How’s everything now? Have you got over the shock yet? I’m so pleased that lump you found was just a shell of pasta that had had fallen into your bra and got stuck. Something similar happened to me, but that was a meatball and the bloke who discovered it, also ate it, the dirty sod.
Dad and Gran have been watching the all-day news channels as the US elections take place.
From what I can make out, the Americans have a choice between a Trump and a Bidet. Dad says it doesn’t matter who wins because they’re both raving, right wing Tories, the only difference being Trump is orange. Gran said that that Bidet would be a lame duck president anyway and that Trump could grab her pussy any time he likes.
Dad nearly choked on his chunky oven chip. Gran was so delighted with Dad’s reaction that she stood up and rubbed at her nether regions, hoping that Dad would choke again.
Gran reckoned that Bidet’s team have to put batteries in his back to get him to shuffle across the stage. Dad said he’s definitely had a face lift, but why shouldn’t men have them if women can?
Gran said Dad could do with a hard face lift and he’d look much better with his navel in the middle of his forehead. Dad called Gran an evil old hag and he wished he’d been about when she was young, because he’d have reported her to the Witchfinder General and had her burned at the stake.
To stop the row degenerating into a personal insult rematch, I butted in and asked them who they would have picked to be president.
Dad said he’d vote for someone called Bernie, because he was young at heart and had new, progressive ideas. Gran said that Bernie was just another geriatric who was even older than Bidet and if he was young at heart it was because he’d had his ancient one replaced with a new one, the last time he went in for his monkey gland injections.
Dad said he wishes Jeremy Cor-binned could stand for president as he’d curb NATO’s power and give some of the US nuclear weapons to the Russians because they can’t afford to make their own any more. Mum got confused at that and wondered why shutting down a fast-food restaurant would make any difference. I had to explain to her that she was thinking of Nando’s.
Gran said that Biden wasn’t safe and that when he thought he was pressing the button for the nurse to wipe his dribble he’d actually be firing off the nukes to start WW3.
Joe Bidet suddenly made an appearance on the screen, shuffling across a car park from the open door of a funeral parlour, where he waffled on about a family holiday, back in 1947 before bursting into a Judy Garland song. There wasn’t an audience, only a few newsmen, all masked up like Hannibal Lector and standing about fifty feet away. Gran said there was a reason Bidet’s backroom staff didn’t let him get too close to the cameras because if they did, voters would notice that he’d been embalmed. Gran said that they have to wrap him up in his mummy bandages at night to stop bits of him falling off.
Dad laughed and said that Gran was older than any of them and he couldn’t wait for her to pop off the mortal coil so he could have her embalmed. He said he’d be doing her a favour having her stuffed, as it would be the first stuffing, she’d had in fifty years.
Gran took the high ground and climbed unsteadily onto her chair to tip the teapot over Dad’s head. I had to run around the table before her knees gave way.
When she was back in her chair, Gran began to wax lyrical about Trump. She said if she had gone over to live in the States after the war, she could have snapped him up long before that Barbie Doll, Botox-ridden, false-titted, foreign bint, Melodrama, got hold of him.
Gran closed her eyes and said she’d been having vivid sexual fantasies about what her and Donald got up to in the sack. She said that in her dreams, she covers him hot orange sauce and licks it off.
Dad nearly threw up at that.
I got confused again then. I didn’t get all the talk about ducks, there was Donald, The Duck in Orange Sauce and the Lame Duck president. I decided to duck out of the rest of the argument and went to the Dog and Duck for a beer before they close it down at ten.
I’ll mail again later Em, I need to work out whether I can put you in my bubble and what happens if the bubble bursts. Will I get a ten grand fine? Bloody Covid, it’s so confusing.
Tracy, puzzled again.