Even More Excuses A NEW STORY THE FAST IS OVER

Even More Excuses ©

By Michael Casey

Well its 16^th Nov 2019 now, just in case your watch date display is not working, and Sky is playing Dance of the Little Fairies, no comments at the back, you Ukrainians always like to tease me, but remember, you cannot hide. Ukrainians are so big if the rest of you have no Ukrainian friends, sometimes they get mistaken for trees.

So I am trying a new font, Microsoft JhengHei, only it adds an extra space after an apostrophe, so I may need to pick another font otherwise I’ll end up speaking posh, did you just notice the extra space there in the line above. That wasn’t me it was the font’s fault. I’ve shown you 3 examples now. I’m not going to start saying I have or I will instead of the shortened version but the extra space does irritate, though the font shape itself is very nice. Am I like boy complaining about the colour of his curvy girlfriend’s Tshirt, or for balance a girl complaining about the tatty jeans of her Ukrainian boyfriend. The rest I’ll leave to your imagination in Kiev, and no I’m not being a chicken, if you excuse the obvious joke.

So in today’s piece there will be the extra space, so don’t blame me. See I’ve started with excuses already, 24/7 excuses, excuses. By the way 247 was the word count just then, that’s why you just got that reference in the piece, see I don’t wastes anything, and if inspiration pops up I’ll steal it from anywhere, see your writer is just a thief of words, he’ll look at his desk and steal another idea. It’s enough to give you a headache, and yes I have paracetamol on my desk, so I stole that sentence too. So you think I’m just a rubbish writer, I’d rather be a Paper Back Writer like in the Beatles song, only I haven’t got it amongst my music, I was trying to play it on my Alexa speaker device thing last night. I was going to rename Alexa to SLAVE, but instead I had to call it Computer instead, so I put on a fake accent like in Star Trek and talk to it that way. At the moment I’m at my desk talking to you from my study. Yes it does sound so PRETENTIOUS, its just the other room down stairs but I like the idea of study, it’s my house so I’ll call it what I like. You probably call it the “thief station” where I watch the world go by through my windows, real and computer generated and then I have an idea to bore you all with. If I’m so boring you can just complain about the colour of your girl’s Tshirt and she can complain about your tatty jeans. Hey stop that, I’m talking, you Ukrainians, I expect they’ll come back a few hours later when they have finished discussing the colour of Tshirts and tatty jeans. Whatever that means, I’ll leave it to your imagination, though Michael is a nice name for your baby in 9 months time. I’m grooving to Sky now, though the pair of you may be looking at the sky.

See I’ve reached 600 words now, and my favourite track from Sky is fading in the distance. This is an excuse for a piece of writing, you wanting something good, and all you get is this fart of a piece of writing. Tuba Smarties is being played by Sky right now, and it does sound like Alexa doing her Fart Countdown. See I’m just a lazy thief of a writer, as Sky farts away in the background, that’s Sky the band not your Sky tv by the way. I don’t want Rupert Murdoch sending me any rude emails with porn stars in them, as a get lost message, from his special “get lost loser” account. See I’ve given you all another mental picture to play with, which is cheaper that any form of satellite or cable tv. I’ve out Foxed you all, you need a good shepherd with foxes about. Shep Smith has left, maybe he’ll really end up in the Trader  in Old Forge and Singing Anvil, but that’s an idea from Tears for a  Butcher the sequel to The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker, which I’ll probably never finish not unless I get a Kpop girl to come and speed type for me, so I can dictate it, see another dream, another castle in the sky. Sky just played a long note, it sounded like a fart, even the music comments on my dreams.

So I’ve not even started on this piece about excuses, he piece is itself an excuse, when will he get to the point. My writing is all foreplay, what, you’r paying attention now, well apart from girls in Tshirts with the wrong colour, and boys in tatty jeans. That’s the trouble with readers they always have something better to do, they never give the writer any of their time. What?

You’r giving your baby my name, Michael Ivanovovicovasky, yes such a nice name, at least I can pronounce half of it.

So I get a few seconds of your time, while you are busy, Mothercare will be happy to hear that. But back to excuses, I could say I’m in pain, so you shouldn’t expect much, but today the pain has lessened, so you are getting this excuse for a piece of writing. You think I should go to confession and confess to being a rubbish writer? You are all so cruel, one day I’ll turn up at your wedding and do the speech, though which will come first, the wedding or the christening? Which is a bit like Patrick in Chapter 7 of The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker, For Your Penance, when the priest makes him organise a fete for the children’s home. I know Russia and Ukraine are reading it, I see the Blogger figures all the time. The rest of the world is catching up on you two, 7 different translations being read on the same day.

What other excuses have I got, yes I’m hungry, so I may just finish now, just when my verbal foreplay has got you excited. Ok, in my imagination anyway. You are probably peeling  potatoes, or gutting a few rabbits ready for the pot, why should you waste your time with a fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham England, he could never excite you.

Just as I say that Sky explodes with another favourite track, in my mind I can see a chase, as the heroes search for a lost child, a kidnapped child, hope and despair in their eyes. It’s the climax of In Search of an Indian Princess, the ending of The Butcher The Baker and the Undertaker. The music beats the brain, again and again and again, will they save the child, or will all be lost. You’ll have to finish reading the book.

Well my excuses have more or less finished now, I hope you can see how the words flow, how they touch and caress, how they move you, how they excite you. Or sound like farts, Sky has a fart sound in the music again now, the piano takes over and the music raises to hope and passion. See I really am a thief of words, but they are all my own words, I just glue them together, which reminds you of the girl in the badly coloured Tshirt, and the boy in the tatty jeans, glued together. The Sky music continues, I could go on for hours but you’d get sick of me, besides the Sky music has reached its climax. So I’ll leave you there peeling potatoes or gutting rabbits, and I hope you forgive this excuse of a writer, like I said Michael is a baby.