Dear diary,
The human strangles epidemic is now at the stage it’s gone on for a longer time than the Rolling Stones. So much so that a simple Irish boy like me has run out of chin hairs to use to count the days. But still, the human herd remains grazing in pastures close to home, which means they’re still spending far too much time around us for my liking…
On the balance of things, I didn’t have a particularly great week last week which has resulted in, by the time you read this, me being back in horsepital having the most horrendous procedure of the medical drama which is my life.
I shall start at the beginning.
So, if you recall, a few weeks ago the boss lady took learning a new lockdown skill in a direction that was so wrong, Harry Styles should have been the front man. With a set of rubber gloves on and a gleam in her eye, she violated me in more ways than the Geneva convention even contemplates — it was wrong on more levels than a lift in a brothel. The upshot of it being I now know that my dislike of yellow flowers is actually latent PTSD caused by marigolds and I may have sausage shyness for the rest of my days. Not satisfied with using up Chavda’s supply of KY and ensuring Aunty Em can never shop there again (KY and carrots as a combo = ban for inappropriateness), the vet was called. Said vet proceeded to overcome my understandable reluctance to wop my sausage back out in front of gleeful glove wearing girls by doping me and fishing it out of its cave like something from a David Attenborough programme. Three “beans” were removed from my Hovis hose and a view was taken to see if the small sore patch on the outside of my baby making machinery would heal.
Fast forward to last Friday when Cool New Shoes Man had come to replace my expensive, bespoke handmade aluminium Jimmy Choo Choo Shoos with another set of bespoke handmade made aluminium Jimmy Choo Choo Shoos much to his wedding planner’s delight and mother’s bank manager’s horror. I was already in a foul mood due to CNSM’s betrayal of our relationship after he was seen canoodling with that blonde barnetted bijou Barbie boy, and was contemplating all the ways I could arrange payback when the vet turned back up again like some sort of unwanted relative at Christmas.
Now I’m sure this new lady sidekick of Herman the German Needle Man is very pleasant, but it’s hard to feel any generosity of spirit when she’s got her hand up between your legs faster than a rat up a drain pipe. She didn’t even buy me dinner first. THEN she whips her phone out and takes PICTURES. Pictures of my man bits (wide angled lens naturally ladies)! I am not a crustacean! I do NOT wish to star in a prawn film. Honestly, if this is what it’s come to, it’s high time I need a new agent.
The upshot of all this being that they are concerned I have a squashymus cell car on my man parts (I think that’s what she said), but either way it has to come off. I am praying to the gods of grass she means the car thing and not my man parts, or basically by the time you read this I am going to be a eunuch.
Continues below…
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So, I have been bundled off to horsepital (a different one to Zippy’s house this time — I do like to try new hotels), where this morning I am having my parts lasered. Now I know I am to many the epitome of the male superhero and so it was almost enviable that at some point my life would read something akin to a script from a James Bond film — but REALLY? We had to pick THAT script?! I am far more shaken than stirred, I can assure you. While, due to the dastardly acts of those in my youth which deprived the world of my progeny, my bits are a bit defective, I am quite attached to them. I’m just hoping I remain that way.
By the time some of you read this it may all be over, but just in case, please pray for my parts and just hold off the sausage sandwiches this morning — it would be insensitive.
Laters,
Hovis
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