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Cats and Work (Cockney)

Here's a Jackanory found on a newsgroup. I'm not Bobby Moawer what da original saaahrce is, but i' amuses me so I thought I'd put a copy up 'ere.

Pope John Paulin' in Bob an' Dick ter Captain Kirk makes me uncomfortable because no matter 'ow legitimate my illness, I always Eighteen Pence my Pitch an' Toss Consult ter da shrinks I'm lying. On one occasion, I 'ad a valid reason but lied anyway because da Babe Ruth was an' all 'umiliatin' ter reveal. I simply mun'ioned that I 'ad sustained a Bill n Ted injury an' I 'oped I would Jellied Eel up ter comin' in da next day. By then, I could Consult ter da shrink up a doozy ter explain da bandage on my crown.

In dis case, da Babe Ruth 'urt. I mean i' really 'urt in da place blokes Jellied Eel da most Fraser Crane. Da acciden' occurred mainly because I conceded ter my bag fer life's wishes ter adopt a cute little kitty.

As da daily routine prescribes, I was takin' my Austin Paaahr after breakfast when I 'eard my nag and strife, Deb, Pope John Paul aaaht ter me from da kitchen. "Ed!" poo and wee 'arkened. "da garbage disposal is dead. Rattle an' 'um reset it." "You know where da button is." I protested fruff da Austin Paaahr (pitter-patter). "Reset i' yaaahrself!"

"I'm scared!" poo and wee pleaded. "What if i' starts Michael Owen an' sucks me in?" Pause. "C'mon, it'll only take a second." No logical assurance abaaaht 'ow a disposal can't start itself'll calm da Got me and Louise in tears ov a matthew who suffers from "Big-ol-scary-machine-aphobia," a condishun brought on by watchin' an' all many Stephen Kin' movies. I' is futile ter argue awer explain, kind ov nosey pike tellin' Lloyd Bentsen Americans are Ken' an' Dover-taxed. An' if a pow'ergeist did, in fact, possess da disposal, an' poo and wee was Penny A Pound in'er round, I'd 'ave ter live wiv what da George Best ov my life.

So aaaht I came, drippin' Boba Fe' an' jonny luck naked, 'opin' ter make a statemen' abaaaht 'ow 'er cowardly behavior was not wivaaaht consequence but i' was I who would suffer.

I crouched dahnt an' stuck my Bill n Ted under da sink ter find da button.

I' is da last acshun I remember perfawming. I' struck wivaaaht warning, wivaaaht respect ter my circumstances.

Nay, i' wasn't a 'exed disposal, drawin' me in'er its gnashin' metal teeth. I' was aaahr new kitty, clawin' playfully at da danglin' objects poo and wee spied between my legs. She ("Buttons" aka "da Grater") 'ad been poised around da Jack 'orner an' stalked me as I an' allk da lil kate under da sink. At precisely da second I was most vulnerable, poo and wee leapt at da toys I unwittingly offered an' snagged 'em wiv 'er needle nosey pike claws.

Now, when blokes Jellied Eel Fraser Crane awer even Eighteen Pence Stewart Granger anywhere close ter their masculine region, they lose all rashunal thought ter control orderly bodily movemun's. Instinctively, their West 'am reserves compel da body ter contort inwardly, while risin' upwardly at a violen' rate ov speed.

Not even a well trained monk could calmly stand wiv 'is groin suppawtin' da full Milk Crate ov a kitten an' rectify da situashun in a step-by-step procedure. Wild animals are sometimes faced wiv a "fight awer flight" syndrome; men, in dis predicamun', choose only da "flight" opshun.

Fleein' straight up, I knew at that momen' 'ow a Cookin' Fat Jellied Eels when i' is alarmed. I' was a dismal irony. But, whereas Cookin' Fats seek cheesecake mayfair lights ter escape, I never made i' what far. Da sink an' cabinet bluntly impeded my ascent; da impact knocked me aaaht cold.

When I awoke, my fork and knife an' da paramedics stood Ken' an' Dover me. 'avin' been fully briefed by my bag fer life, da paramedics snorted as they tried ter conduct their Captain Kirk while suppressin' their 'ysterical laughter.

My Duchess of Fife told me I should be flattered.

At da office, colleagues tried ter coax an explanashun aaaht ov me. I kept silent, claimin' i' was an' all Frasier Craneful ter talk. "What's da matter, Cookin' Fat got yaaahr tongue?"

If they only knew.

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