01 January, 2010

Chapter thrice of Weasil's wedding

15 October 2005

R. Linda:

The lass had somehow convinced herself she had never been to Scotland, never saw anyone in purple pajamas, or had ever, ever, ever seen her beloved Weasil dressed in a lime green silk suit, with red and white stripped socks, orange shoes and a fuchsia bow tie. I knew better, because I saw pictures later of the two men in question, by the gazebo, the one in purple with a long scroll of paper pointing at the building, the other in a lime green silk suit, his hands resting behind his back taking it all in as if in approval. Who was I to break it to the poor girl that the nightmare was no bad dream, but a reality?

As the lass happily continued to plan for her big day, Weasil took himself off to Switzerland to stage a skiing accident, which would -- what ladies and laddies? Which would delay the wedding. Oh yeah.

While she was looking at long sweeping white dresses with Princess Diana trains, Mr. W was staring down a high sweeping mountain with virgin snow, his ski tips sticking over the precipice. He adjusted his snow goggles over his narrowed eyes, and with an exerted amount of force, dug his ski poles into the pristine Swiss snow and with a great swoosh, he headed down the mountain.

Now unfortunately, the ski patrol was out in force on this sunny morning, and they were traversing the dangerous ridge where avalanche was a real possibility to skiers. They were posting "das al der eg geschlossen" (valley trail closed) signs when they spied one lone skier schussing down the mountain into the valley. In unison they dug their poles in and began schussing down the mountain after the wild and daring Weasil. With threat of avalanche, they were very quiet in their schussing and came up upon the wicked Weasil with stealth. Yes R. Linda, they pussyfooted their skis down the mountain in Mr. W's wake.

Imagine the surprise of not even getting to cause yourself a skiing accident when suddenly you have company! Here you are, skiing like a banshee and there are five or six other skiers right on your tail, all putting fingers to their mouths in the "hush" signal and motioning you to pull over. And worse they were all dressed in black ski pants, with red and black ski jackets with SKI PATROL pasted all over the fronts.

Well, not one to bide in the law, our hero skied faster and well, so did the ski patrol. Finally, when they were out of avalanche range and tired of this law breaking of the slopes idiot on skis, the one closet to Weasil gave him his wish and threw his ski pole in front of the speeding skies of Mr. W and down went the Weasil head over skis until he came to a decided puffy plop in deep snow.

It didn't take long to dig him out, and oh my you'd have thought they were purposely out to kill him the way he carried on. I have it on good advice they had to fashion a sleigh of evergreen boughs and haul his Weasil arse down the mountain to the field hospital. There the medics ministered to a skinned shin, a fractured middle finger (I know, you don't have to say a word), and a sprained ankle. Not enough for a hospital stay I be afraid, but enough to get the desired sympathy and time off from wedding planning.

Yes R. Linda, and ladies and laddies, the lad himself managed a wedding reprieve. Even if it was for a three week period, it was still three weeks of glorious freedom. When I heard about this I was at first feeling sorry for the lad, but when I heard the truth from a mutual friend, well I was indignant I was. The poor lass was being subject to blatant subterfuge and well I thought that was bloody terrible.

I accosted Mr. W in a Boston pub shortly after his return. There he was lounging in a back booth, bandaged ankle on the booth seat, crutches laying against the wall, his right middle finger wrapped in a gigantic bandage, his left hand wrapped in a cold Samuel Adams, holding court with a few of his friends. My dander was up it was and I walked up and said so, to which he told me to have a seat and then regaled me with the fact that I too, was once a single man who was trying not to get meself reeled in by that fisher of men, WOMAN. Well, he had a point there, I was once of that mind, but I had since gone over to the other side and said as much with a sneer of mockery on me face. I got up, threw me three bucks on the table to pay for me half finished beer and as I turned to go, Mr. W's right hand sprang up to wave goodbye. Only his fingers were limply down, but his middle splinted finger was straight up in the air.

I gasped in astonished surprise he'd do that to MOI, "Are YOU giving ME the finger?"

He looked at his hand and said as he raised the other limp digits, "Oh, nah ha, I jus forgotz cuz I be usedta em' bein downie."

Right, oh yeah right.

For three weeks he milked the sympathy card giving each and very comer the finger (accidentally, uh right). He actually enjoyed walking around like that. The hand in the air above his heart level, the middle finger straight up. The rest of the fingers limply along for the ride. There were times I'd see him walk past people that way. They'd stop and get somewhat upset and walk on shaking their heads. I can still see the back of Mr. W walking away, the finger held high in the air, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

He's got to stopped I tell you!

Copyright © 2005 All rights reserved

No comments:

Post a Comment