Thursday, 3 May 2012

Big Dick Rasputin and the 7th level of musical Hell

You know you wake up some mornings, and you just know the rest of the day's going to be an absolute bitch? Yup, my psychic powers were a-tingling with that information when I was rudely awoken a little over 2 hours before it stopped being bloody dark. Even binmen and bush-dwelling perverts aren't up at that hour, so I see no need for this still-poorly mama to drag herself out of bed.

Thanks to catching my cold, The Monk passed out at 5:30 last night, which is the kind of awesome behaviour I can really get behind. There was a small voice in the back of my head, warning me that the boy would most likely wake up at stupid o'clock, dehydrated and starving and determined to make up for all the noise we were spared by his early crashing, but the correct medication (percentage-based beverages) silences noises like that quickly and effectively. So mama and daddy went to bed, watched "Benidorm" (never before have shitty all-inclusive resort holidays looked like so much fun), and rediscovered that elusive little minx known as Sleep. She's beautiful, in case you didn't already know.
Mama wants her some o' THIS.

Sleep decided to go back to her husband at around 4:35 this morning, citing irreconcilable differences and the fact that "it's not you, I'm just not ready to have kids yet." This is probably something to do with Gabriel getting up especially early so he could set about composing today's V-Tech Symphony Of Nightmares, featuring instruments of torture such as the Musical Helicopter, the Overly-Cheerful Kitchen and the Keyboard-Phone of Hades. He's always ridiculously pleased with his opuses, sitting and waving his arms amongst the unholy din whilst he yells at me to get out of bed and listen to his hard work.

The lesser-spotted Sleeping Orchestrator of Misery.
"Give mama 5 more minutes, puppy."
"No! You will listen to my music! You will listen to it NOW!"

It doesn't help when you need to be out of the house by 8:15 for an appointment with the doctor. The Monk's temperature was up, and every cough that came out of him sent him into fits of tearful hysterics not unlike the ones I go through every morning, when I wake up and see that fucking Teleshopping is blaring away on the TV. I hate Teleshopping, it makes me want to buy stupid things like steam mops that break, and unusual-looking exercise contraptions that are eventually sent to pasture as clothes horses.

Speaking of horses, a friend of mine gave life to one of my dearest wishes today. Growing up, I was an enormous fan of Spike Milligan (I still am); I spent one Christmas in stitches over his version of "Black Beauty". I desperately wanted a horse of my own at that point, and wanted to name him after Black Beauty's father, Big Dick Rasputin -- idyllic childhood reminiscence-style music squeals to a halt -- and you can all discuss my cheerful choice of moniker amongst yourselves. I was never to own that horse, BUT I did get to know the Awesome Ben, and today he promised (after some squabbling and Facebook status pollution) he'd bestow the wonderfully evocative title of Big Dick Rasputin upon the first person who unwittingly posted something on his Facebook timeline. I am now responsible for someone walking around and bearing the best name on Earth.

The Monk can keep his dumbass musical compositions. He'll never rule as hard as mama does.

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