Pal Kim asked to know more about Colin from the Post Office.  I thought I couldn’t do any better but to let him speak for himself.

“Good morning, People Of The Internet.  I’m Colin from the Post Office.  That’s not my real name, of course. It’s just another of the many ways my parents have let me down my whole life. I should have been called Chill Riverrock.  I feel that, I do.  Like it’s my spiritual name or something, my name in the far different, far off world I should have been born into.  And I also feel that my spiritual nickname would very probably have been W for Wily.  Chill “W” Riverrock.  But do you think these fascist slave-masters at the Royal Mail will let me have a counter badge with Chill “W” Riverrock Is Pleased To Assist You!” on it?  Hell, they won’t even give me Colin “Chill” MacAuley.

But they’re fools. Fools who aren’t part Comanche* like me.  Fools who think just because you’re born with a name and everybody calls you that name, and you usually answer to it, at work anyway, that that just might not, in essence, be who you are. My essence is not the essence of a Colin.  I once went to an Essence Diviner at a fair.  She sniffed me all over and she told me, she said  “You are no Colin!”  She said I smelt “more like a Howard” but , despite being right about the Colin thing, you really can’t believe everything these people say, can you?

Say, do you know, this little parlay with you folks has helped me come to a decision!  As God is my witness, I will never answer to Colin again to anyone, except my granny because it would just take too long to explain it all to her.  So to hell with the Royal Mail!  I’m gonna live life on my own terms, and, dangit, those terms are wearin’ spurs.

Fool folks laugh at me.  It’s OK, I know they do. When I stride into the saloons at night to have me a few shots of sweet oblivion, wearing the rawhide that feels as natural next to my own skin as the silken panties beneath them, they snigger.  They don’t think I see them snigger but I do.  You’d be a great, fat, dirty shhep-fiddler though if you think Chill Dubya cares about sniggering like that though.   Nope I just pull my ten gallon a little lower on my brow and shoot arrows of steel-tipped hate at them from my stormy, troubled eyes that have known little to no love ouside my parents and my granny and a few aunties and uncles.  Chicks dig stormy eyes.

See, ignorant people always laugh at what they can’t understand but their scorn is like a horsefly round a tailless steer’s behind to me – a mere minor, and sometimes mildly erotic, irritation.  I don’t mind the laughter. In fact I laugh at their laughter.

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”  I scream, while drawing my trusty, silver Colt, and they tend to scuttle off in terror with their hands protecting their bottoms,  to other bars for lesser men.

Oh yes, I can take the laughing and the sniggering, but what I cannot abide is the tittering – I bloody hate tittering -  and the smirking and the sticking to my back of bits of paper saying “Colin enjoys weekend botany”.

But what’s that? You’re surprised that a manly, rugged cowboy like Chill “W” Riverrock – a wanderer who’s seen the curlew weep, and heard the fabled hedgehog sing – who’s looked upon sights so raw and steaming and purplish-grey before which any other man would have sobbed and wet their breeks – a man who’s strangled a pretty big labrador dead with his bare hands just because she woofed at him funny, and who put a bullet between the eyes of a kitten that displeased him – do you think it’s amusing that such a craggy seeker of love and campfire wisdom with a side o’ beans should wear silky and occasionally lacy panties?  I hope not because that’s just the kind of narrow thinkin’ I’d expect from fool folks and Chill “W” Riverrock don’t tolerate no fool-folk narrow thinkin’, no way, no how.

See, Chill Dubya is a man of hard yesterdays and tough tomorrows, a paradox of callouses and sensitive parts and he doesn’t want these sensitive parts all scuffed up by rough rawhide seams.  Yessirree, Chill Riverrock has found silk and occasional lace panties to be deliciously cooling on his privates and, dawgone, he’s man enough to say it.

Well, my lunch-hour’s nearly over now but I’ve enjoyed this little chat we’ve had.  I’ll ask Sam if I can impose
on her blog again.  I’m sure she’ll say yes.  She  wants me, you know.  Sexually, I mean.  I try to tell her not to make a fool of herself when she comes in to buy stamps but she just won’t quit glaring flirtily at me and coquettishly threatening to call the police.

Anyway, biddin’ y’all a good day out on this dusty trail we call life.  And remember what Chill “W” Riverrock
always says:  “There ain’t no shame in bein’ 39 and still livin’ with your folks. No shame in that at all.”

*Part Comanche – my mum had a Comanche pen-pal during her school days.  She’s dead now from cultural grief and a freak canned-soup-pyramid accident, but my mum says they were like sisters for the whole of Primary 7.”

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