The last British veteran of The Big One (that's history geek speak for WWI, pay attention people, don't you know me at all?!) died today.
His name was...Harry Patch. I swear to blog, I'm not making it up.
Harry was 111, thus alive even before Keith Richards and the dinosaurs, so I assume that he was the recipient of the first ever Atomic Wedgie. Little did young Harry know that his was the start of a tradition that would carry on, generation after generation, a tradition of skid marks and buttcrack abrasions.
I'm guessing (hoping) that Harry didn't marry someone named Rash or, say, Mista. Because Harry wouldn't do that to the woman he loved...would he?
And what did he name his kids? Dear lord. Harry wasn't a family NAME, was it?! The atomic wedgie implications for the Patch family alone simply boggle the mind. It's some kind of miracle that they managed to reproduce. I mean, I'm assuming they reproduced. Depending on the...damage...down there.
I'd like to say "rest in peace, Harry Patch", but blog, that doesn't seem quite right.
Maybe, "Goodbye, Harry Patch. We'll think of you often"? Err. No.
Ok. Here it is. I have it. "Bye!"
See? I'm a master of the English language.
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