Dear diary,
Right, enough is enough. I am fed up to my still-amazing-and-frankly-the-only-part-of-me-that-still-works back teeth of this flipping rain. It’s as if someone has given Mother Nature a Guinness Book of World Records (other beers are available, I believe) and she’s trying to outdo herself every month. It’s about as funny as the mothership trying to tell a joke – which is to say not very at all, and often verging on positively painful. The only time mother is actually funny is when she claims she can ride…
So, I have a plan. I’m sorry, but as Churchill said “it’s the greatest good for the greatest number” – and the dude is a dog who rides a skateboard, so I think we should listen… Mother Nature is quite obviously hormonal, mercurial and possibly homicidal (think mother with a hangover and no access to a McDonald’s), so we need to appease her. Forget chocolates, flowers and such like – we are WAY past that. And in my book, nothing says “we love you”, “chill out sister” and “quit going all rendition water boarding on our ass” quite like a mass sacrifice. I know. My brilliance knows no bounds, but you all forget – I’ve been with the mothership for over 18 years. I know how to handle mercurial, irrational powerful women…
So, here’s the plan.
It’s got to be the Sh*tlands.
There, I said it. But let’s be honest, you were all thinking it.
They serve no purpose, are evil knee kicking monsters with little person syndrome and are close enough to Satan to have real meaning as a gift. Besides which, they scare me and damage my manly pride that I have been spotted making strategic exits from their vicinity. I’m sure there are a few exceptions and I am prepared to discuss them (I was quite partial to little Lemon from Le Matchy Matchy and so I will send her a step to stand on) – we can always substitute for small Welsh ponies of the ginger variety…
Unless I hear otherwise, I shall assume we are all in on this plan and operation round up is underway. I would suggest using food and a net – they are harder to catch than greased weasels and move like small, furry Frankels. As any equine professional will tell you, you need to be stealthy and cunning – cornered they are like the love children of Kung Pu Panda and Chuck Norris with all the pent-up rage of a PMS sufferer denied access to Cadbury World. Be careful peoples, be very careful.
While I know that there may be a few non-horsey types who still labour under the illusion that the small satanistic psychos are cute and thus may be horrified, but a) they’re wrong and we know this, b) if they are daft enough to be suckered by the equivalent of an equine Ewok then their IQ is probably on a par with a garden tool, and c) we need to remind them of Churchill. This is about the greater good – and by that I mean those of us whose height is greater than that of a stunted Shih Tzu. The good part is slightly harder given that the previous category will allow ginger mares in, but one problem at a time here peoples, one problem at a time.
Trust me friends, we can end this misery and spring will be here – have I ever let you down? Now, go forth and capture.
Laters,
Hovis
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