A Pheasant’s Tale, Part The Second
Posted on Friday, June 27, 2008Jesus, the town is full of goose-milkers, heron-stranglers and baldy grow-badlies!
Gonad was not a happy man.
What? What, Gonad, my esteemed, though expensive, lawyer?
Did you see the state of them? he testiculated, and I just back from an ugly incident at the award of the perpetual Festy McGonagle memorial cup. In the Damned Liar pub.
The state of whom? And what cup?
The demonstrators: Unfairly-Sacked Priests’ Housekeepers Suffering From Erotomania. The annual trophy for the pheasant with the longest tail.
Oh, I said, you mean USPHSFE?
The same. Five hundred honest women cruelly dismissed for sending their lonely old bachelor priest-employers inappropriate Valentine cards. And small electric toys.
Of course, though I thought the small electric toys might have been a little outré. Who won the cup?
They might indeed. It was a bricklayer-priest from Knocknagoshel that won the trophy.
I thought they didn’t like their letters of resignation being accepted?
Always with the hair splitting already. What are you — a lawyer?
It was time to change tack.
So how did the award ceremony go?
Not great. The Damned Liar was picketed by a militant splinter group of USPHSFE. They threw soiled Christmas cards at us. And small Chinese mechanical wind-up toys. I was wounded slightly by the sharp edge of Duck on Bike. And then there was the problem with the landlord and Bishop Despard-Cochon.
That’s terrible, I soothed. I hope you’re better now. What happened with the Bishop?
Horrible, said Gonad, gonadly. He picked up Father Obispo’s pheasant, weighed it, measured its tail and fixed the good Father with a weasel eye.
You don’t mean?
I do. Bishop Despard-Cochon accused Father Obispo of the worst crime imaginable.
You don’t mean?
I do. Obispo, said the Bishop, this pheasant bears a remarkable resemblance to the bird that won the competition last year, does it not? And to be honest with you, looking at the Bishop’s hologram, we all had to agree that it did.
So what happened?
The Bishop continued. Obispo, he declared. It seems to me that this pheasant has spent the last year in a freezer.
And then?
Gonad wiped his brow with a fresh five-hundred-euro note. Well, Father Obispo paused for a moment, and then he smashed one meaty, hairy fist into the Bishop’s face.
I was disgusted. You’re making it up.
I’m not, Gonad insisted, aghast.
So you’re telling me that there was fight in the Damned Liar?
Yes.
Between Bishop Despard-Cochon and Father Obispo, bricklayer-priest, over the length of a pheasant tail on a bird that was supposed to have been frozen since the last time it won the competition??
Yes.
Out of the fridge?
Indeed.
Well then, the matter is a thing of nothing! I declared with a flourish.
Gonad stepped back, perplexed. What?
It couldn’t be. Didn’t you tell me that Father Obispo had sacked his housekeeper after receiving a small unsolicited vibrating egg?
Yes.
Well then, how could a bachelor priest open a fridge without the assistance of his housekeeper?
By Jesus, said Gonad, you’ve cracked it.
Stumble it!
June 27th, 2008
Bock,i dont suppose you are planning a trip to Zimbabwe for a “job” anytime soon..
I mean I know Mugabe is in the 2nd last (crazy lunatic) stage of Syphillis but really we cant wait all that time for him to croak..
Maybe i could organise a whipround?
June 27th, 2008
I’d say Mandela is planning to whack him.
June 27th, 2008
Hopefully….
I was serious about the syphillis aswell,apparently himself and his cronies were at it with anything with a heatbeat in the 70’s and 80’s… but its such a slow and painful death..oh wait..forget the assasination,let him rot…but in a cell somewhere.
June 27th, 2008
I think The Damned Liar is the best name I have ever heard for a pub. Ever.