sanemagazine: wonderful rubbish

I once ruled legions of pickles, determined never once in a tirade, fit of jealousy, nor, especially, in the middle of a bath, to say or do anything that might upset them, as, traditionally, pickles are a congenial sort, and twould be a terrible Fate to be known as the one who finally did it and managed to piss off a legion of pickles, resulting in a rather messy, embarrassing, and horrifically soggy death.
This is a lesson many men might consider apparent, self-evident, and rather pointless, especially if they don't happen to either like pickles very much, or don't lead a horde or legion of them. This, I can understand.
Eighteen years ago, I would have thought the same, a young pup, just out of the bath, with still wet hair, and, unheeding to the advice of "Mind you don't go outside with a wet head, you'll wind up catching your death", but, little did they know, it wasn't anything of the sort.
A rollicking session at the pub, a few comments on my daring at being outside (though inside now, it was just inferred that I had been outside because I was somehow now inside the pub, and with a wet head, and no one seemed to recall anyone throwing liquid and sog-inducing materials at anyone's head, so they inferred. Yes, it was a Skeptic Bar.) with wet hair, a spontaneous trip to Regent's Park to taunt geese (as those trips are generally always spontaneous, and must be, for best flavour), three kebabs and a chicken-flavoured coffee later, and all of a sudden I'd been recruited by Genghis Khan, the man himself, to head up his armoured pickle division. Man, what a thrill.
And I think I did the job quite well, having, in thirty-seven years of service for the dashing Mongol hordes, not a single pickle casualty, and nary a pickle-induced injury, ever.

disclaimer:
The theme for the preceding issue was baths.
If you are eaily offended, by baths or otherwise (like, say, you're offended by wanton use of the word "gigolo" in BBC documentaries), you might want to avert your eyes, browser, and all related cable modems.
If you aren't, you still might wish to turn the plants to face the wall, and most certainly keep the pickles under wraps. Or a nice shawl.


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				Aisling
		archives horoscopes contacts fables home		I once ruled legions of pickles, determined never once in a tirade, fit of jealousy, nor, especially, in the middle of a bath, to say or do anything that might upset them, as, traditionally, pickles are a congenial sort, and twould be a terrible Fate to be known as the one who finally did it and managed to piss off a legion of pickles, resulting in a rather messy, embarrassing, and horrifically soggy death. This is a lesson many men might consider apparent, self-evident, and rather pointless, especially if they don't happen to either like pickles very much, or don't lead a horde or legion of them. This, I can understand. Eighteen years ago, I would have thought the same, a young pup, just out of the bath, with still wet hair, and, unheeding to the advice of "Mind you don't go outside with a wet head, you'll wind up catching your death", but, little did they know, it wasn't anything of the sort. A rollicking session at the pub, a few comments on my daring at being outside (though inside now, it was just inferred that I had been outside because I was somehow now inside the pub, and with a wet head, and no one seemed to recall anyone throwing liquid and sog-inducing materials at anyone's head, so they inferred. Yes, it was a Skeptic Bar.) with wet hair, a spontaneous trip to Regent's Park to taunt geese (as those trips are generally always spontaneous, and must be, for best flavour), three kebabs and a chicken-flavoured coffee later, and all of a sudden I'd been recruited by Genghis Khan, the man himself, to head up his armoured pickle division. Man, what a thrill. And I think I did the job quite well, having, in thirty-seven years of service for the dashing Mongol hordes, not a single pickle casualty, and nary a pickle-induced injury, ever. disclaimer: The theme for the preceding issue was baths. If you are eaily offended, by baths or otherwise (like, say, you're offended by wanton use of the word "gigolo" in BBC documentaries), you might want to avert your eyes, browser, and all related cable modems. If you aren't, you still might wish to turn the plants to face the wall, and most certainly keep the pickles under wraps. Or a nice shawl.

Aisling