Missiles and Rockets

I looked at Tommy my cat as he fired a salvo of short range missiles towards Iran and said,

"What great shows Gerry put on last week Kid!"

Tommy stepped away from the Patriot rocket launcher he bought on eBay, removed his goggles and said,

"Yes indeed my old gherkin, but Gerry must be careful.Once Gerry has reached the peak, the zenith of excellence, people will expect the same level of excellence each and ever week. Excellence is difficult to maintain. Everyone, even Gerry and the venerable Jonathon Ross has off days."

"RUBBISH!" I yelled, as the dustbin man peeped in the window, "I know a man whose high state of excellence never falters."

"Tommy reloaded the Patriot rocket launcher and said over his shoulder,

"Ah, you speak of Hugo Duncan, the smallest man in Strabane."

"I DO!" I yelled, "And I don't care who knows it. I knew Hugo Duncan when he didn't have a pair of false teeth to bless himself with and look at him now! Hugo's home in Strabane is literally crammed with false teeth. Why, I have known Hugo Duncan change his false teeth five times a day!"

"It is true," said Tommy, "that fame has brought Hugo Duncan dental treasure beyond his wildest dreams, but with all his vast hoard of gnashers, you must admit, the lad is still a short ass."

"IN COMING!" I yelled and as Iran replied with fury and vengeance,I whammled Tommy under the kitchen table. You're walking on the fighting side of me, when you insult the wee, short ass man from Strabane.

Later, after a light lunch of offal, tripe, sheep's eyes and stewed prunes, Tommy and I hung ourselves on the wall and pretended to be the Hay Wain by Constable and The Laughing Constable by Hay Wain. As people flocked to view us, I winked through the aged varnish at Tommy and gave him the thumbs up. Once again we had shown just how corrupt, thick and stupid the so called experts of art are in this country. Whistler's mother stared at us and said, "Be-da and begorrah now,the painters who painted them two yokes were no dopes." Bonny wee Lord Laird wanted to buy me for £5,000.000 and seven pence, but I told him to sling his haggis. Give some boys a title and they think they know everything.

"QUICK!" yelled Tommy, "Tubby Nolan is zorbing down the street, knocking over old age pensioners and small, petite dwarfs from the Mississippi delta. "We must stop him!" I yelled, as I set fire to a gross of smoke alarms and sent smoke signals to the PSNI by flapping a blanket of fog over the leaping flames. The police, who seemed like nice boys, threw a stinger across the road and burst Tubby's zorb. "Hey Tubster!" I yelled, "I thought you swore you would never zorb again?" "I wasn't zorbing!" roared the amazing blubber man. "I was encapsulated in a giant chewing gum bubble."

"Like a woodlouse in amber," whispered Tommy. The police ran to get an alarm clock from a police car and gave Tubby a good ticking off.

All this and more have I seen, from the canteen of Newsline, where Mark Carruthers and Noel Thompson were fighting over the last heel from a pan loaf. Donna Trainor cheered them on as she sat on a blacksmith's anvil nibbling Ryvita and sipping fresh, spring, sparkling water all the way from Chernobyl. Donna was looking-lovely, she had a glow, a lovely green Hibernian glow!