The Good, the Bad, and the Banana. (by the Head Bottlewasher)

Bl**dy censors!

Cut all the X rated juicy bits out of my last blog so they did!


I know, I know, dear reader – you’re as outraged as I am. And very concerned about the impact on my fragile artistic sensibilities, and the possibility of irreparable damage to the psyche.

(Please, please, sensitive readers, I beg you – do not inundate the editors with protests or resort to violence because of your outrage; however, you can placate your anger through a tax deductible donation on my Facebook page, ‘TheXFactor, with all contributions going towards the exorbitant cost of the now necessary psychoanalysis).

Naturally, my artistic integrity demanded that I never ‘write’ as a guest blogger again (and for the majority of readers applauding – you can be d*mn thankful for the censors!); however, the good news is, like those Soviet dissidents, I’ve creatively included all the X rated juicy bits in the blog, as all Beatles aficionados will appreciate, in cunning code.

(However, to avoid serious injury and law suits, I would strongly advise all readers, who are slightly less flexible than the average yogi, to take the necessary precautions while reading the blog backwards with a mirror in the upside down yoga pose – urdhva prasarita eka padasana ).

Unfortunately, we once again had to endure the catastrophe that occurs on the farm every year at this time  – which I will inform you of directly, as soon as I give Sandy his daily banana ration. (Rationing was required because of the strain Sandy’s $180/month banana ‘habit’, his ginger ‘habit’, and rehab therapy were putting on the food budget  – the rehab was necessary after BA (Banana Anonymous) and GA (Ginger Anonymous) meetings were categorically rejected).

To avoid the serious bodily harm that Sandy threatened because of the banana rationing, a compromise was reached.

An extra banana per day was allocated – to be used as a Colt 45, whenever there was a western on the telly. (Unfortunately, due to a bl**dy Clint Eastwood spaghetti western festival this month the budget is ‘shot’!)

The Ormiston Kid

On to the former catastrophic occurrence …

When I went out into the garden this morning, there, before me, was a sight to behold – a particularly monarchic doe under the apple tree.

And there, protected next to her – a baby fawn, stretching up on its spindly hind legs to reach and taste the singular nectar provided by our apple tree.

Both mum and child stopped munching on the apples for a moment to look at me with their big languid eyes, then continued to munch on the apples as if I were of no consequence (is that more applause I hear?).

I was quite overcome by the sight, as you can well imagine.

As you may or may not be aware, two diametric militant factions have formed in our community. One sect demanding a cull of the deer, the other defending the creatures right to munch wherever and whenever they  please.

(Apparently, there’s now a Deer Club, not dissimilar to Fight Club, to determine solutions the politicians cannot).

Until now, I have been a fence sitter on this fractious issue concerning the cull.

But to witness the sight of those innocent absolutely scrumptious apples that possess a nectar even the gods envy being devoured by those ruthless destructive quadrupeds – well, it was just too much for my sensitivity and belly to cope with – massacre the b*stards!

I ran to Sandy, rudely interrupting a showdown that he and Clint were having with the antagonists – Van Cleef and his gang, for help in my time of distress over the imminent loss of the sacred apples.

With an exaggerated harumph and angry lowered eyebrows, he slowly turned away from the telly toward me and, in my moment of panic, told me with an accusing look and glower, ‘You can bl**dy well thank your problem on all those pacifists who led the charge to get rid of the arsenal of guns and weapons we had in the basement to take care of such scoundrels!”

Then with a glint of particularly cathartic satisfaction in his eye, he sarcastically handed me his Colt 45 banana skin to deal with the marauding deer, and dutifully returned to the telly to assist Clint in the elimination of two particularly nasty dudes.

I headed for the deer, a trifle unconvinced that a banana skin projectile, even at maximum velocity, would be much of a deterrent.

The doe sniffed the spent banana skin on the grass beside it, then looked at me with as much fear as my kids had for Winnie the Pooh, and returned to munching the apples.

Just then, an extremely loud bang emanated from Sandy’s wide open window and resonated throughout the valley.

Clint’s gunshot from the telly, which is always on at the highest volume level during westerns (necessary for Sandy’s selective hearing impediment), effectively frightened the deer away.

I walked, head down, tail securely between my legs to the decimated apple tree feeling like the total wimp I was to examine the extent of the carnage.

I reached up for what was left of the apples only to have the pleasure of a worm introduce itself to me when I bit into it.

******* ****!!! (censured )


About Morbid Optimist

My name is Katryna Mary Brooke Ormiston. I am 35 years old and after living in Vancouver for a decade, I am returning home to my 81 year old father’s hobby farm on Vancouver Island to care for him in the final stages of his life. This blog is to document my journey, process my experiences along the way and hopefully share and feel connected to a community beyond the three and a half acres I find myself on. A message in a bottle in the cyber-sea.
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