Skipping

"Skip"
No, not an invitation to hop about gaily on your way into work.  You may do so, if you wish; I'm generous like that.  Be careful, the pavements are icy today.
     No, I refer to that legend at the top of the page that you're hopefully reading right now, which quotes "From the rubbish-tip skip of Conrad's mind -" and I shall cut it off right there before it gets too exciting.  Proof of the concept will arrive shortly.

Hmmm.

     I feel the need to explain just what a "skip" is, since we still seem to have an hideously enlarged readership who mostly hail from South Canada.  It must be all the long words I use.
     "Skip" is colloquial English for a dismountable metal container, open on top, normally used to dispose of waste.  You might have gathered that from the "rubbish tip" context, you might not - I don't want to stand in judgement, we were getting along so famously.
     Art?

Skip, one of

     The South Canadian equivalent term is "dumpster" which, frankly, offers a lot less opportunity to mess around with than the wonderfully pulchritudinous, not to say effulgent - why yes I am still reading Dickens how did you know? - English term.
     Watch out, Wonder Wifey has light fingers when passing by skips - hello bottle of Grenadine! - and can be quite thorough.

A grenade.  Close enough.

     Imagine it was your job to perform quality control on your foundry's output of skips*.  A dull and thankless job.  Then, on Friday morning you're told there's no more to QC and you can go home and still get paid for it.  Then you'd do the skip skip skip.
     See?  Effulgent, like I said.

Conrad Worrys
Yes, it's true.  I worry about this and that and the other.  I do stack the worries in order of importance.  My fear of waking up and finding out that it was all a dream and "Doctor Who" did not return to television in 2005 is, perhaps, one of the lesser ones.  I don't worry much about the Ruffian hordes attacking, as to get to us here they have to go through the Poles first.  Being hit by a Pole will generally knock the nonsense out of anyone, especially if it's a metal one.  One of the more pressing worries is that Tom Pynchon - I can call him Tom as we're such terrific chums - will shuffle off this mortal coil before getting another novel out.  Come on, Tom, don't be selfish, get cracking on that Corona**!

I love that caption

     And thereby hangs a tale.  Conrad always, but always, gets bitten on the bum by the Coincidence Hydra when reading Tom's writings, yet of late this repellent creature has begun gnawing on my nethers with not so much a sniff of "Screaming-comes-across-the-sky".
     "Is the exit door unlocked?" I hear you whisper.  Yes, my hearing is specially sharp today.  Don't worry, I don't have hold of anything sharp.
     What television programme have I been harping on about lately?  Well, yes, "Stranger Things" but I don't - yes, yes, of course "Doctor Who", that's a given, I was - NO!  I don't mean "Z Nation".  "Blue Peter" is what I meant.  

No, Art!  Dammit man -

     When constructing their gimcrack tat from household waste, the presenters were not allowed to use the word "Sellotape" because it's a trademark and that would make it advertising which YOU CANNOT DO at the BBC.  So they used to say "Sticky-backed plastic" instead, which used to baffle your humble scribe as it was obviously Sellotape.
     So imagine the alarm and confusion, the flashing lights and SOS rockets that went off in Conrad's head in the kitchen this morning when Carol, entirely out of the blue, mentioned "Blue Peter" and "Sticky-backed plastic".
     Come on, Tom, create another reason for these things to happen.

Strikingly attractive.
Oh, and Connie Huq, too.

Good lord aloft, look at how much I've written without meaning to!

Versery Rhyme
I've not planned this so let's just see what my fervent imagination can come up with.  As ever, I am picking on the hapless victim of nursery rhymes, as they are small and tender and cannot fight back.
     So!

"There was an old woman who lived in a shoe"

     Stop right there!  This is obviously and indictment of both scientific research and council housing policy.   See, they created her in a lab and then, when she got old, they threw her out.  

Great Gadfrey!  A whole hord of test-tube babies!

Only this can explain her minute proportions, such that she can comfortably fit in a piece of footwear.  And we condemn the callous council who have neglected to find her proper secure accomodation.  Conrad will be writing to his MP and The Times.

Raw Meat
I haven't insulted First Bus for a day or two, and I do like to keep BOOJUM!s standards up.
     "What on earth does uncooked cow have to do with it?" I hear you question.
     Just to say that, if First Bus had been put in charge of creating fire, then we'd still be eating -

No, it's not "matured", it's ROTTEN!

*  In today's well-moderated society, someone must do this.
**  Beer, cigar or typewriter?  Only Tom Pynchon can tell!