Thursday, July 16, 2009

Angus Thripshaw's Ditch

Just when you thought is was safe to read a piss poor excuse for a blog, here comes your old pal Angus to spice up the bisque. Some of the less discerning of you will no doubt remember me from here. Maybe it's the horse liniment I drank for lunch, but I feel all tingly being back after all this time. To those of you new to the Green idiot's tiny circle of readers, let me introduce myself. I am Angus Thripshaw and I am a contributor to The Endless Ocean Of Gravy. I am the only reason to come here and I am the sweet living shit. So cuddle up children. Angus is back! Where have I been? Well let me fuckin' tell ya.



Angus Thripshaw's Ditch


Presents

in association with the endless ocean of gravy

Thripshaw's Doings


  • I was living with Green Fish for a few months until I was able to get a certain business venture off the ground, or until he could pin me in a best of three challenge. He pulled a fast one on me by putting sleeping pills in my Thompson's Wood Stain and moving away.
  • Left to my own devices I decided to find lodgings and pursue my business venture with a renewed passion. As luck would have it I secured shelter in a drainage ditch on the outskirts of a condemned industrial plaza.
  • I secured financing for my business by strolling "mother naked" into large grocery stores and being paid to go away before the fruit spoiled.
  • With capital secured I opened up a roadside consulting firm specializing in executive entertainment solutions and seminars. I planned to specialize in up market firms with a large female clientele who would be enamored with my determined, workman-like, love making skills, in the prescribed Soviet style. I felt that this, complimented with home made Vodka, would be a market leader in executive solutions.
  • My first day went well, except that I set up my stand to close to the highway, and a wide-load transport trailer clipped my turkey costume and threw me, my stand, and my home made vodka dispenser across the freeway and under the viaduct. I was relatively uninjured until a pack of feral dogs, emboldened by the stench of blood and rotting potato peelings, set about me with a vigor.
  • I spent the next eighteen months convalescing under that viaduct, living on home made vodka and feral dog tar tar, and maintaining my network of clients by shouting obscenities at passing cars.
  • I finally taught myself to walk again after discovering that both my feet were in fact wedged into one shoe.
  • I then wrote for the Toronto Sun for six months until this became just too much of a strain on my dignity. That lead me to reopen negations with Mr Fish (follow him home from work) and secure a staff writing position (he still forgets to lock the door).

So that's all for now kids. I'm going to be on my merry way before the big fool wakes up. Right after I have a wash in the sink and a crap in the tub. Bye now, Fuckers!!!

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