Dunford and his (not) $3 million casa (not) for sale.

There are several things one cannot say about Andrew. No, if I knew what they were, I'd be yodeling them now, wouldn't I? But there is ONE thing one can say about Andrew. He knows his cricket. Again no,

I have no idea why this image is here

not the gryllidae family, but the allegedly soporific sport. Other than that, he is a Kiwi-Brit. For those in the civilized world that treats nachos as a delicacy, that's the ecclesiastical ephemeral equivalent of a Puerto Rican Yankee. 

Because New Zealand is Australia's Canada. Just as Lake Forest is Mission Viejo's Mexico.

There is an ancient Spanish proverb, or at least there should be 

"Un yak embarazada en el maletero es mejor que dos en el asiento delantero." 

That seems so spectacularly inapplicable here that I'm forced to mention it, because no one else will dare dream of doing so. As Google and the UN translator on standby loosely translates it (Beta version, accept at your own risk, or your neighbor's, I don't give a damn anymore) 

"A pregnant yak in the trunk is worth two in the front seat."

Now that I think about it, it makes perfect sense. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, they say.  Hey pal, you look where you want to, and I'll look where I damn well please, OK? Besides, what do they know?

Damn Luddites!

Anyhoo, as I was not saying, this Dunford dude ("bloke" for the Polynesians and Yezidis) has a house for sale. Location, location, location. No, I haven't a clue as to where it is located, or why I wasted that clever alliterative figure of speech, but that's all Andrew would divulge. I think it has something to do with the 140 character limit on Twitter, but I suspect an ulterior motive. Something more sinister. Macabre, almost. No, not Stephen King macabre, more like Edgar-Allan-Poe-write-only-bot who-has-been-trying-to-follow-me-on-Twitter-macabre. To which I say: Back off pal, do mosquitoes sucking on mummies ring a bell?

It is almost as if the Scotland Independence vote didn't go his way. I suspect that he was rooting for a draw, because they just do not have enough of those in Test Cricket (sp?) these days.

Recently (BIG SPOILER ALERT AHEAD), he took to Twitter to whine about (that be "whinge" in Antipodea I and II), get this, giraffes. Now, if this were the Deep South, the preceding sentence would have started with "Y'all not gonna believe this, but the fake pommie wants to gab about giraffes." Sensitive as I am to overcoming other people's xenophobia, I suggest that Andrew register himself with this premier site: G.D.B.P.W.S.N.B.D.G. That's right, he's probably awful at drawing 'em giraffes. There, I said it, somebody HAD TO!

Sometimes, I wonder.  

On a whim, I scare domesticated pigeons and (undomesticated) DMV officials off my car, for they can be messy. So why is Andrew feeling this much hostility towards the boob tube? Has this anything to with Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle, or as most would deduce, it was just the TV's turn? The toaster sympathizes no doubt, and the dryer is quivering with fear like the newbie rumba player at a rap concert. <—See how clever I was in mentioning that the (not) $3 million house comes with a toaster, a dryer, and a TV rich in ammonia deposits? Score!

Now, Andrew has been a responsible slumlord, because, I remember that one time he had problems with a freakin' window in the house, and, and... OK, so, he is not on Schindler's Angie's List, but is that a crime now? 

Sheesh!

One last piece of gratuitous advice for Andrew when he sells his casa: Take a shower, dress casual, serve a Bordeaux. Not necessarily in that order. Sell on cheese, buy on apples, that sort of a thing. 

Also, never bet against Phil Hughes. Or Ja Rule. As everyone knows, there's no such thing as "too much Ja Rule."