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Droning on...and on...and
on...and on...and on... |
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Lies, Lies, and more damned
lies... |
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HAMISH DIXON'S DIARY |
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Thursday, July 15, 2004
DOMESTIC MATTERS AND A DOMESTIC DIVA
When I returned home I changed the locks while Dolores and the children were out. This worked for three blissfully peaceful Dolores-free days, and then our ex-chauffeur Slobbo reappeared with a sledge hammer and broke down the door. The neighbors were, of course, fascinated, and gathered in a slavering mob to watch the fun. I have asked Vinny to cut off Slobbo's right arm in retribution, but I'm not sure which of the two of them is more lethal. It may end up being Vinny's last contract. Quite why Slobbo is wandering the streets is a mystery, after his attempt to kill little Mikey Bloomberg by driving the Maybach into his house.
Martha called me yesterday.
"You went to boarding school, didn't you?" she asked.
"Indeed," I said.
"What was it like?"
"Hell," I said, "sheer hell. My sphincter was constantly inflamed. Why do you ask?"
But of course I knew. She'd heard that old chestnut about British boarding schools being an excellent training for being in prison, and she wanted to get some advice.
"Are you okay, Hamish?" Martha went on to ask.
"Of course I am," I said.
"Only your voice sounds odd," she said.
Wanda was pleasuring me at the time, so it's possible, I suppose, that my voice wobbled a bit on the phone.
"I'm fine," I said.
"What's that noise?"
Wanda had begun to move her head vigorously up and down and was creating quite a good deal of suction.
"Nothing at all," I said, as I hung up.
Wanda's pleasurings have become a good deal more exciting since my stint in the hospital, and I can't help thinking she must have been practicing on someone else.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
BACK IN THE WORLD AGAIN
After I published the last entry, back in May, the people in white coats took away my "computer privileges" and upped my medication. I was in a haze for weeks and obviously was unable to keep my readers entertained.
Finally, for reasons I still don't fully understand, my effete son Rory came to visit me.
"I think I preferred you when you were an absolute bastard, Dad," he said. "It was somehow more real."
"Love you son," I said and leant over to give him a big hug.
"That's exactly what I mean," he said, quickly stepping back and out of reach. I was strapped to my bed at the time and my freedom of movement was limited.
"I think we have to get you out of here," he said.
"Why?" I asked. "I like it here. And anyway, don't you think you're a bit young to spring me from this place?"
Rory went to the door and gestured to someone to come in.
"Vinny?" I said. I looked at Rory. "How do you know Vinny?"
"I come to get you outta heah, Mister Dixon," the greasy ingrate rasped.
"Keep away from my fingers, that's all," I said.
"Oh, Mister Dixon, can you ever forgive me? Know what?" he said.
"No, what, Vinny?" I said.
"The bastard never even paid me," he said.
"You never got paid for chopping off my finger?" I squeaked in outrage.
"Not a red cent," said Vinny.
"So what did you do?" I asked.
"Suffice it to say, Mister Dixon, he won't be taking contracts out on any other parts of your body."
"Well, Vinny," I said, "I must admit that's a relief."
Vinny cut the straps that held me to the bed with one slash from the machete he had concealed in his pants, and then pulled a 45 magnum from his pocket, which he waved around erratically as he led me down the corridor, past the people in white coats, and into his waiting rusty Lincoln Towncar.
I was out.
The next few days involved a particularly brutal cold-turkey detox, made vaguely tolerable only by liberal flagons of martinis. But now I'm back in the saddle, and planning a trip to the land of my birth to extract vengeance on the world by inseminating a few wee marys on the heathered hillsides. I walked past the Maybach showroom on Park Avenue yesterday, and my manhood remained at its normal size rather than disappearing entirely.
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and on...and on...and on...and on
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