This year, as an antidote to the rampant scourge of cynicism and sarcasm which pervades our beautiful world, I would like to share with you the following heartwarming newsletter that I received today from my Cousin FOG;
Hello dear friends,
Seasons greetings to you all.
Two thousand and fifteen has been
our annuss anus horrabillus a pretty rotten year for us down here on the farm.
The purebred line of large-boned Charolais beef cattle we’d been developing for 40 years had their exquisite genetic constitutions sullied by that runt of a Jersey bull from Uddermans Dairy Farm next door. The randy little bastard apparently got into 23 of our prizewinning cows some time in January although we didn’t find out until later in the year when our lovely girls started dropping ugly and stunted diarrhoea-coloured progeny.
Sadly the FOG family is functioning like our local municipal garbage dump at the moment. Brand new crap is being generated at a faster rate than I, as patriarch, can bury it or transfer portions into someone elses backyard. Patriarchy is a very demanding and stressful business.
I know you’ll find it hard to believe that the twin girls are now 27 years old. Goodness gracious me how time does fly. Sophie Isabella Nosegay , who we’ve always just called ‘Sin‘for short, eventually took her vows of silence and chastity last June and remains cloistered in the Pirelli Convent near Milan in northern Italy. We no longer hear from her and barring the magic of immaculate conception or some other mistiming of rhythmic ecclesiastical intervention we probably won’t ever be blessed with grandchildren sprouting from her branch of the family tree. A bit of a waste really. She was very good breeding stock.
‘Lazy‘ Susan is more than making up for her sister’s carnal deprivations. The latest boyfriend from America seems to be a pretty good sort of chap though. Lance apparently used to be a reasonable cyclist back in the day and he’s been busy helping Susan and her kiddies with some dietary supplements to help them all cope better with their busy lives.
We do still worry about her a lot though. Whilst Australia’s policy of multiculturalism is very good in principle we feel that Susan is shouldering way too much responsibility. The fathers of her five children all returned to their respective places of origin in Chad, Bahamas, Mongolia, Oklahoma and Tasmania before my friend Winchester and I could intervene and negotiate some child support money out of them.
Normally at this time of year, even though it’s very hot here in Australia, as a service to the community I squeeze into my Father Christmas costume and dispense yuletide joy and happiness to all the
feral rugrats wonderful children who gather in the airconditioned Swindling Spigot Shopping Centre. Unfortunately I’ve been banned from doing it this year just because of some stupid appointment I’ve got down at the Magistrates Court on the ninth of December.
I think I can prove what I did was justifiable spontaneous retribution after that inconsiderate fat kid leapt onto my Santa lap last year and ruptured both of my anterior cruciate ligaments. Just because his father happened to be that toffee-nosed Crown Prosecutor Sir Archibald Wrigley-Basemetal I am now in a wee spot of bother. Upper class gits.
Another team of lawyers is also flat out parasitising another member of our family.
Uncle Bart, who spent most of his life training thoroughbred horses in Victoria is facing doping charges. As you might already know, Bart’s successes on the racing track were few and far between, although his gelding Knackery Boy did come a creditable 17th behind Rising Fast in the 1954 Melbourne Cup. Eventually the horse’s name proved to be quite prophetic.
Uncle Bart is now 91 and he recently moved into the Our Angel of Necrosis home for the chronically ancient. The doping incidents apparently involve at least two rather sprightly 87 year-old women living just down the corridor from Uncle B. Unfortunately the nurses and police discovered an incriminatory stash of veterinary drugs and other paraphernalia hidden in Bart’s wardrobe so it’s not looking too good for him. Goodness knows what he was planning to do with his old eartag pliers and elastrator.
It’s been a superb year for growing stuff here on the farm. The Back Paddock down by the creek was especially productive. Accordingly, Shantibelle Clover (my sixth wife who I hadn’t got around to telling you about yet) and I were in high spirits for most of the year….well at least until my birthday in October when she shot through with some tattooed Hells Angel and all three tons of our surplus trading stock.
Oh well, easy come, easy go.
Just like the years.
Seasons greetings and best wishes for 2016.