If you’re at all like me then God love ya, you’re okay in my books. But ya probably don’t know what the hell’s goin’ on anymore. Am I right?
For instance, the Artist Formerly Known As Alive croaks and the world falls to pieces, as though we just lost Hoagy Carmichael all over again.
He wasn’t even a real Prince, though that probably didn’t stop Lady Di. (It’d be just like her to think he was singin’ “Purple Vein.”)
Cripes, the spangly dwarf wasn’t even downmarket Greek royalty like Philip.
And even with all his bladder infections, Prince Philip still has half his wits about him.
I may not know what it sounds like when doves cry, but neither do you, and I’d rather listen to a Royal badger commoners about the colour of their knickers, that’s for damn sure.
I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but more often than not they leave me no choice.
And I don’t got much good to say about the livin’, neither.
Like how everybody and their public editor is donkey punchin’ Margaret Wente just for bein’ a quick study at the ol’ cut-and-paste function.
“Plagiarism,” they call it, though I bet they weren’t the first to call it that.
Now, I’m not a writer, as longtime readers can attest, but the English language has only so many words to go around.
Who’s the last person you heard say somethin’ you could swear has never been said before? Maybe Don Trump, but I’m not sure he’s speakin’ English.
Opinion columns are like arseholes: everybody’s got one.
And I’m the first to admit that some of my best opinions have come straight from Mrs. Wente’s own arse.
If that’s a crime, then lock me up before I swipe another nugget!