A Little Bit of Me

Jottings and Writing, miscellanous misgivings

Archive for satire

Ship board life (unfinished)

Albert sprawled at the end of the chaise lounge, his eyes closed, gently snoring. Through the earphones the lazy movement of Haydns       gently wafted into his steam and brandy soaked brain. His towel and slipped beneath his navel revealing a cluster of black pubic hairs. The other gentlemen in the sauna discretely averted their eyes. Simon leaned forward and indicated a passage in his book to Gerald he reclined in a high backed wicker chair. He was attached to two snaking wires that protruded from the marbled walls of the low roofed sauna. Their exact purpose was obscure to me, but Gerald said he felt completely rejuvenated after an hour’s treatment. A steward opened the door to our chamber and bought inn a tray of drinks. He was clad only in a pair of brief bathing trunks, still considered risqué outside the confines of the gentleman’s only room. Through the opened door we could hear the squeals of delight and the splashing coming from the ladies swimming pool. Through the warm, patterned flooring we could feel the gentle thrum of the huge engines of the trans-Atlantic liner SS Imperator as she surged across the Atlantic from Liverpool to New York at 11 knots. I had been surprised when I had negotiated the gangplank and entered the cavernous entry lounge to this fine vessel. Prominently displayed was a huge sign that read ‘First and Second Class Passengers are asked to refrain from throwing money to Steerage passengers- By order of Captain S.C Baden-Moore SS Imperator.

Deep in the bowels of the ship the twenty-two stewardesses of the SS Imperator lined up facing the Stewardess-in-Charge. Each clutched a balled up kapok lifejacket, a full-length oilskin, and a small first aid bag. Their matching black-trapped shoes, candy-striped overdresses with stark-deep-darted collars, and matching starched hats brightened the mahogany panelled smoking room that had been temporarily set aside for lifeboat drill practice.

“In the unlikely event that the alarm should be announced you are all to proceed to your designated station. Your primary responsibility is to the First then Second Class passengers whom you will reassure and make sure that they are equipped with their personalised buoyancy aids and survival clothing. The steerage passenger gateways are to be securely bolted and will only be opened once all top floor passengers are safely in the water in the lifeboats. You should make sure that passengers under your care are properly attired for the weather conditions and that they are reassured that rescue is only a matter of minutes away,” the stern face Stewardess-in-Charge announced as she nervously fingered her clipboard and motioned toward her own survival kit spread out on the table before her. “Now lets look at what your kit contains.”

Even deeper in the bowels of the SS Imperator, hidden from the imperious top floor passengers the on-board farm readied itself for morning milking. The P&O line had researched potential customers before setting up the trans-Atlantic line and whereas passengers were perfectly content to eat salted beef and mutton (to get that authentic sea experience) they absolutely needed to have fresh milk in their tea or coffee. Hence each liner harboured a small herd of dairy cows who provided fresh milk for passengers who paid the full fare.



Former partners

tbshrinkwrappedw.jpgFormer partners

Robinson paused at the door, his once bulky frame now reduced to an emaciated replica, silhouetted in the roughly hewn entrance. He drew a long breath. Tossing the crude shovel into the darkened corner, he looked through the window opening at the approaching sail that had been a dot on the horizon at the start of the day. He had buried Man Friday under their favorite tree. He knew in his heart that it was the right thing to do. Friday had almost turned and caught him as he swung the heavy shovel. Robinson had been physically sick after the deed but he could not stand the thought of sharing his companion with the rough seamen.

Superman felt terrible. Not kryptonite, not Lex Luther, not even Lois. Grounded. That stupid Batman. They had been doing a joint rescue of a woman trapped on the Sky Tower and damn Batman’s doohickey had fallen from his utility belt. Fallen and plummeted 500 metres. Cut open the top of a BMW Roadster. Like butter through hot toast. The ignominy of facing Gotham City air control and being grounded under section 47a of the air traffic regulations. Now Superwoman was putting her foot down and refusing to take over temporarily while he sorted this mess out. She wanted ‘equal rights’ and top billing.  He pulled his cape around him. Was it getting colder or was his imagination playing tricks on him?

It had started with the barroom joke about Hopalong and the band of Indians and Tonto’s famous line – ‘you’re on your own white man. If he cast his mind back that was when the troubles had started. Tonto now got to ride in front and he had more lines and got to throw knives and things now that the gun lobby had lost out to all the left leaning weirdo’s. Silver wasn’t allowed to rear in the air while he yelled “Hi-Yo Silver” now that the animal rights activists had said that it put undue pressure on all horses to perform in ‘an unnatural way that could place undue stress on equine rear appendages. Hopalong would have liked to put a silver bullet through their tree-hugging heads.