surely things couldn't get w*rse...

The windscreen wipers could barely cope with the sheer volume of water being deposited on the car. We crept home at a snail’s pace, past flash floods, past urban waterspouts created when the torrents accumulating in gutters would meet an obstruction such as a parked car. It was quite surreal, although the joint we were smoking probably didn’t help make things any more realistic either?
Finally we arrived back at Lane Cove, which is where things began to go terribly wrong again. ‘Scary Bob’ had built his mansion on a highly elevated block, which meant the place had an almost impossibly steep driveway; steep and long. As kids we used to shit ourselves trying to skateboard down it in one piece.
No one had ever made it in one run but plenty of skin had been left on the surface in the attempt. Where the driveway met the horizontal pavement on the street, the angle was so severe that a car would need to come to a complete halt before crossing it or risk bashing the front bumper bar on the upslope.
‘The Brain’, well-rehearsed in this maneuver, did precisely the right thing and we began our ascent. The driveway stretched out before us and after each pass of the wiper over the windscreen, we’d have a brief glimpse of the river of water cascading down the ramp towards us before the whole scene became blurred again. ‘The Brain’ pressed gently on the accelerator and ‘The Scary Bobmobile’ reluctantly started to move forward. No more than five kph could be achieved without the risk of spinning the wheels, so it was going to be a long, slow climb.
We got well past the halfway point, doing just fine, when ‘The Brain’ lost patience and tapped on the gas a little too hard. The old Mercedes, with just one rear drive-wheel, suddenly lost traction and began to slow.
‘The Brain’ hit the panic button and the accelerator all in one smooth move, gunning the engine and causing the drive-wheel to lose whatever little traction it already had. With all the noise from the pounding rain and revving engine, we’d lost our visual bearings and had become totally oblivious to the fact we were no longer moving forward. We had begun to backslide down the driveway, almost imperceptibly at first but rapidly gathering speed as gravity began to act on our two-and-a-half tonne car.
‘Fuck ‘Brain’…use the handbrake!!!’
‘It’s OK, I know what I’m doing.’
‘The Brain’ pressed the pedal to the metal and we accelerated even more quickly in reverse, now going faster downhill than we were previously going uphill, so ‘The Brain’ ripped on the handbrake. This eventually slowed us down, primarily because by applying the rear brakes, we effectively had no steering and slewed sideways into the driveway’s side-wall.
‘Fucking great Fingers…now look what you’ve done.’
‘Me? You’re the cunt driving. I told you to hit the handbrake before we started moving too fast. You just locked up the steering, cunt.’
The sandstone blocks did a tremendous job of washing off both our car’s speed and its paintwork; the grinding of metal on rock was excruciating. Meanwhile we were still going backwards. ‘The Scary Bobmobile’ was more of a ‘Scary Bobsled’ now…
Suddenly, to our great relief the car seemed to bounce off the wall, however the relief was short-lived as we began to re-accelerate, gaining speed a lot faster than either of us anticipated.
‘Fuck!!!’
‘Fuck!!!’
We slid all the way to the bottom of the driveway, the rear bumper ploughing into the level footpath as we passed over it, then shot across the roadway before ‘The Brain’ stomped on the footbrake and brought the car to rest in the middle of the street.
‘Are you OK, Brain?’
‘What? Of course I’m OK. It was hardly a high-speed accident, you cunt. The car’s fucked though. We’re fucked. We’re so fucked.’
‘Us?’
‘Yeah…us. You’re part of this too, Fingers.’
‘I don’t think so Brain.’
‘Yeah well we’ll see about that. Fuck…we have to get this fucking car off the street.’
Whilst arguing the blame, we hadn’t noticed that ‘The Scary Bobmobile’ had stopped running. ‘The Brain’ tried the ignition but nothing happened. As we found out later, when the rear bumper bottomed out, the impact had apparently crushed the exhaust pipe flat, much like placing a potato on it and effectively blocking the engine’s airway. We got out of the car and surveyed the damage. It looked as though the ‘Scary Bobmobile’ had been through a carwash equipped with angle-grinders instead of brushes on one side. There were deep gouges in every panel running the entire length of the chassis. The driver’s door-handle had been completely ripped off.
‘Gee, that should buff right out, Brain…’
‘Fuck.’
‘Yeah…it’s over for you, mate.’
In the still-pouring rain we pushed the ‘Scary Bobmobile’ to the kerb, parked its sorry ass, locked it and scurried upstairs to our lair to ponder the catastrophe…


To be continued…

a plan so cunning you could put a tail on it...

