“George! George! George, where’s my blanket. I want my blanket.”
‘George, George, I want my blanket’—damn prune-faced old bitch. She never stops.
Listen to her sittin’ up there like a dried up old mummy. With all the crap she shovels onto her face, she should be embalmed by now. One of these days I’d like to wring her scrawny little neck.
“George, where are you?”
“I’m coming Aunt Georgina. Got your blanky right here …” ‘You old bat.’
Maybe I should drape it gently over her head and put her out of her misery.
Snorting. “Here I am, Auntie, dear.”
“Well hurry up, boy! What took you so long?”
“I’m here now, aren’t I? There you go, Auntie. All nice and comfy cozy. Would you like a nice hot toddy to warm the old tum tum and maybe one of your custard tarts?”
“Thank you George, but be quick about it.”
‘Thank you George’ ... ‘be quick, George’—Old battle-ax. What do I look like—a slave?… I wish she’d “be quick about it” and six feet under to boot … Maybe, I could spike her hot toddy with a little something different to add a real kick?… No. Knowing her, the old bat’s bound to spill it or decide she’s not thirsty after all.
“George! What’s taking you so long this time? Stop dawdling and bring me my toddy—and don’t forget my little nip!”
I’ll give her a “nip” all right … Like to sic that big old pit from next door on her. Nah ... bitch’d end up biting the poor dog and probably give him rabies.
“Here’s your nice hot toddy and your little tart, Auntie G. Now don’t drink it too fast. We wouldn’t want you to choke would we?” (Not much we wouldn’t.)
“George, where’s my little Pookie Poo? I haven’t seen him all day. I hope you’ve fed and walked him. You know how he loves his little walks.”
“Yes, Auntie dear, Pookie had his little romp.” (Yeah, little Pookie Poo almost took out that poor old pit next door.)
“That’s a good boy.” (I don’t know if the old bat is talking about me or the damn dog.)
“Where is he? Where is my little Pookie Poo and why haven’t you brought him up with you? You know how he loves his old mumsy wumsy.”
“Yes, I know, Auntie dear, but I had to bring you your drinky poo first, didn’t I and you wouldn’t want me to spill it coming up the stairs would you? Besides, he’s probably chowing down even as we speak. You know how he loves to eat.” (Yeah, the mutt’s built like a mini Mack Truck and his favorite food is dog meat. Little bugger’s probably out terrorizing that pitty again.)
Vicious little beastie’s got half of the neighborhood dogs terrorized—thinks he’s a Rottie or something … never saw such a tough, blood-thirsty little runt. And those razor sharp little Yorkie fangs ... worse than a hypodermic needle. A real little yap yap too—screeches the house down when he doesn’t get what he wants as soon as he wants it—just like dear, sweet Aunt Georgina. Gives me a splittin’ headache—almost as bad as her … maybe I should take him out first and hand him to her on a silver platter …
“George, George, are you listening to me? I asked you to bring me my little Pookie Poo. I can hear him all the way up here calling for his mumsy. Please go down and get him.”
Yes, Aunt Georgina. As soon as I take care of these dishes of yours.”
“Thank you, George, and please be quick about it.”
“I will. Now you just lie back and rest while I fetch him.”
Wait till I get my hands on that little stinker. One of these days …
“There you are you little monster. Uncle George has some goodies for you as soon as he puts this stuff away … Hey, don’t do that! You’re gonna trip me you little tank. I’m comin’.
“Stay down there. I said stay! STAY!
“Get out from under my feet, your gonna
“George! George! I heard a crash? Has something happened to my little Pookie Poo?”