I heard that today begins Advent, and simultaneously found this blog about the adventures of Maria and the Bready Jesus. It's sacrilegious like Life of Brian was sacrilegious, so take heed, you cloistered virgins. I suppose this might be said to be an example of dangerous Catholic fanaticism. Occurs on January first, however, which is also a holy day, called Feast of the Hangover, or something.
I also saw this story in Wiki, which is an example of the Scots flavoured dialect in North Eire. I am including it because of the titel of this post, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with anything. Except, I talk like this when I am in sleep paralysis.
The Caterpillar an Alice lukt at ither fur a quare while wi’oot taakin: finally the Caterpillar tuk the hookah oot o its mooth, an spoke tae hir in a languid, dozy voice.
“Wha ir yae?” said the Caterpillar.
This wusnae a pooerfu guid openin fur a yarn. Alice answert brev an baakwardly, “A—A harly know, Sir, jest at this minute—at least A know wha A wus this moarnin, but heth, A hae bin changed a wheen o times since thin.”
“What dae yae mean bae that?” said the Caterpillar sternly. “Explain yersel!”
“A cannae explain maesel, A’m feart, Sir,” said Alice, “baecaas A’m naw maesel, yae see.”
“A dinnae see,” said the Caterpillar.
“A cannae mak it onie mair clear,” Alice answer, while polite, “fur A cannae unnerstan it maesel tae stairt wi; an baein sae monie different sizes in yin dae haes turnt mae heid.”
Gad-Nicht, Sante-w/-Claws... Where's my present?! I've been a good little bed-bug. But all I get are apples. Under me exoskallywaggin. Surreal. I am sooooooo tired....