So anyway…’The Brain’ went off to find some rope, while I foraged around in the back garden for a suitably heavy rock to weigh down the corpse. Ten minutes later we were hovering over the unquestionably dead hooker, deciding how best to attach the rock to her frail, little body. It was taking us a great deal of time to get the rock placed, which was just as well, because as we propped her up to try sticking the rock under her t-shirt…she coughed.
‘Jesus Christ, Fingers…she’s still alive.’
At this point I wasn’t sure whether ‘The Brain’ regarded this as good news or not, half-expecting him to turn into Freddie Krueger any second and produce an axe to finish the job.
‘Fucking hell, Brain…if we’d gone ahead with your stupid plan, we’d have actually been responsible for killing her. If they ever found the body and determined there was water in the lungs we’d be charged with murder, you cunt.’‘
'Well, you’re the one who said she was dead already.’
‘I’m STILL not a coroner, you fuckwad.’
As the wave of relief swept over us, an agreement was reached that the hooker had to leave the house…since neither of us were terribly convinced she wouldn’t die at some stage in the near future. Luckily for all concerned, The Royal North Shore Hospital was just a few minutes drive away. We hatched a meticulous plan to leave her in front of ‘Casualty’ where she’d be safe, so to that end we wrapped her in a blanket, carried the young lady down to the garage and opened the door.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuckety, fuck, fuck, fuck…I forgot the Jag’s fucked…we’ll have to take ‘The Scary Bobmobile.’
‘Oh brilliant.’
‘The Scary Bobmobile’ was a jet-black 600 SEL Mercedes, with ‘BOB’ number plates and nuclear-flash-white-walled tyres; possibly the non-stealthiest vehicle in the whole of Sydney. Still, we had few options (other than the many obvious, civilized, sensible ones) so we rolled the hooker-in-a-blanket into the boot (she was still at risk of throwing up), drove carefully over to the hospital, past the busy front doors, round the side to an unlit emergency door…and propped the now-semi-conscious body up against the wall.
We then drove out the other side of the hospital grounds, found a phone booth and called the hospital to let staff know there was a patient waiting for them outside. On the way home, ‘The Brain’ and I congratulated each other on taking the honourable course of action; we’d saved a life, we were possibly heroes…perhaps we’d both get a medal some day.
As we drove back to the house it started to rain, gently at first but then all of a sudden it was bucketing down, as only it can over on The North Shore, where it sometimes feels like God is trying to pour The Pacific Ocean on it through a sieve…

To be continued…

a brief interlude...

If I may take a very short break from the story to ask the youth of Australia a question…
Here is an excerpt from Steph’s amazing Big Brother Blog, in which she summarizes the voting rules for household evictions this week.


It is an unauthorized reproduction, much the same as the girl/girl pash photo of Steph that most of my clients now have installed as screensavers across SE Asia.


‘…The public vote to SAVE the HM's they like. At the end of the week, the bottom three HM's with the least save votes, are put up for eviction. The HM's then vote (two points and one point) who they would like evicted, except for the winner of FNL who gets four points and two points to use on evicting a HM, AND also gets to SAVE one HM from eviction. The person with the next least save votes then gets put up to take their place.

In yet another twist, the bottom three HM's also get to nominate each other too and their votes are kept secret until the end.

After this somewhat exhausting process, the three HM's get into "the revolver". Two HM's are put back in the house, and the one with the most eviction points is spun out to "the bleachers" where Jackie-O is waiting to interview them…’

My question: If you can follow this...WHAT THE FUCK WAS SO FUCKING HARD ABOUT THE FUCKING AWAs YOU SEEMED TO HAVE SO MUCH FUCKING TROUBLE UNDERSTANDING, YOU DIM-WITTED CABBAGES…

That is all…and now back to ‘The Brain’…

the right thing to do...

If the hooker had looked dead when we first picked her up at ‘Les Girls’, she looked even deader now.
‘Did you kill her, Brain ?’
‘No, she took another shot of smack a while back and then she just collapsed. She’s been like that for a few minutes. Check her pulse. Is she dead ?’


I leaned over the unconscious girl and placed a finger on her carotid artery. She had no pulse whatsoever, although I’ve since learned that the carotid artery is apparently in a different position to where I was pressing, so that may have explained it. Nevertheless, at around 2am I pronounced her dead, which did not suit ‘The Brain’ at all…
‘She can’t be fucking dead.’
‘Well she is…so what are we going to do about it ?’
‘No, no, no…she can’t be. Get a mirror and hold it in front of her mouth…see if she’s breathing at all.’
Now that was a surprisingly good idea from ‘The Brain’, so off I went in search of a suitable mirror. All of them were either attached to walls or simply too large to be practical but eventually I found a shaving mirror in ‘Scary Bob’s’ bathroom, which I unscrewed from its extension arm and brought back into the lounge room. I held the shaving mirror in front of the girl’s face while ‘The Brain’ supported her head gently.
‘Breathe you cunt, breathe,’ begged ‘The Brain’.
There was nothing; no respiratory vapour condensing on the mirror at all. This chick was as dead as she appeared according to our thorough medical examination. Of course, in our diagnostic haste, we had failed to consider that shaving mirrors were specifically designed not to fog up…but that fact wouldn’t occur to me until a few hours later.
‘She’s toast, Brain. We have to call the cops and report this.’
I may not have been a brilliant doctor but as a Year 3 student of the law, I was fairly sure about the correct procedure for dealing with corpses.
‘No way, no cops…’
‘Are you fucking kidding me, Brain. We haven’t done anything wrong yet. The silly cunt O/D’d…it’s not a crime unless we fail to report it.’
‘I don’t give a shit about the cops but if we call them, then they’ll call ‘Scary Bob’ and he’ll know we were here and then we’ll all wish we had OD’d.’
‘So, what do you suggest ?’
‘We have to get rid of the body.’
‘What ? Who the fuck are you…Ted Bundy ? How do we just get rid of a body ?’
‘We can tie her up, weight her down with rocks or something and throw her in the river…’
Conveniently, the house had frontage on The Lane Cove River, with a private jetty and a small dinghy for getting out to ‘Scary Bob’s’ large cruiser, which was normally moored a hundred metres away.
‘Are you completely insane, Brain…I’m not dumping this body in a river. We didn’t kill her; we’ve got nothing to hide.’
‘OK fine but when ‘Scary Bob’ is called by the cops, while he’s on holiday with ‘Snap’…and has to come racing back to Sydney to sort this out…and he asks me who else was here…I’m going to say ‘Fingers’.’
‘Right…you go find some rope. I’ll be in the garden looking for rocks…’

