Gargy's Island

Yup. Life sure is different when you're living on an island.

First off, Gargy's been running around with branches up hus bum. Not being particularly taken up by his reptilian behaviour (zoology graduates give me the creeps. And herpetologists are the weird ones of the bunch) as long as the rope orders were filled, I didn't really care until hollow rodent carcasses started showing up around the cottage in large sticky puddles.

...branches attract squirrels. Slutty squirrels apparently. Oh jeez.

Now, before PETA members start inundating Google's blog site's servers with hatred spewed from the depths of cuddly-animal-loving idiocy, please note that squirrels, from what I have gathered, have acted as gargoyles' lubricious prey for millenia. Their elongated bodies fit perfectly with... oh, just send on your messages if I need to describe it.

(As for their fuzzy tails, they are the perfect gargoyle perineal stimulators. Yup. This isn't family material).

Anyways, I now spend my days sleeping, sending out CVs, catching up on my reading of The Economist (a left-wing eurocentric publication with a decidedly secularist bent which I read out of God-fearing curiosity. It is important to know the enemies of the Right) and generally pooping in an outhouse.

...the outhouse really makes the charm of the place. Those langourous, indolence-inducing urban shits are out when one's most sensitive areas are left open to the various insect stingers that can't wait to slurp up our very lifeblood. Go in, get out and, especially, get used to sticky britches.

In any case, I just burned off a bunch of wood from our childhood cottage, took a long swim (which helps with the stickiness) and grilled myself some supper. Oh, and I have a keg of microbrewed beer in a fridge my brothers lovingly modified. Life could definitely be worse.