|I put my own success and good health down to my adherence to a strict and healthy diet. In Canada we have a wonderful chain of health food stores, called ‘Tim Hortons’. Where ever you roam in this great land you’re never far from a healthy nutritious snack. In fact, I think it fair to say Tim Hortons has become a Canadian institution as identifiable as our polite nature, love of hockey and insistence that we elect a Prime Minister that doesn’t have a serious personality disorder.
As you may know, my wife, Amanda and our neighbour Marjory, are traveling on an ornithological tour of Western Europe.
Amanda, my wife’s appalling friend, has come down with a severe case of Canestin poisoning, which I understand is rare but not unknown in menopausal lesbians. I hasten to point out that I do not subscribe to Sylvester’s view that when lesbians are exposed to large amounts of oestrogen they run a severe risk of having their ovaries explode. Sylvester somehow equates this to the idea that ‘males have to masturbate at least once a day, or else their testicles burst into flame.’
In my kitchen with Sylvester, Bernard and Max, my neighbours son, I poured the tea.
“Whoever told you that nonsense,” I snapped at Sylvester.
“My mother,” he said.
“Sylvester,” I said in mock protest, “that’s complete nonsense! We all know that Max has to masturbate at least four times a day to prevent such a mishap!”
Young Max blushed and pursed his lips. I smiled at him fondly. Since that embarrassing matter of the carrot, poor Max has been very subdued, poor lamb.
I made the mistake of asking Bernard how he was, since he’d only been out of the hospital a few days.
“It’s all these tests,” he said. “They make me feel like a bloody pin cushion.”
“I’m sure the doctors are doing their best,” I reassured him.
“I’ve become a slave to my prostate,” he said sounding downcast.
“Aren’t we all,” I replied a little uncertainly.
“It seems to rule my life,” he continued.
“How very awkward,” I commiserated.
At that moment the kitchen door was flung open, and in staggered Sebastian. He looked terrible, with a weeks growth of facial hair on his chin.
“Good God, Sebastian! You look like you got interrupted halfway through eating a raw porcupine. What on earth happened?”
Sebastian was shaking with energy. “Just got back from Mexico,” he shouted. His words word tumbling over themselves to get out.
“I did the ayahuasca retreat…It was… It was…” he was stammering his words out, his voice shaking.
“I think you’d better sit down and have a glass of water.” I said.
I decided to call my sister, who works at the local hospital. To cut a long story short, she swung by and using the drug testing kit nurses often carry, she determined that Sebastian’s Ayahuasca retreat could more accurately be described as an LSD retreat. That, and that he’d probably spent the last five days sleeping in a burlap sack. Not bad for a cool $3000.
As my sister was leaving she glanced at Bernard, and said, “Oh, Bernard. I didn’t see you there. I didn’t recognise you from the front.”
My sister does two shifts a week in Proctology.
This week I’d like you to take a good look through my Pinterest for some clothing ideas. As you know, I love my members to experiment. Have a lookand see if there’s anything there that takes your fancy. And before I leave you, I’ve a special request. Help our girlfriends at The Downtown Eastside Women‘s centre. They could use a hand. See the panel below for details.