To be continued…

ok, so my promises aren't worth shit...sue me...

So, one evening ‘The Brain’ calls up and says ‘Hey, ‘Scary Bob’ has taken ‘Snap’ away for a week on the boat. I’m over at their place now. Let’s take ‘Snap’s’ E-Type jag out for a spin…’
‘Are you fucking delirious, Brain. ‘Scary Bob’ will kill you if you touch ‘The Cuntmobile’. He’ll kill you if he even finds out you’re there while they’re away.’

‘Aw fuck her, and fuck Dad…we’re just going for a drive. Grab Tania (the Croat) and let’s go into Kings Cross for the night.’
So we did…where we went from bar to bar while ‘The Brain’ tried to pull a chick and take her back to his parents’ place to bone her senseless. Around midnight, smashed like three crabs, we found ourselves in a low joint called ‘Les Girls’, a tranny-dance club, where ‘The Brain’ managed to convince an off-duty hooker to come back and party with him. She might have been 18 years old, about 30 kilograms and looked like she’d been dead for a month.
We all piled into the Jag and went back to Lane Cove…
The Jag lived in a garage with an automatic door. Driving into the garage, ‘The Brain’, about five times the legal alcohol-limit (0.08 in those days) misjudged the door’s opening-speed and managed to ram the door with the windscreen, which simply cracked in half and fell onto the dashboard.
Ooops.
Deciding he had a week to fix that, we put the open-plan Jag away and went inside for a mini-party. The hooker went straight to the fridge, took about six foils of heroin from her purse, put one in arm and placed the rest in the cheese-compartment for safe-keeping.
We partied on till about 1-30am, when Tania and I excused ourselves and went downstairs to crash out in one of the spare bedrooms, leaving ‘The Brain’ and the hooker upstairs…still partying.
At 1-45am, ‘The Brain’ barged into our bedroom and shook me till I woke up.
‘What the fuck ??’
‘Fingers…you gotta come upstairs and have a look at something.’ ‘The Brain’ was borderline hysterical and he wasn’t the sort of guy to panic easily.
We went back upstairs, where he pointed out the hooker, lying fully-clothed on the lounge-room floor…unconscious.
‘I think she’s dead, Fingers…’

To be continued…

five posts in ten days...that's our promise to you...

The year was 1980, I was a promising law student at the University of NSW, with a fiery, blonde, Croatian girlfriend whose fuck-head of a father would brew his own ‘Slivowicz ’ (some sort of 80-proof Slav paint thinner), force me to drink with him, then arm-wrestle me, call me a weakling pussy-cunt and threaten to bash me to death if he ever caught me fucking his daughter. Good times.
I weighed 57 kg and looked like a two-iron with ears: he was twenty-six years my senior, weighed 90 kgs and looked like a mediaeval castle door from where I was usually cowering.
One of my best friends was Steven XXXX, we called him ‘The Brain’, because ostensibly he didn’t have one. ‘The Brain’ wasn’t necessarily inherently stupid by birth, however he’d done things in his life which defied reason, even the envelope-pushing reason of a twenty year old, sliver spoon. ‘The Brain’ lived with his parents round the corner from my girlfriend and her homicidal father, down on the river at Lane Cove, in a magnificent six-bedroom mansion.
Sorry, ‘The Brain’ HAD been living there up until a month earlier, when he’d burnt down the kitchen trying to make magic mushroom pancakes at 2am whilst already under the influence of magic mushroom lasagna. In response to a ‘him or me’ ultimatum from his third wife (‘Snap the Cunt-Face Dragon’) ‘The Brain’s’ father made ‘The Brain’ pack his meagre bags and banished him from the family residence forever.
‘The Brain’s’ old man was a very scary guy. His name was Bob and he was a builder by trade; we’d have called him ‘Bob the Builder’ except that cartoon hadn’t been conceived yet, so we just called him ‘Scary Bob’. Anyway, ‘Scary Bob’ owned his own construction company ‘BHC Ltd’ (not the real name), a very successful operation which built most of the ‘Pizza Hut’ restaurants in NSW back in the eighties/nineties and made him a very wealthy, very scary, very connected-in-a-construction-industry-kind-of-way kind of guy.
Now despite ‘Scary Bob’ having recently exiled his idiot son from the family mansion, ‘The Brain’ still retained a managerial position within ‘BHC Ltd’, in an act of nepotism that made most of the hard-working, competent employees round there want to kill ‘The Brain’ and inter his remains under a ‘Pizza Hut’ floor during the next concrete-pour. They would have done it during the last concrete pour, however ‘The Brain’ slept through that one, courtesy of an all-night ecstasy binge that left him unable to make the 6am rendezvous with the five trucks from Boral, which duly returned to base and flushed sixty grand’s worth of unsupervised concrete down the drain before it set hard in their steely bowels. Doh…

