“I’ll tell you something for nothing”, said Mikey Ryan, “what with all this Department of Health daily chit-chat about the Covid-19 pandemic, the only ones truly rubbing their hands together at this time are the cute whores manufacturing Soap and Sanitising Gel.
“True for you Mikey”, said I, “I swear to God, my hands have absorbed so much Sanitising Gel, Soap and Disinfectant over the last month, that when I attend to the call of nature, the wife no longer has to use any other antimicrobial agents to clean our toilet’s lime stained interior.
Readers will understand that what with the Arch Bar in Liberty Square and every other pub in Thurles closed, Mikey and myself were cocooning amongst the tall grasses on the River Suir Walk, sharing a six pack of Mexican Corona Extra pale lager. Mickey had acquired same from the Thurles Shopping Centre using a reliable five finger discount card. [Those anti-virus face masks come in fierce handy when funds are low of a Tuesday].
As we lay back soaking up the warm Thurles April sunshine, Mikey expounded the difficulties he was experiencing cocooning.
“The worst part of restricted movement is having to listen to the ‘fruit of my loins’, jabbering away like Black Howler monkeys in the Amazon Rainforest, said Mikey, “How many wives can a man have?” Mikey screeched, imitating his youngest who had asked the initial question. His daughter had replied, “Sixteen”, qualifying her answer with the misguided marital quote, “four better, four worse, four richer and four poorer.
I cod you not, but education has taken a nosedive in this country, since McHugh took over” Mikey declared.
“Ah sure the whole world is gone to pot”, said I, “and I’m not for one minute suggesting that everyone is smoking marijuana”.
“True for you, the situation is getting dangerous alright”, said Mikey, “Do you realise that very soon and for the very first time since 1870, an estimated 8.68 million adherent Jehovah’s Witnesses are going to wake up some fine morning to the realisation that the rest of the world are actually sitting cocooned in their houses, waiting to answer the door bell”.
“My God, that could upset the current delicate balance of religious power here in Europe”, said I, rising to my feet in the secure realisation that ‘her in doors‘ would be on a knife edge, having waited for over two hours for me to bring back her 30 gram packet of Amber Leaf Blonde tobacco and her Rizla fag papers.
“Sure I have to be going myself” said Mikey, switching back on his mobile phone, “but understand this, if I am forced to quarantine for another two weeks with the wife, I can assure you there won’t be any coronavirus in her system that can be blamed on her death”.
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