Sunday Sauce - Oxy Moron Is Back
I might not be Jesus, and I was not nailed to a cross. To save the world from sin I can't, and I have little blood to shed. Nevertheless, I have resurrected myself from the satirical graveyard, so to speak.
But what could have forcibly drawn me, the stubborn one, from the luxury of pre-retirement? What could have tossed me back into the fray of words written so unkindly and ungraciously?
It wasn't because people were pressing on my name with their chequered posteriors, and I heard back, as dance hall talentless ones are wont to say. So what if they are scandalising my name! So what if I am actually a moron? I'm not alone in my moronic existence. And I am not talking about my friend Kanye West.
And as controversial as it was, I was not motivated to delve into the purple and white quagmire and baptism of fire into which the professor has thrown herself. Hell hath no fury like fallen brave men so yielded to the pen. So I steered clear of the mud and lava that spewed her way.
Roger Clarke's sudden exit made quite a splash across the Caribbean Sea. Big and tsunamic it was, but the seismic tremors couldn't move me. I am still asking though, why the guango tree in Liguanea? Why, why, why!? Oh death! Speak not out of regret. It is a rhetorical question.
BEAUTY ON THE BEACH
My nights were not slumberless, and on the beach for days numberless I rested. Retired I was, and guess who happened to strut by one fine, sunny day? Oh golly! It was the minister of youth and beauty culture. The sun had nothing on her. She was scorching. Hot! Mama's little princess had gone bad. And how's Mama? A word that rhyme's with bad. Out of many she had one more half-naked issue to content with.
And it wasn't P. Chin who wrote a letter to the editor about the colour, size and beauty of certain pieces of wood in fern gully. But P., chin up man, and stop the frown. Take your peacock down the gully for a stroll. There's beauty everywhere. But make sure it's not lost among the woods.
This one is sad, but laughable, yet, it didn't prompt my return. The little fellow was promised everlasting love, forever and a day. So, he gave himself in sweet surrender in return for a car. To the mart he walked, but got a dagger in his heart. Car not bought and registered in his name. Crestfallen, the dagger he has painfully withdrawn, and in search of Larry he has gone.
When I heard this one, with eyes wide open, I asked, "A chu, chu!?" Yes, was the reply. Too much drama, blood sugar level dropped suddenly. So, I had to drink some Coke and chew some cane. What a way to exit the stage!
Now, the one, more than all others, who could get me back on my keypad was the starlet who bopped his way from the gully on to a Boxing Day farce. A tragedy, a comedy, a romance? Shakespeare will have to take on this one. For I really have no teeth for it.
So, why am I back? To stand in solidarity with satirists the world over, in honour of those who were killed by the lunatics in Paris. And where are they now? Have they been given those 70 virgins as yet?