To be continued…

at the third stroke...

Have you ever noticed the remarkable shift in viewer demographics that the Channel 10 network and its advertisers seem to imagine takes place at midnight? Apparently, when the clock strikes twelve, the relatively normal, healthy, well-adjusted day shift scuttles off to bed with their respective partners and the night-shift bundies on.

So, what sort of creature inhabits the night, according to Channel 10 and its sponsors? Well, to answer that question, you’ll need to look beyond the mere programming and read between the none-too-subtle lines of the various commercials.

If it’s 12:01am and you’re still up watching television, Channel 10 advertisers think you’re almost certainly a single male, most likely a wanker, and not just figuratively speaking either judging by the enormous number of young ladies they have queued up just waiting to chat to you; ladies in underwear/bikinis; writhing around on top of their bedcovers unable to sleep presumably due to the intense mid-April heat?

Why not give them give them a ring, ‘Vaseline Boy’ (‘Call me…call me now…’), since you’re obviously both terrific people, tragically alone and yet, strangely awake at precisely the same time. It’s fate, although even fate has a price; $3-00 per minute…higher from mobile phones.

OK, maybe you’re not a pay-to-play kind of guy but Channel 10’s sponsors still suspect you’re probably a total dork, completely lacking any real-world skills? Well, you’re on the right channel ‘Dweebo’, because whether your pleasure is heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, tri-sexual or even transsexual, they have a matchmaking website tailored to your specific needs. You’ll never need to leave your darkened room to date in person again once you go online with the thousands of other socially awkward people looking for a meaningful relationship, a one-night-stand or a simply a little anonymous cannibalism.

While you’re at it, perhaps you could lose some weight too; not much good meeting your perfect cyber-partner looking like that, is there? Hey it’s your lucky day, ‘Pork Chop’, because they have the ‘Flab-Buster Pro’ to help you shed those unsightly kilograms while you’re sitting there eating doughnuts by the light of the television. Sure it might look like just a large inflatable rubber ball, but check out the army of celebrities already using it to help them tone their fabulously un-single bodies.

And that receding hairline isn’t doing you any favours either, ‘Baldy’. You really should consider a visit to the specialists at ‘I Can’t Believe It’s Not Hair’.

Finally, one of the best-kept late night secrets, ‘Lawnmower Man’; there is a growing legion of self-made billionaires working from home for as little as sixty seconds a week, using the revolutionary new ‘Megabucks Now’ system of wealth creation. This guaranteed path to unimaginable riches is apparently not available to day-shifters, who are condemned forever to their working-class existence.

And you’ll certainly need those billions of dollars shortly, ‘You Stupid Cunt’, especially if you keep spending all night on the chat lines, buying RSVP stamps, ridiculous exercise machines and wonder hair products.

In fact Channel 10 should just come right out with a new viewer classification for that time of the evening; ‘LFBPG35+’ ??

The following programme is suitable for ‘lonely, fat, bald, poor guys over the age of 35’…

here...spidey, spidey, spidey...

I live next door to a very nice lady; Suzee.
Apart from me, she’s the only other building-resident less than one-hundred and twenty years of age; about fifty, separated, runs her own business and generally seems quite independent.
Like I said, she’s a very nice lady who reminds me a lot of the brunette ‘Ab Fab’ chick, only a little more together. Last weekend, Suzee knocked on my door, a little hysterical, and asked if I could come over and remove a large Huntsman spider from her balcony. She’s terrified of spiders and when I went over to take a look at the problem, I saw this one was the size of a dinner plate, all set up in a high corner with a lovely web.

