seem properly impressed by the scale and quality of the pouched beast as Gabby and I mingled with the likes of Jeremy Beadle, Jan Leeming, John Noakes, Mike (the barman from Only Fools and Horses)…

I can't say enough good things about the event. It was a fantastic evening of song, dance, a little animal cruelty, and lots of drunken merriment. And at the midway point, we all had ourselves a raffle and put ourselves up for sale for the evening..

And to cut a long story short, I won Jan Leeming for the night!

Well, what can I say about Jan? She's a lovely lady with many funny tales to tell about life in the BBC. Things I discovered: Nicholas Witchell is double jointed and Michael Buerk collects teabags. Gabby wasn’t too impressed, of course, when I pulled out Jan's name and neither was Alexi Sayle who drew the shortest straw in the barrel, so to speak, and walked away with my Romanian buttercup. Never have I seen a bald slight-overweight man go as pale as I did when Gabby decided to show him how to skin a dog. I grant that it all got pretty gory for a while and poor Sharon Osbourne’s shitzu will never be the same again. By the time we managed to prise it out of Gabby’s hands, the poor animal was wearing its own ears around its tail.

But I’m a big enough man to not allow such a thing to spoil my evening. Around ten o’clock, I slipped out with Jan so we could enjoy the fresh air. We got talking and it turned out that she has a great fondness for yoghurt. I also have a great love of the well cultured stuff and we nipped to a local all night delicatessen which sells the best strawberry yoghurt imaginable.

When we got back to the party, the thing had gone with a rowdy mess. Keith Chegwin can always be relied upon to ruin a good show. He was standing on the stage singing vulgar ditties about the Welsh and Pat Butcher (the one from Eastenders) had Terry Griffiths (the snooker player) on the floor and trapped behind her pink. That’s when Chrisopher Biggins came running from the crowd and snatched the tub of yoghurt out of Jan’s hands. Jan, of course, wouldn’t put with that. I couldn't stop her grabbing the nearest object – which happened to be a sink plunger – and went lurching into battle. I didn’t want to get involved. Nothing worse than celebrities fighting over scraps of food.

Instead I went and found Gabby who was alone in a corner of the room picking at an antique grand piano with her pocket knife. She wanted to slip away without anybody noticing our leaving but I had to give Jan a wave. I also promised to send her some more of the locally produced yoghurt but I don’t think she heard me. She was dragging an unconscious Christopher Biggins around the hall by the plunger which was stuck to his forehead with something pink, sticky and produced by a quality Welsh dairy.

Overall, it was a bloody good night that raised plenty of money for charity.

Dear Gabby

[As promised yesterday, the Chipster's having a day's rest and handing my blog over to Gabby. She's already had a few emails and I hope she'll give you nothing but good advice. Chip.]

Dear Gabby,

I think it's great that you can help me. You see my girlfriend doesn’t love me. She is always complaining. She says I don’t cut my toenails and won’t let me fix my motorbike in the kitchen. She also thinks that I eat too much. What should I do?

Henry P.

Gabby says:

If woman don’t like man with toenails and motorbike then she not real woman. I think toenails sexy. Back in Romania, toenails are first thing we look for on man. On a donkey too but that’s not sexy. That’s just to say how old they are. Gabby say that motorbike in kitchen is problem. You should compromise. Move it in living room, away from food. Kitchen is for cooking and rare times when you must cut toenails. Nothing else. If Gabby’s suggestions don’t work, you should get rid of woman and find somebody else. Man with good toenails sure to find sexy woman. I have Russian friend if you interested. She like man with toenails and own house.

-+-

Dear Gabby,

I’ve been reading Chip’s diary for a while now and wondering if he’s as great as he claims. He doesn’t look that good to me and I’ve been known to go out with some right ugly mutts.

Sharon

Gabby Says:

You foolish woman, Sharon. Gabby says Chip is stallion. You finish your silly talk and come to Bangor and see Chip in action. Man in posing pouch is like god come down from sky to wiggle hips in face. Lovely. You see but don’t go saying bad things about Chip or I get sister to cut you with knife. You warned.

-+-

Dear Gabby

I am trying to break into the world of music with my sister. We can both sing really well and wondered if you could us some tips about reaching the top.

Heather and Lisa K.

Gabby says:

Have you good leg? Rumpy too? Like we say in old country: best beef on big bottom. That is same for singing. Don’t worry about horrible voices or if you got warty face. You get meat on bone and then let photographers do rest. We also like to wear tiny dresses. They help too if you bend over. And never turn down a job especially if it involves bending over. And any job is better than no job. So, when they say come and sing to soldiers. You go. We sang to soldiers in Iraq and they let us shoot guns from helicopters. We want to go back to do again but with less singing and more shooting. Gabby likes AK47. It her favourite.

-+-

Dear Gabby

Is it true that women prefer men with sense of humour than men with good looks? I don’t have either but I think it would be easier to learn some jokes than it would to make myself handsome.

Derek M.

Gabby says:

Rubbish. Give me boring man looks like stallion than funny funny ha ha man comedian. As we say in Romania: you can not milk mule. If you could milk mule, we have huge dairy industry. You can’t so we don’t. But you cannot milk funny man either, and that is Gabby's point. Get man with looks and good body. It like buying a strong mule. You never regret owning strong mule and people like you. People laugh at one legged chicken but it not make man happy when he eats it and nobody comes for dinner for one legged chicken. If you not look good, you get exercise. Face not important if you got good body. If you got good face and bad body, nobody notice good face. Also man with big scalaragurang is important too except on goat when it better small.

-+-

Dear Gabby,

I worry about you. Chip treats you quite horribly and says some rather cruel things about you and your sister. I’m sure you’re nothing like he says you are. Do you really shoot sparrows with a gun? Does your sister really carry knife around? Why do you stay with him? I think he’s horrible.

Michelle C.

Gabby says:

What Chip say? He say I his sexy cheeky girl and he loves me. He not say thing wrong about Gabby or sister. I not shoot sparrows, no, I shoot starlings and pigeons and crows. My sister carries knife, nine inch blade with saw on back. Like Rambo knife but sharper. But there’s nothing wrong with sister with knife. It’s legal. She licensed manicurist and it for taking off bunion. I see her take bunion of man who called her rude name. Bunion the same size as his leg, which made him need wooden bunion afterwards.