Proctal Algesia, a fictional satirical blog by Hamish Dixon, monstrous expat Scot living on New York's Upper East Side, plus spurious news from around the world

Droning on...and on...and on...and on...and on...

Lies, Lies, and more damned lies...

HAMISH DIXON'S DIARY

Saturday, January 17, 2004

50% OF DAUGHTER'S NIPPLES LOST TO FROST - MORE CONSPIRACY CRAP

One of Alison's nipples dropped off after her icy playground folly two days ago. While I admit that the loss of a nipple to frost bite at the impressionable age of twelve might be traumatic, it seems to me that Dolores, who remains intact, is the more overheated about it (Alison has taken a rather fatalistic view, retiring to her bedroom with a cup of hot chocolate and her laptop to send messages to and fro to her friends) and it is even money on whether her or her mother's therapy bills will be bigger -- leaving aside the plastic surgery expenses. But the Cornell docs can do wonders, and I am sure Alison will be as good as new, nipple-wise, in no time. As for the dimwits at Chance, who have decided to suspend Alison pending an investigation, it is simply extraordinary that a school charging well over $20,000 a year, plus endless begging letters, can allow this sort of thing to happen. I know that girls can get out of their clothes in about one zillionth of the time it takes them to put them, on but surely they could have grabbed Alison and slapped some sense into her before she managed to get frost bite? Apparently they were all rooted to the spot trying to analyze the implications of laying their hands on a naked student, and what that might mean for their miserable careers. Fortunately, at least, the check for $10,000 dollars that I had written towards the new gym was still in the mail, and I quickly put a stop on it to emphasise my displeasure.

Meanwhile Dolores, who is Jewish, went to visit her hairdresser the other day. This creature, who is an ugly simian-featured Iranian, proceeded to spend the entire session telling Dolores in the most hateful terms that 9/11 was a Jewish conspiracy to turn the world against the Muslims, and that no Jews had died in the attack because they had all been forewarned. Nothing new there, but a bit of surprise that Dolores took this all in her stride and has no intention of following my insistent advice that she find another hairdresser.

Thursday, January 15, 2004

ENGLISH M.P. PROTESTS INNOCENCE -- THREATENS VINNIFICATION

My old friend Peter Ainsworth called me this morning from the House of Commons in London. "Listen, Dixon, you old fuckwit," he said, using a term of endearment by which I was universally known at Dumpster, our famously spartan boarding school, "I am not, and never have dreamed of for one millisecond, planning a run for the party leadership." "Oh good, Peter," I simpered in reply, "I am soooo relieved to hear it, as the leadership is not up for grabs." "Listen to me, fuckwit," said the highly cultured Ainsworth, "do you want me to climb onto the next Concorde and come and sort you out, or shall I simply get Vinny to do it?" This was confusing. If the man was so befuddled that he hadn't noticed that Concorde had gone out of service, how come he was so plugged in that he knew Vinny's phone number? And would a respectable Conservative member of parliament really stoop to having someone rubbed out? Ainsworth ain't no Norman Tebbit.

Dolores received a telephone call from Chance today to say that Alison had taken advantage of the subzero temperatures to shed her clothes and dance naked in the snow under the influence of a reefer which she was too selfish to share with her classmates. Apparently her prepubescent nipples became frozen and required vigorous rubbing by one of the teachers, and they are all now in a state of confusion about the rights and wrongs of the entire episode. I fear that Alison's days at Chance are numbered, and that she will have to be sent to boarding school.

Wednesday, January 14, 2004

DONALD DELIVERS SUB-BELT BLOW

Good God, it can be a struggle finding the time to keep you all up to date, what with my busy life as a rapacious landlord, and all my other interests (not forgetting the vital fact that my penis has shrunk again to near invisibility.)

Donald called me the other day to complain that my recent description of our conversations about his, to my eyes, quite revolting hairstyle was completely fabricated. "I'm a lot better looking than Silverstein," he whined in that inimitable manner of his, and I was forced to concede that he had a point. But then Silverstein looks like E.T., so that isn't saying much. "Why can't you have something restrained, like Douglas?" I asked. "Douglas is short and swarthy," he said, "but I am Donald, and I am magnificent." "Douglas," I responded, "is a fuck of a sight better at his job than you, even if his brother is a homicidal maniac." "Well, for that matter," responded the Donald, delivering what I am forced to admit was a killer blow, "Both of us are richer and more successful than you, Hamish, you little small-pricked Scottish loser." I hung up.

Meanwhile one of my English friends, a Conservative MP called Peter Ainsworth, has apparently gone of his rocker and decided that now is the time to make a play for the party leadership. This in spite of the fact that the party unanimously backed the unctuously grinning creature of the night, Michael Howard, only a few weeks ago. "I," said Ainsworth, to a secret gathering of mildly interested people, "am the last vestige of old-fashioned civilization in the Tory party." Goodness me.

It was my birthday over a week ago, and I totally failed to mark the event. Dolores went away to Canyon Ranch for the weekend, and sent the children off to stay with the Nanny in Brooklyn. "Our absence is my present to you," she said. "Go off and have your wicked way with one of your fancy ladies." What with?

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