I said, “Sure, no problem. What’s in it for me ??”
“Huh ??”
“You heard me, Suzee. If I’m going to do your pest control, what are you going to do for me ??”
“Fingers, are you being revolting ??”
“In your dreams, you old bat (she likes it when I’m cheeky to her)…I mean is there any danger of some domestic reciprocation for services rendered ??”
“OK, I’ll iron a few shirts for you.”
“How many ??”
“Three.”
“No deal. That spider’s huge. And it’s breeding season, so it’ll be looking for something to kill and feed to its young soon.”
“OK. Five.”
“No way, Suzee. That is a ten-shirt spider if ever there was one. Maybe twelve.”
“OK, OK…ten shirts.”
“And properly ironed too. Not just sleeves and front…I want the collars pressed and the backs creased.”
“Of course.”
“And a blowjob…”
“Just get that fucking spider off my balcony. Please...”
“OK. Ten shirts, properly ironed and you can owe me a blow job, Gummy.”
“Yes, whatever…just get rid of it, pleeeease…”

So, because I abhor the killing of Nature’s creatures (except cockroaches and French citizens), I got a Tupperware container from Suzee’s pantry, coaxed Mr Huntsman into it, closed the lid tight, walked out of the unit and into the garden, where I planned to release him back into the wild.
Until I had a particularly brilliant idea…
Long story short, my new pet spider is now living and working full-time in my wine-cellar, where he gets free, secure lodgings and all the insects he can catch.
And as soon as I run out of ironed shirts, I have a funny feeling ‘Mr Huntsman’ will be holidaying on Suzee’s balcony…

it's all about meme...

Why is it that most ‘ploggers’* will quite happily fill out a fifty-question ‘MEME’ but take exception to doing the annual ‘Census’ ??
Why are they gagging for an opportunity to take complete strangers on a magical tour of the mansions of their mind but unwilling to answer a few simple, anonymous queries from the Australian Bureau of Statistics ??
Why will chicks happily admit to their readers that on their birthdays they’d prefer to be tied up with chocolate silly string and taken from behind by an underage neighbour wearing a Superman outfit, or that at work they close their eyes at the desk and fantasize about their female boss whilst masturbating with a lampshade on their head and a space-shuttle inserted in their snatch …but won’t tell the government their age to the nearest five years ??
Why do guys freely confess to carving notch-holes in microwave-warmed vegetables and using them for sex-aids while their wives are out shopping for tandem butt-plugs, or that they used to let the pet Labrador lick hamburger mince off their balls while they lip-synched to ‘Wham’ when they were teenagers…yet baulk at disclosing their salary to within fifty grand ??
Funny old world…

* a new portmanteau created for this post using the words ‘blogger’ and ‘plonker’…

it's bad news week...

Let’s cut to the chase here; I’m not a fan of period sex. And by that, I don’t mean dressing up like Napoleon and Josephine (which I quite enjoy as it happens)…I mean…




“I do not like red eggs and flange,
I do not like them Son of Sam !!!”
There is nothing remotely beautiful/sensual about menstruation…and if you think there is, you should probably be a coroner, or a serial killer, or both.

What’s worse, at the precise moment of the month when chicks are at their most unattractive, Nature conspires to make them horny as weasels. Very much like guys after twelve beers and a lamb kebab…only worse. Much, much worse…
My own fear of ‘flag week’ sex started in 1978, when my seventeen year old girlfriend had ‘the painters’ in but still tricked me into going down on her by saying ‘Would you like to go down on me.’ It was a cunningly simple plan, based on my love of going down on her combined with my relatively unsophisticated dining palate at that stage.
Meaning, I should have been able to taste the you-know-what…but didn’t.
At some point in the buffet I had to have a wee, so I trotted off the bathroom, turned the light on, looked in the mirror…and saw what appeared to be a naked mugging-victim staring back at me. Not only that but it appeared I’d been attacked whilst trying to lick the last bit of jam out of some imaginary jar…
It was everywhere…and like anyone who possesses what’s called ‘the gag reflex’, my blood-pressure plummeted and I immediately fainted.
Yes…go on…laugh your heads off, girls.
I mean, what kind of psycho does that to another human being ??
And you ALL do it, too…you filthy animals. Even though you know it makes me want to throw up, you taunt me with your plaintive cries.
‘Oh, stop being such a wimp. It’s just a little blood.’
‘Oh come on, it’s all quite natural.’
‘Oh, just think of it as red lube.’
Well, how would you like it if I pulled out my wing-wang, blood pissing out the end of it as though I’d just severed it myself with some garden shears and asked you to pop it in your mouth for a few minutes ??
Yeah…that’s what I thought…

glad that's over...

So I went speed dating last week and it was a much more rewarding experience than I’d anticipated. You know the drill; seven guys, seven chicks, seven minutes to make their respective cases, then the chicks take a step to the left and the interview juggernaut moves on until all the chicks have met all the guys. At the end of the evening, if anyone fancies anyone else, they ask the moderator for their details, the moderator checks with the intended victim and if it’s OK with them…the deal is made.

Well, even I can hold my conversational end up for seven minutes, especially when compared to the sort of competition provided by the other six cabbages in the game, so I was quietly confident of at least one expression of interest.
Which I got; a nice looking brunette, Vanessa asked for my contact details and I gladly gave permission to release them. Vanessa was thirty-six, single, a veterinary surgeon at Taronga Park Zoo…and she’d had a rough day. The zoo had apparently lost one of their adult giraffes to a lightning strike during the violent storm that battered Sydney that afternoon, so she was quite depressed about it all.
Rather than let Vanessa grieve in peace, I asked why they didn’t have lightning rods placed around the compound to conduct the deadly electrical bolts away from the giraffes, given that they’re so fucking tall and come with those two stupid little horns, which as far as I can tell serve no purpose other than to actually attract lightning?
Vanessa mistook the sarcasm for some sort of sincere concern on my part for the welfare of the surviving giraffes and decided I was worth pursuing. We had a private little chat around 9pm, felt an instant attraction and in the spirit of speed dating resolved to keep the evening’s momentum going.
We went for a quick drink at ‘MPB’ around 9-30pm, grabbed some fast food in ‘Burger King’ at 10pm, sped back to Cunt Point on ‘The Stealth Vespa’ and leapt into bed for a quick fuck at 11pm, had a short post-sex nap, woke up around midnight for a brief discussion regarding our respective dreams for the future, realised we had somehow grown apart, agreed to a trial separation by 12-15am, gave the relationship a second chance at 1am, ran out of things to talk about by 2am, spent half an hour in silent resentment of all the time we’d wasted and finally split up for good at 3am.
Vanessa left in a taxi at 3-20am, she SMS’d at 3-30am to say she missed me.
I sobbed quietly until nearly 3-32am.
By 4am I couldn’t remember what she looked like anymore.
It’s true what they say about time healing wounds…

the world is not always your oyster...

THE BRIEF: Create a character, give it a fear, then introduce it into a situation where it confronts and conquers that fear...



THE STORY:

Geoffrey stared at the slimy, grey ball of muscle on the fork, attempting to vanquish his total disgust through sheer force of will. He noticed a sliver of nacre, its appearance iridescent through a subtle trick of light, embedded in his thumb; an injury sustained in opening the oyster’s shell only minutes before. Geoffrey brought the slimy, grey ball closer to his face, its horrid image blurring as the focal length corrupted. Seemingly transformed into the eye of some tiny Cyclops, the slimy, grey ball returned Geoffrey’s stare.
‘You can’t eat me. You’ll never eat me,’ it hissed.
This time his slippery little opponent was badly mistaken, thought Geoffrey, only semi-convinced of his latest strategy’s chance of success but determined not to show even the slightest sign of weakness.
‘You can’t do it, Geoffrey. You know I’m still alive, you haven’t got the stomach for this type of savagery. You’ve never had it, Geoffrey.’ The slimy, grey ball was mocking him now. ‘I’m watching you, Geoffrey…’
With his free hand, Geoffrey slowly and deliberately picked up the pre-cut wedge of lemon, holding it gently but purposely in a position where the slimy, grey ball could best observe it. The Cyclops eye continued to stare, apparently unfazed by any citric threat on Geoffrey’s part.
Standoff.
Suddenly, the slimy, grey ball of muscle appeared to tremble on the end of the fork, though in reality Geoffrey suspected the true cause might have been his own shaky hand. No matter, at last he’d realised what the lemon was for and with a single-minded brutality he never knew he had, Geoffrey took aim at his nemesis and squeezed his fist tightly.
‘Let’s see you watch me with this in your eye, Cyclops…’


ONE OF THE COMMENTS (Miriam):

'As someone who despises oysters I found this difficult to read...'

Yes, well I hate the idea of killing whales but I managed to slog my way through 'Moby Dick', you silly cunt.

'...Why, if Geoffrey hates oysters, is he bothering to force himself to eat one ?'

Because it's my fucking piece and I said so and it's vital to the tag-line, which you'll find at the end of the story, if you're brave enough to push through your distate for oysters and read what I've written, you silly cunt. Why did your fuck-boring character go to the local supermarket to buy fuck-boring mangoes when she knew her fuck-boring ex might be there with his fuck-boring new fuck-boring girlfriend ??

'...some lovely imagery though and your personification of the oyster is marvellous...but the ending is confusing. Does Geoffrey throw the lemon at his enemy...'

He squirts juice in its eye, Miriam !!! The metaphorical eye that I took great pains to craft. The eye that isn't really an eye, except for the purpose of the gag, to squirt the lemon in its fucking eye Miriam...even though I know that's not really what the lemon is for, you silly, silly, cunt...

now why didn't i think of that...

THE BRIEF:

Create a character, give it a weakness/fear, then develop a short story (300 words) in which the character’s weakness/fear is exposed.

THE STORY:

Kieran slumped into the allotted seat and immediately began his relaxation exercise; inhaling nasally, exhaling orally…slowly, deeply at first…gradually reducing the length of each breath until he imagined the calm flooding in.
He brought his hands together, gently introducing the fingers of one to its partner on the other, then closed his eyes and commenced reviewing the physics of the problem as he saw it. It was simple really. The engines provided the forward motion, causing air to rush over the surface of the huge wings. The wings, shaped in accordance with the principle laid down by Daniel Bernoulli nearly three hundred years earlier, split that rushing air into separate streams. Those two streams travelled at different velocities, creating an imbalance of air-pressure, which would thrust the wings and anything else attached firmly enough to them up, up and away…‘
All well and good,’ interrupted The Beast, its filthy snout breaking the surface of Kester’s flooding calm ‘but all that technical wizardry is sometimes flawed, whereas gravity is constant and perfect.’
Kester’s eyes flew open, just as they always did; he realised he hadn’t taken a breath for nearly a minute. In the seat to his left, Kieran’s best friend Phil noticed it too.
‘You OK, mate?’ asked Phil carefully adjusting the buckle on his seatbelt.
‘Christ I hate flying. I think I’m going to be sick,’ admitted Kieran, reaching for the small plastic bag beneath his seat.
‘You’re a funny guy, Kier…real funny guy,’ said Phil, flicking an illuminated switch overhead and wrenching the microphone free of its bracket in order to bring it closer to his mouth.
‘Good evening, I’m Captain Phil Driscoll and along with my co-pilot Captain Kieran Putz, I’d like to welcome you all aboard Virgin Atlantic flight VS201 to London…’

ONE OF THE COMMENTS (Celia):

‘I think in the space allowed this is a very entertaining piece of writing but I suppose I wonder how long he has hated flying if that is his job. After all, he is a pilot. Was there a defining moment that changed him?’

Well gosh Celia…that is kind of weird isn’t it…a pilot who’s afraid of flying. What a strange twist; ironic even. Hey, why don’t I change the story so that Kester is a passenger and Phil is another passenger sitting next to him? That would make more sense, eh?
You stooopid, stooopid cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuunt…

teachers pet...

OK, so for the past few weeks I’ve been very busy with Writer School.
Writer School blows very large goats (see how my use of metaphors has improved?).
It’s way too Zen-like for my taste; lots of meditating, closing of the eyes, exploring one’s surroundings with all five newly-electrified senses then frantically scribbling down an unedited stream of consciousness. Last week I had my eyes open and was staring at some chick’s bongos while she was zenning-out, so when the tutor yelled ‘OK, now write what you’re thinking’…I wrote ‘Bongos…want.’
No Pulitzer for me.
Oh…and the best bit. After each writing exercise, we all get to critique each other’s pieces…but it’s POSITIVE feedback only. Can you imagine how much I’m into that?
‘Oh Brenda, I just loved the way you used the ‘bricks of detail’ technique to describe Jenny’s fascinating personal journey of discovery during her Kontiki tour of Goa…’
‘And Rita, Cassie, Miriam, Delia and Patricia, although on the surface your pieces all seemed to be identical journals of lost love, I found that each of you had approached this riveting topic from a wonderfully unique perspective…’
At least I would have done if I hadn’t fallen asleep during the first paragraph.
Did I mention I was one of just two guys in a class of twelve?
That’s right…ten chicks…seven of whom when asked ‘So, why are you taking the Unlocking Creativity course?’ answered ‘I want to unlock my creativity.’
Doh!!!
So, who wants to see what I’ve written…

what women want...

It’s taken forty-seven years of trial and error…but I’ve finally worked out what women want.
Forget good looks, forget gigantic brains, forget fabulous humor, forget kindness, generosity, charity or the power of life and death…forget all that shit they write in their profiles on dating sites.
It’s all bullshit; they want boats !!!
Are you listening to me ??
WOMEN WANT BOATS.
And it doesn’t have to be the ‘Arctic P’ either, although I suspect you’ll need something a little more up-market than a tinny.
Just your basic, entry-level speedboat will to do the trick.
Of course, you’ll also require a plentiful supply of cheap champagne and some strong sunshine in which to drink it, however once these three ingredients are combined, virtually any man can have his very own bikini-clad headrest.
So, my advice to the rest of you desperate ‘Unfuckables’ is do what you have to do…rob a bank, sell your organs to Arabs, find yourself a better-paying job…but get a fucking boat.
I wish I’d done this years ago…

we must learn from our mistakes...

Popular opinion amongst cosmologists holds that if aliens were to visit Earth they would be vastly superior in intelligence to the local inhabitants.
Obviously this wouldn’t be the case if they set their shiny little saucer down on Cunt Point Rd, however for the remainder of the planet it’s probably a fair assessment.
Long story short…the reasoning is along the lines that any aliens smart enough to build a spacecraft capable of traversing the incalculable distances involved in such a trip must be way smarter than most of you cabbages.
Another fair assessment; then again anyone capable of calculating the impact of a 0.15% increase in interest rates on their mortgage probably has 50 IQ points on most of you too.
There is also a widely-held belief that these mega-brained aliens would be coming in peace to share their accumulated wisdom with us and that our lives would be greatly enriched by the contact.
DON’T BE DECEIVED !!!
If you consider our own history, particularly the last five hundred years or so, try to recall one instance of an ‘inferior’ culture benefitting from contact with a supposedly ‘superior’ culture.
I’m quite sure the Mayan Indians could have done without the help of their educated Spanish benefactors. Likewise, I doubt many Australian Aborigines now celebrate the first day they encountered their enlightened British saviours ?? Not a lot of African nations these days rejoice in the improved quality of life brought by the Dutch as far as I’m aware.
And so on…
What I’m saying is that if a flying saucer sets down in your backyard, a hatch opens and a Little Green Thing walks down the ramp…SHOOT THE FUCKER !!!
Don’t say ‘HELLO’ to it, don’t listen to any of its crap about coming in peace, don’t extend your hand in a gesture of inter-galactic friendship. It will not teach you how to run your car on water, or explain how women think, or reveal where flies go when it’s raining…so just SHOOT THE FUCKER !!! Right between however many eyes it has…
Then get some really toxic shit, such as anthrax dust or a crate of Muslims, stuff the flying saucer full of it and weld the hatch shut.
History will thank you for it one day…

sweet dreams are made of these...

