Oh sweet Jebus. Oh Lord of that is good and holy, say it ain't so. Normally, in a show of fancied flippancy, I would appeal to Allah or Buddha or the Easter Bunny, but when the chips are down I return to my childhood Christmas Christian deity, the one with the most unlikely story of them all.
If you have been paying attention, endlessly scratching through the minutia of my offerings, searching for 'The Prince in Waiting trilogy' references, for example, you will be aware that we rent and that our landpeople live beside us. We get on fine. We like them fine. They like us fine. We mostly don't annoy them, they mostly get shit fixed when it's broken. It's all, to really squeeze the most out of thesaurus.com, fine.
But oh sweet baby jesus, oh dear Lord baby Jesus, lyin' there in your ghost manger, just lookin' at your Baby Einstein developmental videos, learnin' 'bout shapes and colours, help me.
They are having a dinner party. And we are the opposite of my current favourite mountain bike loop spin track. The song in question is named 'Uninvited' and that is what we are not. Oh, fucking kill me now but we are invited. We are so horribly, desperately invited.
This is just wrong. What the fuck are they thinking? You don't invite the commoners that live in the lodge by the gate to the Big House. They'll only talk coarsely, use unmannerly manners, shit on the perfectly varnished floorboards and use the tastefully embroidered Irish Linen napkins to wipe their arses. The fuck are we going to talk about, their property portfolio? We are their fucking property portfolio. Politics? I like them but at the same time I just fucking know that they voted Fianna Fáil. Despite all the denials, many fuckers did and I reckon they can be confidently counted among this number. How about sports? They play tennis. They're into rugby. They support the German national football team. This doesn't open up many conversation gambits outside of 'You fucking what?'
There are a couple of other couples coming too. And while they are possibly perfectly passable as human beings they too are, well, rich and therefore worthy of nothing but my envy and my scorn. I'm bad enough in social situations with the handful of people who I deem deserving of my endless wit and charm, but stick me in a room replete with older, richer and more babied servants of The Man and I will doubtlessly become practically catatonic in my desperation not to say something that will lead to the instant eviction of myself and my family.
Seriously, you crazy Krauts, what the fuck were you thinking?