Bring me the Head of Papa Garcia

I recently posted a newspaper clipping on my face book profile. The clipping detailed a Scottish wedding that turned to a bar brawl after the kilted groom sat on his bride’s pristine white marital gown and left a nice fat skidmark behind. The bride was so incensed that she decked the groom and all hell broke loose resulting in 7 of the wedding party being arrested. See original article below:

Following said postage, I was accused of being a little poo-centric in my latest communications, a claim that I can’t really dispute. My very mature response was to comment, “Freud would say I’m stuck in the anal passage, I mean phase and actually this delightful little article was sent to me by my Father. Apples and Trees.”

Ah, yes apples and trees; my Dad knew the article would tickle my funny bone, being married to a Scot as I am. He has after all played a major role in the development in my twisted sense of the funny. You’ll find my old Pa’s jokes peppered throughout my entries (e.g. Amelia Earhart gag and Two Tramps). I think you’ll agree he’s a very funny man. His ever present joking throughout my childhood created the foundation of my wit. He taught me to appreciate the often-maligned pun and to season my language with words like ‘inclement’, ‘bonhomie’ and ‘spasmodic’.

Although I can’t blame him entirely for my potty mouth - I’m possibly just a little perverse. Despite attending a Private All Girl’s school I still think jokes about penises (I always feel the plural should be Peni) and flatulence are the height of humour.

In my formative years, my father regularly played chauffer fetching me from said expensive Girl’s school. He would drive up in his blue *Bakkie (*pick-up for non-South Africans), smiling sweetly beneath his moustache. I would grunt a teenage hello and swing my bag into the car. The moment I had gingerly settled one shiny shod foot into the passenger foot-well the car would accelerate forward causing me to clutch wildly at the door jamb and hop alongside the car, one foot in and one foot out. With a spot of unladylike muttering I would extricate my foot, gain my balance, moan “C’mon Dad” and try again. As soon as I had lain my foot on the rubber mat the car would lurch forward and I’d repeat my fitful hopping. The farce would be repeated a good 3 or 4 times (I think depending on the size of the audience) until finally I could get both feet into the car before it lurched forward again. The joke never got old, despite my advancing years; even in my final year of High School I was to be seen hopping down the school drive. Some might call it child abuse I say it taught me to think fast on my feet and not to take myself too seriously. I also learnt an appreciation of the phrase “twitching spasmodically” as I was oft wont to do.

But back to the original argument, if you think these blogs are a little too faecal centred, I’m going to have to blame a combination of genetics and environment. Old age is not called the Second Childhood for nothing; there really is an awful lot of bodily fluid involved. If I didn’t see the funny side of all this excrement I really couldn’t do this job, well not without ending rocking violently in the foetal position in a straight jacket somewhere. Thankfully my current G.A.P.E role with Eileen finishes on Saturday. There should be a poo-free window thereafter, but until then I’ll just put out a disclaimer, Caution: This Blog may contain scenes of extreme faecal content. Those with a refined sense of humour or weak stomach look away now.