THE NAKED CARROT

Crapman's job is trying to break microchips, as is my understanding. My mental image of him is holding a sledgehammer "testing" the strength of the microchips, dipping them in a variety of beers "just to see what would happen" sticking them in ice-cube trays for a day and then frying them with onions. Then if they work afterwards it's safe to say it's ready for the market.
"I have a new job!" he tells me one day and inwardly my image of him firing microchips out of a cannon towards a wall on fire was demolished. Then I realised that it was much the same job, whatever that was, except in Clontarf. I asked him to explain to me the difference:
"Well," he says, "Imagine if I was picking 100,000 carrots a day and now I have to pick 300,000 carrots, I have to move faster, and thus I will become a more efficent carrot-picker"
This was news to me as I always thought he was an electronic engineer, and never believed his interests extended to high-level horticulture.
"Not much room in Clontarf to grow carrots" says I.
"This is the 21st century mate, high-rise carrot fields these days. Try to keep up!"

He went on to say that the head carrot-pickers were sending him to Florence to pick carrots there, which took me back to my own recent Florentine adventure, where me and Kim extended our Rome trip to take a train to see David. Inspired by Michaelangelo's assortment of near-naked Sistine doodles, Kim made it her mission to go and see the most famous nudey man in the world, which stood a 17ft pillar of pure manliness in the Accademia Gallery. It was Kim's idea. She's a right dirty ho.

I felt that before I came to grips with some nudiness I should make an attempt to sanitise myself, just in case I touched something I might might give a disease to, or get a disease from, so I washed my hands in that bronze pig fountain in the nearby marketplace. Then we rolled up our sleeves, and went to man-handle some art.

We stood in the middle of the gallery, our heads cocked, gazing on the elegant marble.
"He does have huge hands..." Kim said, pointing at the famously out of proportion mitts.
"Leave him alone," I said, staring down at my own square farmer hand-shovels.
"He does have a small willy", Kim said, staring at the famously out of proportion love muscle.
"Leave him alone," I said, staring down at my own guidebook, which clearly said that David was designed for a high pedestal, which would normalise the penis size from a perspective distant and below.

While Kim was getting her fill of willies and rock-hard arses, I was enthralled by the finest lot of late medieval art I had come across on my entire trip, and I lapped up this feast, taking care not to dribble. My medievalist guise poked out but became a little uncomfortable when I recalled that Hannibal Lector also posed as a medievalist when he was in Florence, so my medieval sensibility popped back inside, lest I go and do something mental, like eat kim, or hang a police detective, or go to the opera.
I watched "Hannibal" again when I got home, and felt myself reaching for the fava beans and the chianti when I saw how he washed his hands in the same bronze pig fountain...
I should have just picked carrots.