Arts
Three hours and fifty-six minutes… &#%!?!@ ME! Yes, that is the correct number of symbols. And yes, you will croak it ignorant of that which they substitute. Pluck mirth from ambiguity for once in your damned lives. For the select many of you who scarcely acknowledge the existence of Lithuania, let alone scan its deci-county crime news, let alone peruse the lawless specifics of each municipality, let alone keep abreast of the felonious minutiae of each elderate (or seniūnija) - a little Googling goes a long way, you think I care? - Arturas Lanka has recidivised himself into the pen. This time, for compromising the constitutional integrity of some precious garden gnomes in a permanent fashion by means of mallet. I don’t know whose, what, why, I can only feign focus for so long. Point is, Pfidze was in a right state. Faced with the prospect of an evening with an unbearably weepy blimp weeping over international calls (on my penny) to weepy foreign relations AND basking in the renewal of the beer garden, I made haste. Lamentably, fiancé Dexter Chisp was encircling (as ever) and he cunningly cloaked appendage in the guise of “getting-to-know-each-other”. I was forced to yield. Consequently, reinforcement was required. No way was I prepared to pre-celebrate my retirement in the wake of Chisp’s punishing benevolence and girly laugh. And so summoned were Ignatius Pusk and Avraham Rechels, the former my nominal solicitor and the latter an Israeli bouncer with whom, yes, I can be friends, thank you very much. Eventually, we were admitted to MY local, The Wattle. Avi and Ignatius bickered over stem-cell therapy as per. Dexter launched into a saccharine interrogation, which I was mostly able to parry. And then I saw her. Mabel Vundt, my 2020 honey. Sipping wine opposite some twatty-moustached boob. The past is the past, of course, and I couldn’t possibly have cared less and somebody must have slipped something into my Samuel Adams and a foggy whirlwind of crazed jigging and savage epithets and blue pirouetting lights and hiding behind a bin? and being shoulder-shlepped and lamb shish and home and a knuckle fracture? All told, he’s an alright bloke, that Dexter.