So far I haven't been picked up by the fuzz, but an open admission before that happens may be best. I want to put my side of the story to you, Judge Judy, and members of the Universal Jury.
We know that the villain Brian has been stirring while Avastin was delayed. To save the trouble of going all the way to Tamworth for an MRI, I had the brilliant idea of sticking my head on the scanner, turning the light up to max volume as it were, and doing a few quick brain scans. As you do… except that other people expose their buttocks on the office photocopier instead. Or used to, before these digital days of succumbing to the unwisdom of iPhone camera shots they deny sending to anyone later. Ho ho.
I declare that I did not sit butt-naked on the scanner, but the idea seems to have worked a treat. This image below is inside my brain. A strange apparition at the spot where Brian resides appeared on the screen.
I hereby tender this as Exhibit A. Just file that image away on the back burner, where many other mixed metaphors reside.
I have a Graduation Duck. Doesn't everyone? No? Well, in order to pump up my veins for the Avastin infusion, I squeeze my duck vigorously. It seems to work. No smirking, thank you.
I submit this image of my duck in pristine condition as Exhibit B.
On the night of 14 June 2012, I had a series of seizures, many located in the fingers of my right hand.
During such seizures, my hand always wants to claw up like talons, clenching and unclenching. Members of the Jury, it's tiring and it hurts. These, I contend, are mitigating circumstances even if you don't come up with the right verdict, but I know you will. I can see that you're not only the best-looking jury I've stood before – and I've been before many juries in my time – but wisdom and high intelligence shine from your sparkling eyes.
Yes, Your Highness, Judge Judy, I return now to the matter at hand.
"Get me the Graduation Duck," I commanded Tracey as my fingers flexed and fist clenched. Ordering people about is a rare privilege extended to those having focal seizures at the time; in this house, anyway, though it doesn't last long. My ordering anyone about, I mean.
"If I can get these fingers round the duck, they can squeeze and unsqueeze and not claw up any worse than they are now."
It was a theory. When you're having a seizure, practically anything novel seems like a good idea and takes your mind off the sensation that your knuckles are going to explode.
With commendable speed, Tracey brought Ducky.
"Put the duck in my hand when my fist opens," I said.
The attempt was not that successful. Oh, we got it in there all right – nothing wrong with the timing – but like a baby refusing a spoonful of mush, an apparently furious Brian refused to cooperate and kept spitting it out. Not that the mongrel ever has cooperated in any way before. The Grad Duck's head kept getting in the way no matter what.
The twisting, contorted fingers then responded to Brian's command – note: Brian's command – and suddenly, a cruel and unusual event took place.
It was reminiscent of an incident inspiring my nephew Scott's awe when he was about three years old, relating to the chook scheduled for the dinner table that evening. With a deft stroke of the axe, his father had just sent the hen to Jesus, leaving what was needed behind for the evening meal, plus the feathers. Scotto, in high excitement, raced inside to tell his mother:
"Mum! Chookie off his head! Quick. Come and look."
My sister was not keen. She had witnessed quite a few executions of a similar type on our farm when we were kids, and the thrill and novelty of seeing headless chooks running around had long worn off.
Judge Judy is getting fidgety again. OK.
You can see below the result of the evil Brian's handiwork. Ducky, I sadly report, was off his head as well, its having been ripped savagely from its tortured, contorted body by... well, it's true... my very own fingers.
WARNING: Graphic violence in image shown below.
I further submit these more enhanced pictures of Brian for your consideration. I believe that the likeness to a certain other alleged bird-fancier to be no accident and, I have no doubt, supports my testimony, as long as you don't delve too deeply into rock legend's real history.
I rest my case.
It's not going to work, you know! It's a thin plea at the best of times but blaming the Duck for inviting your Brian persona to decapitate it isn't on. Really it isn't. What a weird inside the Duck has! Like marshmallow. Oh, well, my vote is benefit of the doubt. I've forgotten what the original plea was. ;-)ReplyDelete
It's Brian in the dock, far as I am concerned. Ducky's done fer. I have witnesses. Tracey and Soxy. I have an Immunity Idol too. And yes, the marshmallow is not very nice.Delete
One of the few times I can type lol on the net and mean it. :-) I actually remember the aforementioned original chookie incident, and agree that chookie did indeed appear pretty upset about the whole business, though apparently I was not. !-)ReplyDelete
Sayonara Graduation Duck.
Must be spooky going around with Alice in your head... whispering "welcome to my nightmare" no doubt. :-)
Huh! We know that under that wonderfully calm Scotto exterior there lies a Dexter just waiting to bite the heads off a few chickens.Delete
The real Alice Cooper story re this incident is more a comment on scary crowd behaviour than anything else.
A whole new genre of blob, here, and a strange but fabulous one. Murder! Technological wizardry! Grim humour! Tragedy!ReplyDelete
You gave me one of those graduation ducks. It's a nice little fellow, and would gladly offer itself up for emergency squeezing, though I fear that as it appears to be hollow, it may just expire quickly with an unsatisfying snap, crackle or even pop. I suppose we of the jury must take into account another recent murder, that of the trusty and loyal bathroom heater.
Tracey of course was the supplier of the Grad Ducks. When you begin your blob[?] hereinafter referred to as the Graduation Duck Blob, you can test out your theory and maybe have an exploding duck story. Eeuuuw! A metaphor for academia perhaps?Delete
There was no conviction recorded against me for the demise of the heater, but you do point to a rather violent and disturbing pattern in my behaviour emerging. Exciting, n'est-ce pas?
But I'm not keen on the self-harming bit - the cracking of the vertebrae, I mean. That I would like removed from the menu, so to speak.
IF you get a new one, get one with the squeaky noise maker in it. Brian will be impressed.ReplyDelete
Stuff him. I'm more concerned about the accusations of anti-social behaviour I'd get with those sorts of noises....Delete
You might like to read another exciting duck story: "Moby Duck: the True Story of 28,800 Bath Toys Lost at Sea" by Donovan Hohn. Or Donovan Duck, as his mother used to call him:)The reviewer, on the other hand, calls Duck (woops, Hohn) an'intellectual beachcomber'. I think I'm one of those..bit like a Jack of all trades..ReplyDelete
Lovely day, isn't it!
A very late response to this. I remember articles about this story of the bathducks adrift on the ocean and their amazing travels.Delete
I like intellectual jacks and jills of all trades. They often make much more sense than 'experts' – at least, more sense than the 'experts' once outside their area of expertise.