Philosophers continue to sift through the barren wasteland of human experience looking for the key to happiness.
They won’t find it, because I’ve got it.
GOF’s Secret to Happiness is;
Finding someone or something else to blame for every single failure in one’s life.
A cousin on my Mother’s side had such extraordinary scientific and mathematical ability that he was selected to oversee Australia’s rocket launching programs at Woomera in the 1960’s.
It is of course an accepted genetic fact that I too must have inherited the same mathematical gift.
Mine however, according to school report cards, mysteriously disappeared somewhere between 1960 and 1963 after which time I rarely troubled the examiners ability to add up to a percentile number higher than 20.
So, what circumstances changed during this period to which I might allocate blame?
Pubescent GOF suddenly discovered that his previously all-boy’s world was equally populated by cute little humans who were all soft and cuddly, and which obviously required much more observation, examination and exploration.
Excessive devotion to this project apparently caused my arithmetical intelligence to suddenly plummet to the level of two thick planks.
Given the esteem with which The Bucket is held in scientific circles I obviously can’t go around rumour mongering that “girls cause boys to be mathematically dumb”, so let me search through my very private alphabetical list of possible excuses for something else which might satisfy empirical science.
(no looking at my private list please)
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A,B,C,D... they’re all used up……
Elle MacPherson,… obsession forced upon me.
Fireworks (unlit) stuck up both nostrils in 1958. Surgical removal
Glue…. sniffing and/or misapplication to body parts. Minor surgery.
Hairspray mistakenly ingested after thinking it was olive oil cooking spray while Mrs GOF was away farnarkling in America.
Inbreeding ….because the big flood killed everyone on Earth except Noah and his Missus.
Jesus Juice aerosol lubricant erroneously used as underarm deodorant for all of 1992.
Kerosene fumes from that day when they arrested me for arson.
Leptospirosis infection; must ask the doctor how I got that.
Mohair….MOHAIR…..WOOHOO that’s it.
Mohair……inhalation of mohair fibres.
Every cute 14 year-old chick in 1962 wore a mohair sweater.
No exceptions. Joan Shepherd, my piano duet partner wore one
(I have photographic evidence) and all the girls at the YMCA learn-to-ballroom-dance classes wore them fluffily disguising hidden treasures and forbidden pleasures which were totally beyond my understanding, and sadly, despite much hopeful dreaming, grasp.
Goats and Joan Shepherd are totally responsible for denying me my rightful career in nuclear physics.
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