Watch out - aliens are coming and they're after our women r
Published 12/10/2015 | 02:30
The woman who hasn't had sex for 39 years is back in good form what with all the good news about Mars.
The beginning of life on Mars must have had some element of sex or maybe the Martians were amoebas hatched out of an egg made of molecules spewed up from molten rocks.
Aliens and sex will definitely hook you up to this piece, it being a well-known fact that people take a great deal of interest in matters pertaining to sex and aliens; and if you bring the two together, well then, it's a sure thing that people will read every word.
There's also the identification of the subject, as the woman who hasn't had sex for 39 years has often been mentioned here in this column. Her real identity shall remain a secret.
She says Irish women should get on very well with Martians and that they couldn't be worse than Irish men who were low types and "more untrustworthy than Satan himself."
It seems that long ago a man who professed his undying love was three-timing her, which means he was also three-timing the other two women he was seeing.
I think I have the maths right on the three-timing - or was he two-timing three women? - but I have no intention of checking anything out, at all. I'm on a work-to-rule, which I think means you refuse to perform certain tasks relating to your job. But as I'm on a work-to-rule, I'm refusing to research the exact meaning of 'work-to-rule'.
I've taken unilateral industrial action because I want to be paid a living wage. We'll come back to life on Mars soon, but I have to get my dues. All I'm asking is for the same pay as my colleagues, for equal work.
This colleague, according to the woman who hasn't had sex for 39 years, is paid $180,000,000 a year.
I do not begrudge the big earning lady a single cent. She is one of my heroes. All I want is fair play.
But back to the woman who hasn't had sex for 39 years and her story about scientists finding rain damage on Mars, which of course means there must be life on Mars. For a woman who doesn't get out much, she knows a lot of stuff.
And she hears very profound and interesting statements from the fellow philosophers she meets on her way to the shop.
So I can't help myself and I check out her claims of life on Mars. Yes, it's true there are scars on the landscape caused by melting ice flows. Unless a couple of Irish builders had to give up on a job there because the banks repossessed the diggers.
But seriously now, aside from all the joking, we could have new neighbours. Mrs 39, who hates her man for three-timing her, still sort of loves him at the same time as loathing him. It could be, she says, that it was how the Martians stole his brains - "which explains a lot," as she says herself.
Her little dog looked up at her with sad eyes and I told her not to worry too much, that her dog would bark like mad when Martians came around pretending to be the postman or a TV licence inspector.
I'm not so sure why a Martian would take over any Irishman's body, what with our bad backs and the trouble our fronts get us into, and the highest cholesterol in the world and beer bellies with room enough for quins, and us always looking for our glasses, but we can't find 'em because we have no glasses on.
So I tell Mrs 39 she's safe enough for now, which kind of disappoints her as I think she was hoping for a tryst with a new species who wouldn't three-time her. So I add, "but you'd never know. You'd never know." Just to cheer up.
I find that sometimes if you read a sentence it gives it more credence and bestows a certain gravitas on the person making the statement.
I hope she's right about Oprah earning the $180,000,000 because if she is, well then we're all in for a right touch.
Mrs 39 is getting more eccentric and difficult too. She says hurtful things and most of the neighbours aren't on speaking terms. She can't really help it. So the best thing to do is to ignore the harsh words and make allowances.
It's well worth waiting for the interesting facts on Martians and interesting terrestrials, like the story about Oprah and another interesting one about a piebald cat named Jamesie that doesn't like milk.
So off she goes, and I get to thinking this year might be the 40th anniversary of her last intimacy with the three-timer. I know it's about a year since I last wrote about her and if it was 39 then, well it's probably 40 now. But I'm not checking back on my old pieces on account of the work-to-rule.
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