Wednesday, 9 September 2009

In the drink

Pop-Pop dived into the pool. The water felt like rebirth. A second chance. He sought the surface – for what seemed a long time after eternity – but the body remembered. Arms and legs expanding arcs into the viscous comfort of the invisible hands of buoyancy. Cross-laced ripples of displaced memory moiré. He climbed out dripping watery gravity. It was as if the party had missed some intimate revelation and he, an ethereal astronaut, had landed uninvited.

There was screaming.

Of course, the unflattering fit of the Speedos may have been a factor - the unkempt pubes, side dressing, etc.; however that would be to overlook the most glaring fact: there was no water in the pool, not since the ban was instigated over two decades ago.

An elderly lady had an emetic relapse on the suggestion she take mustard on her hot dog.

The baps were covered.

Auntie Freud passed out.

It was all too hard to swallow.

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