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    The Gift of Dementia
    The Gift of Dementia
    The Gift of Dementia
    Ebook122 pages1 hour

    The Gift of Dementia

    By Frankie Lassut

    ()

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    About this ebook

    The people of the world plod along ... and plod along.
    People are conditioned into ways of life that don’t ‘work’, yet they keep on doing them and keep on doing them, but they don’t work, so they just keep on repeating them, but they don’t work so ... try again. And the same things happen, but we can’t fix them and neither can the people who we give our trust and hope to in order to fix them ... and the world plods on n,onn,onn,onplodplodplod.
    Maybe we’ve had the answers all along? What if we have?! What if we’ve been searching for our glasses ... and they’re on top of our heads!? Oh goody gumdrops!
    Every little thing’s, gonna be alright!
    But! Hang on! What if those glasses we’ve found require ‘effort’ to see through them? What if we can’t even believe they ‘will’‘work’? What if it’s so obvious, it can’t possibly work? Yet at the same time, it’s extremely difficult? ‘Oh noooo! More effort!’
    What if that effort required means ‘thinking’ ‘deliberately’ ... Ans: we’re lost, (it becomes a hell in a handbasket job) solid lost. No way out of this fix..
    The people of the world plod along ... and plod along n plod, n, ploddddd ...

    October Aurora Sunrise (Frankie’s trauma buddy, PA, shoulder to cry on, proof reader ...etc)

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherFrankie Lassut
    Release dateAug 16, 2012
    ISBN9781908796745
    The Gift of Dementia
    Author

    Frankie Lassut

    I am the one being shaved; the other one Nim, is is a looney bin now! I went to see a psychic years ago who ended up as my girlfriend; she didn't see that one coming! But she was extremely honoured. However it ended badly i.e. it rained heavily as I buried her body and I got soaked. No! You don't really want to hear about it, it's depressing; I was joking about the burial. She told me that I was to uncover a talent I had … Well, another psychic told me that as the first one was dead; I was lying when I said I was lying. Nothing happened for quite a while. Suddenly I realised I needed a 'job' quite badly as I was beginning to drink halves. No, not a boob 'job'! I went for the cheap option i.e. the surgeon gave some socks to shove up my jumper when I go out. I got a 'job' (have you got boobs on your mind?) because someone told me that bus-driving was easy because you just sit on your butt and turn the wheel. She was about six, a wise woman … that's called an oxymoron. Fantastic! I thought get the job and in a couple of days I'd be driving all the nice passengers around and about seeing all the sights for a fraction of the cost of a tour bus; and we'd have a roof in case it rained. Easy! First of all though there was the training; and I entered hell. I was born in Cumbria in a little ex-iron ore mining town called Millom. It was only small, a one- horse town; the horse was called Peg. It had a pedigree name too, but I can't remember it at the moment: Peggy Suss? However, I got fed up and left as I was the only man in a town full of women and they were all lesbys; I've always been lucky. I went to Blackpool and attended the photographic college. I then moved to Coventry and met the psychic who would tell me what was going to happen. I could say now that the rest is history. Well it is, but obviously not history as that's all made up anyway. Then I got the job bus-driving, which as I said is easy 'you just sit on your butt and turn the wheel'. The bus station management weren't pleased that she had said that though, so she was tried and sent to Guantanamo Bay; they have a section for young kids who are bad to the bone. The job was so mad that I thought it would be a good idea to write out some posters and stick them all on the wall of the bus station. The other drivers enjoyed them, but the management tore them down, the badstars (that's an anagram of astards +B). I carried on and ended up with a manuscript for a book, which, by ...

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