Look them straight in the eye and say Pogue Mahone in Normal entries

Look them straight in the eye and say Pogue Mahone.

The story, as told by Elvis Costello (the likes of whom, I believe, is still among the living, but, has never been spotted in a Burger King in Kalamazoo) is that the name of the now defunct Pogues had originally been Pogue Mahone, which, according to Elvis (the likes of whom may never even have been in a burger king anywhere ever as no one has, to date and the best of my knowledge, remarked on such a banal occasion) means kiss my ass in Gaelic.

Among the vast number of languages I don’t speak Gaelic sits solidly in the center. I have no reason to doubt Elvis. Oh. Shit. According to Elvis Costello (the likes of whom has never sired a two headed alien love child or at least such offspring has never been leaked to the press) the BBC refused to play any music from a band calling themselves Kiss My Ass and were, at the time, the onliest game in town as it were. So they needed to shorten the name to Pogues. Those of us who don’t speak Gaelic might assume Pogue means kiss and mahone means my ass. I’m thinking it’s not quite as simple as that. Romance languages, Latin based languages have a similar structure; neither English nor Gaelic are romance languages and what little Latin influence they have is twice removed at best, like your uncle by marriage and subsequent divorce sisters kid; the only significance of which is to pad your family tree like gluing oranges onto a sequoia.

Hmmmm, I was going to cheat and use bits and pieces of an email to pad this entry. Personal things are too deeply entrenched. If I were a deeply private gent I wouldn’t have a box at all. On a certain level very little in any journal is any of our fucking business and yet that is part of the appeal. At least half of the reason I shant cut and paste is aesthetic. Someone just snorted food and/or a beverage all over their laptop at that. The snort began with ‘Shant’ but it was the notion that I have any aesthetic sensibility at all pushed that snort off the ledge. It’s the personal pronouns and such and I’d have to edit and I obviously don’t ever have time for that. Or something. Shant. Word hates that. Word would like Shant to be Shanty. As would I, Microsoft, as would I.

The other fifty percent must really be a whole lot of not your fucking business. I’m the kind of hairpin that’d post self-shot cell pics of my own vasectomy (I’ve tried doing at other peoples vasectomies, they might as well ban me from all surgical theatres instead of doing it one at a time). (OMG, word didn’t correct my spelling of theatre, well, it didn’t point out that theatre is not the ‘Merican spelt word. It seems fine with OMG as well.). Ok, so I don’t post pics very damn often, but if I ever get snipped you can bet there’ll be a narrative wherein not only does hilarity ensue but some mawkish sticky-sweet homage to my Vas Deferens, um, ensues. Hmmm, maybe shant ne’er ensue? The fuck do I know.

The gist of what isn’t being cut and pasted is that Walgreens nor my doctor’s office seems to know the mnemonic calendar poem (Thirty days hath September, the duck the duck and November … Ok, so I don’t either) and/or simple addition. Walgreens was all pissy about thirty days when, last month, I happened to be at the doctors and he asked did I need refills and I said that I would in a few days so he just wrote them up (I have prescriptions for things that you aren’t allowed, anywhere in the states, to just call or fax in). So they didn’t fill them until the seventh (which, according to my math was still three days early, but not a point that I felt like pressing).

This month I just happened to be in the doc’s office today as I had taken my mother in for her appointment and since a voice other than the usual one answered the phone on Monday I thought I’d double check to make sure they’d be ready tomorrow. They were in an envelope with my name at the receptionist desk today. Walgreens filled them today. I can only assume the doc’s office, who has to date the scripts, thought November had 31 days and Walgreens thought it had thirty four days.

The Walgreens gals had other things on their minds. As I was walking up I heard this part of the conversation “… so my boyfriend has this thing he does called ‘elfing’ …” she was interrupted by a loud “May I help you Sir?” from the lookout Walgreens gal. I was only half teasing when I said I wanted to know what elfing was; they had all scattered by then though like a murder of crows at the bark of a running dog. Only with a lot less flapping and cawing and dropping of corn.

Ok, I was done at Pogue Mahone, now I’m done and spent.