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"That which does not kill me only makes me incredibly tired."
There were, times past, a semblance of mystery and adventure surrounding the relations between a man and a woman. Things got slightly more complicated if you threw in a chicken (moreso if you literally threw it in).
When a man said to a woman, "I'm off to get..."
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continued on pg 3. I ventured between the war-torn countries of Britain and France this weekend.
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"some bread," it generally meant he'd be gone for weeks with not a word, and wind up returning with bread and the Holy Grail (note: this only worked once, unless he and a group of mates took turns passing the Grail around or if it was really just a plain old ordinary Grail), looking slightly dishevelled. Occasionally some fruit, too, but only if he had to go through Spain.
This was largely due to the fact that they had no supermarkets, and, more often than not, would have to make the bread themselves.
It also included one week spent attempting to find a bread tree, time which was considerably lengthened because he failed to ask, when he had had initial doubts, how it was, exactly, bread popped into the World, and where it was he could look into getting some.
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continued on pg 6. I am the luckiest guy on this train.
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After the exhaustive search, possible side-trip through the HolyLand, and finally stumbling upon some wheat and managing to turn it into something reasonably looking (or at least smelling) like bread, he'd return.
But mysterious, still.
Now, however, there's considerably less mystery and adventure surrounding the relations of a man and a woman (Unless, again, you throw in a chicken, and then, even non-literally, you're bound (literally or not) to have adventure and mystery.).
If a man says to a woman, "Gin, rummy," he generally means just that.
And if a woman says to a man, "Turtle shine, moon dove," well she generally also means just that.
EOF
disclaimer:
Now that we've taken to writing issues topless we've noticed a considerable reluctance, on the part of the Gardai to allow us to continue to write our issues on Grafton Street, in between taking our break from playing the bagpipes and popping down to Eddie Rockets for a quick bowl of chips.
Ah well, whatever makes 'em happy.
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Yer Weekly Horoscopes. tarte au fraises. Mmmmmm.