Friday, June 13, 2008

Mirth: And Woe upon the BLASPHEMER

Mirth: And Woe upon the BLASPHEMER

Compare and contrast the following. Can you spot a common theme?

"Look. I'd had a lovely supper, and all I said to my wife was, 'That piece of halibut was good enough for Jehovah.'"

"I know what that shed needs. A nice window box with some flowers."

If you answered that both are prime examples of BLASPHEMY that can only be punished by DEATH, then you are correct. Give yourself a shiny.

However, whilst one was these was a work of fiction, the shed comments actually happened, and resulted in the righteous smiting of the BLASPHEMER by the outraged Gods of Shed.

Let this tale be a warning to those who consider allowing WOMEN near your most sacred garden outbuildings. Yea, and indeed, verily.

A man's shed – as you know – is his castle. His castle, his retreat, and some of the time, his toilet.

My shed has been – following the hurricane-force battering it took earlier this year – showing signs of wear. What better, then, than to repair some of the storm damage and to give it a nice lick of paint. Good, manly colours, I'll have you know, with the words "NO WOMEN" in twelve-inch high lettering on the door.

And, as the third coat of Ronseal Forest Green wood seal went on (doing, as the adverts say, exactly as it says on the tin: "Paint your shed green, you dim bastard") and some new trim went over the door, I had to admit that my Shed O'Doom was looking pretty damn excellent.

It was at that exact point my charming wife came along and angered the Gods of Shed.

"I know what that shed needs. A nice window box with some flowers."

I could hardly contain myself.

Ask yourself this question: When William the Conqueror built the Tower of London did he cave in when Mrs The Conqueror insisted on a nice window box? No he did not. In fact, he put in more dungeons and a big platform for the purpose of executing Enemies of the State.

And the same goes for the shed, and the mere mention of wresting this one bastion of masculinity away from our manly hands can result in but one outcome: Woe.

And so, as I moved around the shed with my big tin of green paint, my foot became entangled around the tarpaulin I was using to keep paint off my lovely, manly patio. An entanglement – mark my words – caused by angry Shed Gods.

"Ooyagh!" I said, in surprise and alarm, "Ooyagh!"

As I tripped, the pot arced through the air, and landed – with a great gloop of Ronseal Forest Green Quick Drying Wood Seal all over the tarpaulin.

"Oh, cock!" I exclaimed, hopping away from the mess, and emerging with only minor spatter.

It is at this point that things turned a bit Final Destination as my charming wife's fate was sealed.

It had – up to that point – been a lovely warm, still morning, with the sun belting down to warm our lovely garden. With BLASPHEMY in the air, the Gods of Shed send down a great wind. A great wind that whipped up my large paint-spattered tarp and deposited straight onto the head of Mrs Duck.

She screamed.

There was a brief silence, in which I steeled myself sufficiently to remove my spouse from her canvas prison.

And so she emerged, with wrath in her heart.

She resembled a rather expensive work by Jackson Pollock, only much, much angrier.

"These... these are my best jeans!" she said as if commenting on a nice piece of halibut.

What could a man do in such circumstances. Only one thing seemed appropriate:

"Well, that'll teach ya." the wrong answer.

I stayed in the refuge of my shed until dark, emerging only to throw water over the burning faggots stacked against the door.

Let that be a lesson to you all. The Gods of Shed are a bunch of miserable bastards.

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