Apocrypha’s big 50th birthday bash was nearly aborted.

The cake carried only 42 candles.  The baker, who failed “O” Level maths, ran out of fingers and toes while counting.  Prime Minister, Porsche Simple-Muller, and Opposition Leader, Wandraw Pollmess, met to resolve the crisis.

“Porsche” Wandraw began “why yu call me here?”

“I don’t know” answered Porsche, “I was in Parliament all day.  Dem sey somet’ing wrong wid de cake.”

So, the cake was summoned.  As it appeared, Porsche went ballistic “Wha’ yu a try do, Wandraw?” she exclaimed.

“Me?” Wandraw was quizzical.

“Yu no see de icing green?”

“Porsche,” Wandraw protested “is not me bake de cake.  Green’s a national colour.  Look at you.  Yu wearing yellow dress.”

“Dis is not yellow.  Dis is gold!”

“ok.  So where’s de black?”

“Wandraw, we can’t push dis blackness t’ing too much.  De IMF don’t want black or green.  It want greenback.”

“So wha’ fe do?”

“We haffe rub de green icing off de cake.”

MacArthur’s park is melting in the dark                                                                                                                                                 all the sweet green icing flowing down.                                                                                                                                             Someone left the cake out in the rain.                                                                                                                                                            I don’t think that I can take it                                                                                                                                                                  ’cause it took so long to bake it                                                                                                                                                                        and I’ll never have that recipe again, oh, no.

Wandraw was livid.  “Yu can’t change de icing now, Porsche.  Me done promise bitta medicine.  Yu come een an’ tu’n up de tax.  Dat was bitterer than any castor oil.  Now yu wan’ share out sweetness wid orange icing.  No way.  Before dat, no bashment keep.  Who bake de cake?”

Porsche replied “I don’t know.  Remember I was in Parliament.  Ask Derricks.  Him in charge of labour.”  Labour Minister Seddupmee Derricks joined the meeting and reported the baking/event-planning contractor was his sister.  “But Seddup,” Wandraw protested “dat no right.  Yu can’t give yu sista govanmanent wuk.”

“Why not?” Derricks argued “it gone so bad now man can’t even give family memba wuk?  You fagget sey we on a mission?  What we run fe election fa?  Fe gi wey de wuk to stranger?  Didn’t you give plenty wuk to Doodoo til dem fling ‘im inna prison?  My turn now.  Me jus’ a tu’n up de ting.”

“Is not me give DooDoo wuk” Wandraw pleaded “is oonu.  Yu nuh see Bruise sey him beg Doodoo no fe protek gunman and DooDoo protek dem same way.  A him step pon Doodoo after dat.  Not me.”

“Derricks” Porsche interrupted, “neva mind who bake de cake.  Tell me why de icing green? Yu know me a go blame yu.”

“But is not my fault.”

“Me neva sey is your fault.  Me sey me a go blame YOU so you betta tell me how de icing green.”

Derricks explained “My sista colour blind.  She believe she mek red icing.  But dat not de problem.  Is not enough candle pon de cake.”

“What?” Portsche and Wandraw spoke as one.  “Is dat all?  So why call we? Send fa de maths brains!”  Soon, Oma D’unn and R.U. Shaw appeared.  Regular readers will remember the two friends from opposite political camps: Oma, like a moon, bright only in the dark but a Ph D in logic;  R.U. Shaw, like the man with initials “GBS”, when asked “Are You Shaw?” replied “I’m certain of nothing”.

After Oma and R.U. finished counting, Wandraw exploded “Yu set me up, Porsche!  Nuh 42 M.P. yu have?  Yu a try fe pretend no Opposition no dey.”  That’s when the fight began.

While they bickered about who was the better trickster, R.U. asked Oma what to do.  Oma advised hiring a baker/event-planner with a husband.  R.U. looked lost so Oma told a story of the wife who asked her husband for morning sex.

She was preparing soft-boiled eggs for breakfast wearing only the ‘T’ shirt she slept in.  Her half-asleep husband walked into the kitchen.  Immediately, she turned to him “You must make love to me this minute!”

He thought, “I must be dreaming!” Taking no chances, he flew across the room and went to work right there on the kitchen table.

Afterwards she returned to the stove, T-shirt still up around her neck.  Happy but slightly puzzled, he asked “What was that about?”

“Nothing much” she explained, “the egg-timer’s broken.”

There’s no end to husbands’ usefulness including the ability to see red.  So Apocrypha’s 50th birthday party proceeded without cake (promised later).  A joint statement from the P.M. and Opposition Leader blamed the bad timing on the event-planner for baking while single.

Peace and Love


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