AFTER THE CALL
It has been over a week since the phone call with my sister, Saratoga, in which I informed her that I had contracted Mung’s Disease or Stephacockaliticus as it’s better known. (here)
I was hoping and praying for her support and her understanding - instead she hung up and I haven’t spoken with her, or indeed any of my 14 brothers and sister since.
That’s the trouble with Catholic families, no sense of acceptance, not unless the Pope okay's it first. Well, at least I won’t have to get the bastards anymore birthday prezzies, 14 a year, plus their shitty kids, Jesus, it was killing me.
The phone call left me in a desperate mood. I sat for five days solid in a darkened room.
I barely moved, only feeding myself with ‘quick hit’ foods and sugary pop drinks. Not communicating with the outside world, except the Pizza man, whom I thrust a crumpled tenner at, staring as I did from behind my lank greasy unkempt hair, and my dark sunken yet suprisingly attractive chocolatey-brown eyes.
I just sat, cross legged, watching, impassively.
That was except for the frenetic twiddling of thumbs as I shot hundreds, if not thousands of Iraq infidels, innocent bystanders and the occasional GI. I did this for the entirity of the five days of isolation – that’s the addictive quality of GTA: Mesopotamia for you – read more about that terrific game
You may think that playing video games is a waste of time, but let me tell you, when you are infected with Stephacockaliticus, a terminal gum and viral infection, anything that takes your mind off the coming pain, fear and suffering is a welcome relief.
You have probably already heard that this week the Government has launched its nationwide Stephacockaliticus awareness programme.
Well all I can say about that is… bit bloody late for me isn’t it?
You useless bastards.
If I’d have known about it a couple of months ago, I may have taken more precautions when I had that shameful, drunken rut with that skag bag Carol Vorderman (RIP) – that reminds me, I need to get in touch with Fern Cotton, and tell her she needs to get tested.
What added insult to injury, was getting this leaflet in the post this morning.
Not exactly the catchiest of slogans, unlike the one that I got from the local Labour boys for the election, which read,
“The Tories are cunts, do everyone a favour and don’t vote them back in, eh?”
Negative campaigning sure has changed since I was child.
As I write this, I am watching a glorious morning sun rising slowly from beyond the hills.
I can’t help feeling when I see such natural majesty that perhaps this illness is part of a wider scheme of things, and that I am just playing a role that is already pre-destined for me.
Then I blow off a really stinky one and dismiss the idea out of hand.
It’s the stress that’s making my arse talk.
My house sits at the base of these hills and it has always concerned me that in the event of an asteroid hitting the Earth's ocean, I wouldn't have enough time to get to the top of The Beacon (the highest hill) before the tidal wave wiped me out.
Don't suppose it matters now.
I’m due to attend my first Stephacockaliticus group meeting this Friday. Can’t say I fancy it much, probably be full of fucking sick bastards.
This illness really will be the death of me.
COMMENTS OF SUPPORT
I’d like to thank you all for your comments of support, but I can't, as so far only Cakesniffer Beware! , Half An Identity and non blogger Trillion, could be ars... have managed to actually do this.
I assume the rest of you have been left too emotionally distraught by my plight to write to me.
GET WRITING BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE.