I want you to know that generally I am at home with my club. In fact, that is why I refer to it as "the home of homes."
However, I have become tired of the fatuous remarks I hear around the place. The other day as I was about to bring a silver yum-yum to my cracked lips I heard a mem as he passed me say, "If Mother keeps drooling, it is assisted living no matter what she says."
I put the martini down sadly and stared at the baroque ceiling. I think his mother deserves better than this cruel cut, especially a public one.
For the record, there are now a few mems planted here who have thrown selfconsciousness aside and proudly wear drool cups attached to soft collars. One chap goes so far as to show up each week with a different coloured cup and then looks hard at fellow mems as if daring them to say something.
Far too often I also hear mems making comments about their wives. Now most thinking chaps really do not want to be made aware of the inner workings of others' marriages as it is enough for us to deal with our own - things such as "Since my wife stopped shaving, it is not unlike being married to my brother-in-law." These are secrets that must be kept behind the high wall of marriage; besides, it puts one off lunch.
As I am speaking my mind this Sunday morning, I feel the country should reconsider the noose as a way of stopping graffiti. Normally I am quite proud of the way Canada has done away with the death penalty, but waking up after a Saturday of back-breaking painting the front yard fence to see an insult upon said fence makes one yearn for the old trap door. My particular outrage read "Kill the rich."
First of all, we are not rich, not by today's standards, we simply have a nice house and savings from various jobs over the years. The hard cheese for me is two doors down nests David Derivative, a banker who redefines slippery and has made millions.
Why pick on me and not him? Not very Christian, I agree, but it is frustrating that the idiot street artist could not even deface the correct house. Bah.
I recall that we at one time had a problem with graffiti at the club, especially the south wall on Humbolt Street. I think the scrawled message was along the lines of "Eat the fatties," lacking in originality but still. The poor club had to repaint more than a few times, which began to play havoc with the exchequer. However, over the horizon at a fair trot came our savior, Mrs. Hynde-Quarters. Her unusual solution was to paint the wall in question with vaseline, which brought more than a few guffaws, but the perpetrators were stared down by her friend, the vast-bosomed Mrs. ffrangington-Davis.
Several reputable painting companies refused to have anything to do with the job as they felt it would somehow demean their craft. So the stupefied wine steward and a barman were press-ganged and handed long brushes with the pregnant waitress holding the ladder.
Nothing much happened for a week if one discounts a few outraged crows, until the night of the club "singalong." Just as the Brigadier started the fourth verse of Paddy's Donkey in his shaky baritone, something shot by the window, followed by another something. A third phantom caught his belt on the window latch and was left looking at us and we at him.
A dismissed waiter and two friends were taken into custody but slipped from their cuffs because of the petroleum jelly and are now rumoured to dwell in an upIsland cave. We have had no further trouble with graffiti at the club, just my fence. Shame on you.
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