Relieving the Orangemen

Great 12th of July show Kid. Tommy my cat and I could feel the love for our orange brethren ooze from the radio like thick Canadian maple syrup.
"Gerry's Presbyterian right foot must be itching to march today," said Tommy, as he adjusted a little, tangerine thong under his McFeline tartan kilt.
"Pull your kilt down Tommy," I yelled. "Who do you think you are-Lord Laird?"
"Ah, orange fest," said Tommy. "What a joy it is to see all races, colours and religions march to the sound of flute, bagpipe and drum. It would not surprise me in the least to see a shinner lead the big parade in Belfast."
I looked at Tommy with sagacious sadness. What a thick, deluded little tube he is.
Tommy is an eternal optimist. Always looking on the bright side of life. Tommy has turned the other cheek so many times, the vet had to replace the ball bearings in his neck. Oh to see the world through the eyes of a young, innocent, guileless pussy. Being a tad longer, some might say, wolverine in the tooth, I knew it would all end in tears.
As the marchers made their tired way back home, they had to pass by my house. Imagine their surprise and delight when they found 64 pos lined up on both sides of the road. It was like the relief of Mafeking, Ladysmith and Plumbridge, all rolled into one. The orange men broke ranks and fell on the pos like veritable locusts. One old veteran with tears in his eyes and smoke coming out of his shoes cried,
" Ni neart go cur le chile!" Which even the very dogs in the street could translate as,
" There is no strength without unity."
"Remember the Alamo," cried Tommy, waving above his head the national flag of the United Arab Emirates.
"I greatly admire your regalia," said Tommy. "Did you make it yourself?"
"Nay Tommy," said the marching man. "My wife ran it up on the wee Ruby Murray."
(Ruby Murray--Singer sewing machine)
After the marchers had gone, Tommy and I skipped out and emptied the contents of all 64 pos out on the road. We then cleaned the pos, using plenty of Jeyes Fluid and put them away until next year. Then Tommy came out with a universal truth that left me wild-eyed and legless. He stood at the garden gate, lifted his kilt above his head and yelled,
"Nil aon leigheas ar an ngra ock pus-idd." which even the ducks on the village pond could translate as,
"The only cure for love is-marriage."
How many wives and husbands out there are saying,
"AMEN-to--THAT!!!!"
Legion! Aye! The number is--legion!