A Telephone in the Head is Worth Two in the Bush.

   I'm sitting here with a fine bottle of port, nibbling on tiny teddys by the fire and thinking about the old days when ol' Filthy was just a young cub out on the Canadian tundra. Those were the days.
   I bought my first real six string at a five and dime. I tell ya, I must have played until my fingers bled. I think it was the summer of 89'.
   You see me and some guys from school, we had a band and we tried real hard. But you know how it is. Jimmy quit, Joey got married...
   I should have known we'd never get far.
   Jimmy and Joey were fuckheads.
   But I've met some nice people along the way. Some I've stayed in touch with.
   There's this lady who knows all that glitters is gold. I last saw her riding a stairway to somewhere.
   Who rides a stairway? Isn't a stairway that you ride called an escalator? I suppose "She's riding an escalator to heaven" wouldn't have had the same punchiness, but then I've never really liked that song, so who cares.
   Its the chocolate bunny holiday at the moment and I've been thinking maybe its time to sit back for a moment, stop everything, and think long and hard about what this holiday truly means.
   "What does it mean Mr Filthy?" I hear you say.
   Well I'll tell you what it means tender lumplings.
   There's the chocolate of course.

 Its tasty as hell. I always think the best chocolate is Easter chocolate. Doesn't matter how cheap it is, if its wrapped up as a bunny or an egg, it just tastes better. Its like normally chocolate is just chocolate, but for a few weeks of the year it can also be meat, or an omelette. How good is that? I don't know why they don't make chocolate into the shapes of more things, like cows, little baa-lambs and robots.
   Speaking of robots. I love this little fucker.

  

   But robots, though retardelly cool, just don't seem like the real meaning of easter. 

   There's the bunnys...

   They hop about and make a lot of smaller, more compact, bunnies, which I suppose is the point of the original pagan origins of easter. (The name "Easter" originated with the names of an ancient Goddess and God. The Venerable Bede, a Christian scholar, first asserted in his book De Ratione Temporum that Easter was named after Eastre. She was the Great Mother Goddess of the Saxon people in Northern Europe. Similarly, the "Teutonic dawn goddess of fertility [was] known variously as Ostare, Ostara, Ostern, Eostra, Eostre, Eostur, Eastra, Eastur, Austron and Ausos." ₁ Her name was derived from the ancient word for spring: "eastre.") which was to celebrate the coming time of fertility in the Northern Hemisphere, but thats outdated a bit now.    

   There's the eggs. 

   Woops! Wrong slide.

   Okay not exactly what I was after but it'll do.

   We used to pick eggs that were nearly hatched and write backwards messages on them in felt ink pens. Things like "otirrub ecin a ekam annog er'uoY" "otsep htiw llew tnew mum ruoY" "team etihw rehto eht...nekcihc ybaB" "muy-eldood-a-kcoC" and other such stuff. 

   In this way we avoided the cruelty of a surprise death and warned them fair and square of their impending doom before they were even hatched.
   Eggs are only part of the true meaning though aren't they? Besides, a chicken's menstrual cycle is not what I want to think of on Easter Sunday so I'm gonna ignore it.
   Look...I think we all know where I'm going with this right?
   Let me elaborate a little for those of you who don't know the story.
   Ol' Filthy once met and almost had sex with a supermodel.

YAAAAAYYY!

   I was working in a swanky wanky London hotel, carrying bags, stealing chocolates from the store room, hooking people up with prostitutes, looking the other way when rich twats overdosed in the hallways, things like that.
   So this supermodel from a number of years ago...well...to avoid any legal suits we'll just call her Maomi Pambel. She walks, neigh SWANS, in and takes a room. We set her up in a nice suite and don't hear from her for an hour or so when the phone downstairs rings and her name comes up on the phone as it did with all visitors. I answer and she says, "I can't get the water out of the bath. Could you please come up and help me."
   Its not rocket science so I go through the steps of taking the plug out, ie; grip with hand, pull gently (we're still having a clean conversation at this point) but she says she tried and asks again that I come up to her room and help her.
   Being a somewhat accomodating bear I agree and hang up the phone. As I go to head for the elevator however, my boss, another foreigner like me, asks what Naomi...I mean Maomi wanted.
   I told him and he refused to let me go up. Instead he sent a gay fella that I worked with by the name of Fabian (now seriously, was he ever going to be anything but gay with a name like that? He wasn't even Italian or anything. He was a white sydney lad. Why not just call him Fleur de la Fleur or some shit.)
   Anyway Ita Burtose comes racing out of the lift a few minutes later screaming like a little girl and wincing as if he'd just been vomited on.
   When asked what happened, this is what he said;
  "I knocked on the door. It was slightly open. She said 'Come in. I'm in the bathroom'. So I went in, opened the bathroom door and there she is, laying in the bath stark naked, no soapy suds, no bubbles, just a naked supermodel. She said, 'Are you going to help me unblock the hole?' To which I nodded. I then rolled up my shirt sleave, knelt down beside the bath and reached in for the plug.
   She then lunged forward, grabbed my hand and forced it up between her legs!"
   Now ol' Filthy is losin' it at this point. Its half fantasy, half possibility and I'm thinking He's gay! What a waste of a supermodel! But the story continues.
   Fabian:- "I tore my hand away from her vagina and ran out of the room. Oh it was disgusting, it was disgusting, eww eww eww!"
   To this day I still want to kill the bastard.
   So without another word, I marched toward the lift doors, hoping that the plug was still in position and that Maomi still required the aid of a gentle paw.
   My boss stopped me again. He barricaded the lift and refused to let me into heaven. Apparently this had happened on a number of occasions over the years and many hotel staff had had a close brush with jail time because of it. Rich toffs get smashed on whatever drug is the latest deal and sleep with staff, then wake up and cry rape because they were either too shit faced to remember or too embarassed to admit to anything else.
   Its not uncommon. I'd heard stories of similar things.
   Like one girl who apparently looked like  "Vlad Schmidt's" (name changed to avoid legal hassles) wife, Genifer Banniston. She had sex with Vlad, only to be told the next morning that he only did it because he missed his beloved wife so terribly and was only fucking a stranger because she reminded him of her.
   Ummm Brad...I mean Vlad... I'm pretty sure its still considered cheating if the girl looks like your wife. I don't think that makes much of a difference. In fact its a little creepy.
   So there you have it...the true meaning of Easter. Its a message that we should all try to remember and instill in the minds of the children. Its a story of hope, of supermodels and of plug holes, but most of all its about self-esteem.
   I personally decided long ago never to walk in anyone's shadow. If I fail if I succeed, at least I lived as I believed. No matter what they take from me, they can't take away my dignity. Because the greatest love of all is happening to me. I've found the greatest love of all inside of wine.
   Oh there's that stuff with that fella on the cross too but how many holidays does an omnipotent  and omnipresent being need anyway?
   Not that I'm complaining. Its a 5 day weekend after all.
   Stay Filthy.