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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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Tuesday, August 10, 2004
GROSSPOINTE'S LARGE PARTS?
I've been thinking overnight about Alison's boyfriend -- this Montmorency de Grosspointe dude. My first question is this: what is an 11 year old doing with a boyfriend at all? After the episode of the nipple lost to frost and her banishment from Chance mid-year, I should have realized that the girl needed help, but somehow my own troubles drove hers from my mind. And now she is winding me up by walking around with this Grosspointe, who is no doubt bearded, fifteen and overgenerously hung. Well, I've asked her to bring him to lunch at the Megalopolitan Club, which ought to be interesting for all sorts of reasons.
Meanwhile I've put in a call to Dr. Riphart to see if he can find a place for her in his rotation -- the sooner she can be receiving shock treatment the better -- and I have managed to call in some favors to get her into Colditz, the upper East Side correctional private school where they lock them up in carbon fiber chastity belts, starting in September.
A call came in from the Republicans this morning, asking if I would give up my house so that Dick Cheney could hang out in an undisclosed location.
"Look," I said, "I didn't let big ears have my house, and I'm certainly not going to let Cheney have it."
Monday, August 09, 2004
EQUIPMENT DIFFICULTIES
A new crisis has struck. It isn't quite as embarrassing as the old one (the Maybach effect of sucking my total genital package into the inner recesses of my body with a resounding plop, leaving nothing but a gaping hole behind), but it has a greater capacity to surprise those around me, can be quite painful, and has curtailed my visits to the gym.
I have been to see the doc about it, but he says it's a perfectly normal side effect of the antidepressant I'm taking, particularly in the elevated doses he has prescribed, and that I should do my best to enjoy my state of constant engorgement.
He also suggested keeping the bathroom door locked whenever the children were in the house. I think I would extend that advice to encompass Dolores' presence, too, as I don't want to be giving her any ideas. A wife who has her husband committed to the bin can hardly expect him to look upon her as a tempting morsel, can he? Anyway, Dolores has been getting fat lately, probably because that is the way that disgusting hairy-backed rat Slobodan likes her.
I was about to leave for Scotland to exercise my droit de seigneur and my constantly swollen organ on the inexhaustible wee maries of Scrapietown, when Rory burst into the room.
"Interesting news about Alison's boyfriend, eh, dad?" he said.
"What are you talking about?" I said to the little faggot who cannot possibly be my own flesh and blood.
"You mean you don't know?"
"Know what, you little runt?" I snarled.
Little runt is, alas, no longer appropriate. Rory has shot up and he is not only now as tall as me, but well-muscled with it. No doubt the result of too much time at the gym with all his pansy boyfriends. Only a few months ago I could make him cower in the corner, but now he simply smiled at me with pity in his eyes.
"Oh, dad, do can it," he said. "I know you love me really, you know."
I became incapable of speech at this, and he took his chance.
"Montmorency de Grosspointe is an african american," he said.
When I came to, I was sitting in the wing chair in the drawing room, and Rory was waving a well-filled brandy glass under my nose.
"Um, dad," he said, "Do you have some sort of problem with your penis?"
I must admit, the boy does have the gift of timing.
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and on...and on...and on...and on
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