Coffee and Resurrection

Mark Twain and I have something in common inasmuch as the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

Nevertheless by all the saints I have had the most bizarre weekend. I was awoken by the plaintiff wails of Smalltown’s most vivacious (and available) totty, beating their breasts and berating a God who could have so cruelly taken from them, the Coffee Bitch. Ladies, what gives with the prodding sticks? I am black and blue all over, and I really mean all over. To cap it all my gennies feel like they have spent all weekend immersed in a bucket of boiling battery acid. I haven’t felt so sore since I gave up being a host at a Venezuelan She-male bar, which incidentally is where I first met several prominent republicans. I would like to be able to tell you exactly what happened but sadly I have very little memory of anything after the bash with the Smalltown Telephone Co. Inc. I can only assume that one of the bastards roofed me up. How I ended up in a wheelie bin at the Kissbotty landfill is beyond me but it looks like yet another trip to the Genito-Urinary Clinic, I should be getting a staff discount by now. Talking about the STC Inc. I am hearing stories that their DSL performance claims may be as exaggerated as their performance claims between the sheets. I shall give them a month and if they haven’t cranked it up to lightening speed I shall reveal all (and probably end up in another wheelie bin).

There is much to tell you about recent events. We had another visit from Bertie Hemmer of the law firm Hemmer, Royd and Piles and I have been receiving some very strange notes from some very strange customers. This will all have to wait as I have some far more pressing tasks. First and foremost I need to get about a gallon of Nivea Intensive Care lotion under the bridge. Then I need to work out how I fell asleep in a wheelie bin and managed to snap a padlock on the outside. Finally whose boots are those under my bed?

Yours in soreness
TCB