apologia pro dumpings mea

Coffee with Doctor Barn in the Whitewater Centre.
It is indeed ironic folks that I give such unstinting support to a commercial entity named after a Bill Clinton scandal.
The Whitewater Centre.
I mean, how did they pick the name.
Is it just a typical piece of harmless Paddy Whackery?
After all my countrymen are nothing if not insane.
Ay yi yi, as we do say in the trade.
But whatever next?
The Monica Lewinski conference centre and hotel?
The Vince Foster memorial park and ride?
The Create A New Muslim Republic In Kosovo Where There Never Was One Before cineplex and highway overpass?
But I digress.
(Unfunnily too - Ed note.)
Back to the subject.
Doctor Barn and me are quaffing coffees you know where.
"I've been wondering," quoth he. "Some of those girls who pop up on your website. Are they all still around."
"Nope," sez I. "There's been a lot of seepage of late. In fact I've been dumped so many times in the past month I'm starting to feel punch drunk."
"Which of them dumped you?"
"Well Marriedski for a start."
"She was just your friend."
"The dumping still hurt just as much I can tell you."
"So why did she dump you?"
"I think she took it a bit to heart when I wrote on The Heelers Diaries that Russia suffered from a pissant peasant fetish for conquest, usurpation and impoverishment."
Doctor Barn laughed long and loud and hearty.
"Yeah," chortleth he. "Yeah it's just possible she didn't like that."
Presently he finished his merriment.
"Go on," sez he. "Who else dumped you?"
Clearly he wasn't treating the subject with the seriousness it deserved.
For a start he was pronouncing the word dumped with peculiar relish.
I answered him nonetheless.
"The Sicilian," sez I.
"Why?" sez he.
"She had a problem with me being 42," sez I.
"Ha, ha, ha," sez he again more delighted at my chagrin than strictly speaking a brother should be.
When he'd finished the necessary chuckling, he leaned forward.
"What about the Hindu babe?" enquireth he.
My pallor ashened.
A faraway look came into my eyes.
Not one of those happy far away looks either.
"The Hindu babe is wandering around a beach in Goa with a Pathan tribesman called Rudigore," I mused softly. "She lives now only in my memories."