K8 the GR8

I stopped outside the Boomerang in Bray and he slid into my car.  He looked at me dubiously and then broke out into a sickly leer.

“I’fe nenner sheela wooni taxinirver befowar” he slurred.

“Come again?”  I strained to hear intelligeable words in the drunken murmers that followed.

“I’fe.  Never.  Seen.  A. Woman. Taxi driver. Before.” he said as though I was a deaf simpleton.  “Areyiz deaf or wha?”

“Cheeky.  Where would you like to go?”

“Your houshe.”

“Nice one.  You can babysit while me and the fella go to the pub…”

“Ah bollix.  Roigh… Ceemartnoad.”

“Sorry?”

“Sheertinapuck” he hiccuped.

My pulse raced as I got him to pronounce his address again and again, each word sounding completely different from the last.  I glance at him to find he’s gazing at my cleavage. 

“Oi!!” I shout.  “Look, it’s pissing rain out there… you sure you want to walk, sunshine?”

“Sorry, sorry…”  he winks and tells me the name of the pub he lives above.  I pull out of my parking spot and then jam on the brakes just a smidge so that he lurches forward.

“Belt up”  I suggest kindly.

“Heh heh.  Crazy bitch.  Heyy hurryup der, I have to geh home for a kip before me wankxin’.”

“Ugh.  That’s too much information, thanks.”

“Wax-in, I sed!”

“You’re getting waxed?”

“Yeah I’f ta get me chest waxed a’ half-eigh.  For chari-ee.”

“Seriously?  Fair play!  Ow  though.  What’s the charity?”

“Sain’ Cat’rins.  It’s gona hurt, I’m a hairy cunt I am…  so hairy I…”

“…Did you say Saint Catherines?!?”  I interrupted, hardly believing the irony. 

From a letter I recently got from my son’s school:

“Dear All.
St Catherines is in urgent discussions with the H S E about finance.  We are hugely in the red at the moment and both the H S E and the Department of Education are slow to come to our assistance.

We are fortunate that several fund raising events are being undertaken for us and while these cannot take the place of proper funding by the H S E and the Dept, we are greatly dependent on voluntary funds to assist in the short term.  I am appealing for your support…”

“Yeah, I’m aneeejih, I know.”

“You’re no eejit”  I give him my most loving smile. ‘You’re my hero.  My kid goes to that school.”

“Yeah?!?”  He looked pleased.  He gazed at my boobs all the way to Greystones and I didn’t mind a jot, because it occured to me that maybe the image will help soothe his dire agony later on.  Maybe when he gets to see his own nipples which have been just ripped off his chest by an over-zealous drunken waxer, my boobs will be the happy place he goes to.  It’s the least I could do.

What a nice chap…