The Boot Tree
Description
I don't like 'write ups' very much. I therefore suggest that you would read the book and be surprised.
Evo said 'but people may not hang around if you don't tell them anything about the contents.' ... I reply, well, there are many good writers out there so they may not hang about if I scribble a proper write up, so what's the difference. Now please could you get back to the cooking and cleaning? The stories are about some of the many faces of love, there you go.
Yes, women and domestic chores, there's a match made in heaven. I love domestic chores and I don't care how many times I get called weird by men and some women, other women call me insane, others want to marry me. I though know the secret behind liking domestic chores i.e. why it's wise to like them and extremely unwise to hate them. Why would a couple wait for a long time to get a beautiful new house which they love, move in and then suddenly decide that they hate cleaning it? I can't compute that. Yes, I've written about it in a book called housework's invisible gold i.e. vibrational gold. You see, to know what I mean you'll have to visit with Abraham Hicks and discover 'real magic'.
On a bridge near where I presently live there is a set of stairs at each end plus a 'pathway' for bikes and prams. The other day a guy on a bike cycled along the main walkway of the bridge, got to the end, then picked up his bike and walked down the stairs. I wasn't taking anything and so it really happened. Well, I thought I was mad.
I have another short amusing observational story, I'll put it at the end of the book, which is all about the popular subject i.e. 'love'. Come on, you gotta read it. Just think, if you don't, my ribs will show even more due to starvation. Have you got a heart prospective fan? If you pay for it, read it, then hate it ... I don't give a refund but I don't mind if you slag me off down the pub.
Have an awesome day and keep your eyes open for Frankie Lassut write ups.
Yes! They are better then the book (I can't believe I wrote that).
More details
Person
I am the one being shaved; the other one Nim, is is a looney bin now!
I went to see a psychic years ago who ended up as my girlfriend; she didn't see that one coming! But she was extremely honoured. However it ended badly i.e. it rained heavily as I buried her body and I got soaked. No! You don't really want to hear about it, it's depressing; I was joking about the burial. She told me that I was to uncover a talent I had ... Well, another psychic told me that as the first one was dead; I was lying when I said I was lying. Nothing happened for quite a while. Suddenly I realised I needed a 'job' quite badly as I was beginning to drink halves. No, not a boob 'job'! I went for the cheap option i.e. the surgeon gave some socks to shove up my jumper when I go out. I got a 'job' (have you got boobs on your mind?) because someone told me that bus-driving was easy because you just sit on your butt and turn the wheel. She was about six, a wise woman ... that's called an oxymoron. Fantastic! I thought get the job and in a couple of days I'd be driving all the nice passengers around and about seeing all the sights for a fraction of the cost of a tour bus; and we'd have a roof in case it rained. Easy! First of all though there was the training; and I entered hell.
I was born in Cumbria in a little ex-iron ore mining town called Millom. It was only small, a one- horse town; the horse was called Peg. It had a pedigree name too, but I can't remember it at the moment: Peggy Suss? However, I got fed up and left as I was the only man in a town full of women and they were all lesbys; I've always been lucky. I went to Blackpool and attended the photographic college. I then moved to Coventry and met the psychic who would tell me what was going to happen. I could say now that the rest is history. Well it is, but obviously not history as that's all made up anyway. Then I got the job bus-driving, which as I said is easy 'you just sit on your butt and turn the wheel'. The bus station management weren't pleased that she had said that though, so she was tried and sent to Guantanamo Bay; they have a section for young kids who are bad to the bone.
The job was so mad that I thought it would be a good idea to write out some posters and stick them all on the wall of the bus station. The other drivers enjoyed them, but the management tore them down, the badstars (that's an anagram of astards +B). I carried on and ended up with a manuscript for a book, which, by ...
