Bomb Throwing Pacifist

If you took that happy, smiling guy from the box of Quaker Oats, handed him a bottle of gin and a rifle, and pissed him off to a point where he decided he wasn't going to take it anymore, you'd get a little something like this.

Friday, December 23, 2005

Merry Holiday Season!

I say there, Ikimbi, where the devil are you? No no, it's quite all right, eh what? I don't need my safari boots polished again. Just fetch me another gin and tonic if you would be a good chap eh? Ah, thank you Ikimbi.

You know old boy, it's at times like these that I like to sit back in front of a nice roaring fire, polishing my elephant gun, sipping mixed drinks and reflecting on life. I mean, its not like this happens every day and all. As a matter of fact, Ikimbi I think that at times such as these, it's important that you also take the time to reflect and be thankful for what God in his infinite wisdom has seen fit to give you, primitive and inferioir though you may be. After all, you know, not everyone gets to be Lord Bradley Newton Fitzhugh McGillycuddly III, O.B.E.'s native guide and gunbearer, you know? I mean, it is at times like these that should really give one pause and take time to think.

Why, it almost brings a tear to my eye just thinking about the time we first met. Ah, I remember it well. Winter of 1839 in the northernmost regions of Blogistan. My old public school chum, Donald Basingham, were feeling a wee bit under the weather and as such had decided to put ourselves in a slightly more jubilant holiday wood, you know. After all, as enjoyable as it all may seem, being HRH's official envoy to the subcontinent and all that, sometimes it can be quite tiring you know. All those tiresome cricket matches and hobnobbing with all the Rajas, filthy blighters to a man. No offence intended there Ikimbi, I'm sure you understand.

In any event, we had gone on safari to the Undu Kush mountains in search of some fun when Donald and I spotted that great white stiped Marupilami ahead in the Jungle. Well, not wanting to let that blighter Donald outdo me, I immediately gave the hue and cry and dashed off after it, half a regiment of Her Majesty's 17th lancers in tow. Of course, it did turn out to be a cuning blighter and it would be most of the afternoon before we were finally able to corner it in your village and burn it out into the open where we were able to finally shoot it down.

Granted, it was a pity what happened to all your family, friends, and relatives, being ridden down and burned to death all in the name of sport, but I like to think it had some positive end result, eh? I mean, if I hadn't accidentally sabered your mother as we galloped down the village street and if Sgt. Newton hadn't mistaken your cringing father in the bushes for that beastly Marsupilami and shot him dead on the spot, why then you never would have had all the wonderful opportunities you have today as my orphan gun bearer, eh what? Oh well Ikimbi, this is what the season is for, eh? Being thankful for the small things in life. Now if you would be so kind, please fetch me another gin and tonic, and some fresh rags for my gun. Or, alternatively, a pair of your trousers would be fine as well. There's a good chap. Merry Christmas to you, you cunning dog!
Marc with a C, 9:50 AM


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