funny... 4 February 2009
I have never set out to write a ‘funny’ book. I guess that, on top of all else, I have been blessed with being in actually funny plays and shows and so am well aware of how horribly wrong it can go too (yup, I gotta few howlers that don’t appear on any CV anymore and money sometimes changes hands that friends who know too much might be silenced). Ah now, sometimes the funnies come in the writing and you’d be mad to ignore them. My main problem with anything funny I might say in real life/person is that I never remember it unless I immediately write said funny down (and then run the risk of looking like a manipulative, self-believing jerk, or a veh veh strange person – though I do carry a notebook everywhere now for the jotting of book ideas as they will also evaporate, given half a breath, unless I nail them to a page through the medium of the scrawled word). So imagine my confusion and delight to hear that this blog has made the longlist for the Irish Blog Awards! Huge competition from actually funny types so I am genuinely chuffed to be included – that, in itself, is a prize. But ‘funny’? Janey Mack, I dunno.
I seem to have had the knack of finding strange and scary shows on tv tonight – none of them recession-based I am glad to report (I really cannot handle anymore of that – I know we are fecked, and it’s gettin’ me down). Perhaps the worst of tonight’s crop was an offering chasing down surgically enhanced women. I had to switch over after the (male) presenter handled two HUGE old (removed, thankfully) breast implants. They looked DIRTY and are now only half their original 4 litre volume (yes, that’s a lot of liquid and heavy). Bits of unidentified detritus were floating around inside of them and they were like two disgusting, softsided goldfish bowls that had been left without proper attention (not that we ever let our childhood goldfish live in dirty bowls, you understand, just guessing,). They had me clutching my own poor (unenhanced) chest specimens (newly bra-ed up as regulars will know) while whispering that I’d never let ‘em end up like that or having to share body space with such awful items. The woman who’d had them inside of her once said they’d made her really ill as they were leaking into her body and all of her began to sell, including her brain – the wrong kind of enhancement. Breast augmentation is not an operation that has ever appealed to me and now it is SO OFF any (even MAD) future agenda as to be near Pluto in the solar system of my mind (which brain should be nailing down lines anyhow and not marvelling at the extraordinary whimsy of man and womankind)
