I’m not the mad one folks, it’s fake news.
These newspapers thrive on slander and defamation of character. My doctor has given me a clean bill of health.
I knew I wasn’t mad when I left the White House the other day and saw a guy walking down the street wearing trousers that were eight inches too short.
With a self-assured swagger – as if they were a good fit, he’d presumably chosen not to return to the clothes store to exchange them for a pair with a suitable size, but to instead parade the streets with an adopted fashion persona of a circus clown. That’s real insanity, folks.
‘I’m going on a skiing holiday,’ I heard somebody say recently. A novice skier that doesn’t walk with any measure of grace or style, let alone fly off an ice mountain at 70 mph on sticks, surely has a high probability of inflicting self-injury on the slopes.
Yes there’s something a little foreboding about the rock solid terrain on a sky-high cliff that can really mess with your ‘no broken bone holiday policy.’ Olympic standard skiers get injured don’t they? So what makes a rookie skier exempt from such severe physical risks when they’re perhaps – a manager of a launderette?
Bungee jumpers are mad too. Why not leap off a high bridge, tied to an elastic band (which might snap), and experience the irresistible opportunity to receive spinal damage and whiplash?
Motorbike riders are mad. ‘Motorcycling makes you feel free,’ they say. Yes, free to travel over a roadside fence and three fields in a high speed, post-impact scenario.
And what about the mad people who have no fear of flying in an aeroplane? ‘You have more chance of getting hit by lightning than crashing in a plane,’ they tell you.
Well I’d rather be hit by lightning than than nosedive from 30,000 feet into an ocean bed that is so deep, there are creatures living there with spaghetti-shaped teeth and square eyes.
Then there’s the mad people who undergo plastic surgery. Why not put your blind faith in a bogus ‘surgeon’, who may consequently render you with half a chin and no nostrils?
‘Why did I go through with it?’ you hear them say, in the post-op catastrophe. It’s because you were hasty, cheap, and completely mad.
You entrusted a ‘surgeon’ with credentials that extended to that of a pottery teacher, and you asked him to make you look like another human being. He did a botch job, disappeared with your cash, and now you have to breathe through your ears.
Yes the mad people, you know the type: train spotters, astrologists, streakers, football hooligans, owners of dangerous dogs – ‘Don’t worry, he won’t bite! … As long as you don’t breathe.’
What about the ocean surfer who lost all his limbs and torso to numerous Great White shark attacks, but will not be deterred from going back into shark-infested waters to surf again?
‘I can still roll my remaining head onto a surfboard – no worries,’ he says.
Of course, there is nothing more aesthetically appealing to a beach lady than watching a human coconut ride a wave on a giant plastic pitta bread.
How about the mad participators of body tattooing? You know the best way to pamper your soft, elegant, silky skin?
Deface it with ink! Ink, folks! – a substance that if spilt over your coffee table would spark a major household crisis.
But your precious, velvety skin? Screw it! You’re good to go and vandalise it all with tacky meaningless ink stains.
Yes folks, I’m not the mad one.