Yesterday, as has become my habit in recent years I attended the Boxing Day sale at DJs and Myer city stores !!!
I'm not one of those savages lined up from 3am, thermos of coffee in their rucksacks, noses pressed against the doors, slavering like crazed weasels at the thought of saving $30 on a towel for the bathroom. I tend to saunter in around 10-ish, go directly to the Manchester section and scoop an entire set of designer bed linen, (duvet cover, fitted-sheet and 4 pillow slips), which lasts me a year. I’m not terribly fussed about getting the exact print I want: I’m simply after quality stuff at stupidly low prices. The week before the sale I do a little reconnaissance work, check the ranges, sizes, prices, study the store layout and acquire a target…it’s a surgical strike, not a day out for me.
Inside 30 minutes I had selected and purchased the 2008 linen for the workbench, a subtle Ralph Lauren print, normally $900, mine for $270…mission completed.
Beetling out of the store, the treasure clutched to my chest to keep it away from the cloying fingers of the hordes of Chinese barbarians…I saw it.
In a corner of the Ralph Lauren section, not necessarily for sale though, stood the most magnificent stressed-leather armchair I’d ever laid eyes on. It was a prop really; a non-related, same-brand item designed to reassure the buyer of RL products that this was the kind of world they now belonged to.
I had to sit in that chair…
I did sit in that chair…
I wish I hadn’t sat in that chair…
As soon as my ass hit the seat I was gone. My mouth watered at the prospect of sitting there for eternity whilst a parade of increasingly larger, increasingly higher-definition plasma TVs passed before me. The chair enveloped me, hugging my form to its padded, leathery bosom, caressing me in ways other chairs have promised but never delivered.
‘Excuse me, sir…you can’t sit on that chair…it’s a display item.’
I had been spotted by one of the David Jones sales trolls.
‘Huh…what…I want this chair…how much for the chair…please sell me this chair.’
‘It’s not for sale, sir…it’s a display item only.’
‘I don’t care…I want to buy it…can you find out how much it is ??’
‘It’s not for sale, sir… it’s a display item only.’
‘Yes, I heard you the first time. Please go and find a supervisor or something…I need to have this chair…it’s XMAS…let’s negotiate…everything has a price…sell me this chair you cunt.’
‘It’s not for sale, sir… it’s a display item only.’
‘And I want the ottoman too.’
Eventually the troll found a supervisor and we resolved the issue.
‘It’s not for sale, sir… it’s a display item only.’
‘Yes…I know that, you simple-minded fuckwad…I was just being silly with your sales-troll…I just want to know where I can get one like it.’
‘Try Ralph Lauren Furniture…it’s on loan from them.’
‘Thank you.’
So, today I went online, found the RLF website, located the armchair of my dreams and spent 30 minutes drooling on my keyboard. It’s called ‘The Writer’s Chair’…and its NOT just a display item and it IS for sale.
FOR SALE: $6999…
And $2399…for the matching ottoman…
CUNTS !!!

a xmas tale...

In the XMAS/NYE period of ’88 I met a very attractive, blonde surfy-chick at the Coolangatta Airport check-in queue whilst returning from a rare, financially successful, weekend’s bourbon/cocaine binge on the blackjack tables at Jupiter’s Casino. Sadly, ‘rare’ describes the financial success of this particular trip, rather than the frequency with which these self-destructive junkets tended to occur. Anyway, flushed with funds, still buzzing like a turtle from the narcotics and sporting a newly purchased ten-gallon hat which I’d hoped advertised some mighty gambling prowess, if not a sense of style necessarily, I boldly struck up a conversation with this girl. By the time we’d reached the counter I’d convinced her to keep company in the seat next to me on the flight. A double martini and two lines of coke later in the Qantas Club, I’d discovered her name was ‘Caroline Clay’ (‘Everybody calls me Cass…’) and that she was a 24 year-old real estate agent from Surfers Paradise, heading to the bright lights of Sydney to seek her fortune. Thirty minutes later, maybe somewhere over Port Macquarie at 28,000 feet, as I held a glass of champagne in my right hand and she held my wing-wang in hers, I generously offered her free accommodation for life, which my new ‘girlfriend’ graciously accepted with all the dignity manageable in the performance of a hand-job.

Upon landing in Sydney, we raced back to ‘our’ place for some thrilling first sex, after which she got dressed and headed into Kings Cross for some nightclubbing. I declined the invitation to go with her as I was not a dancer of any note and besides that had work the next day. She returned home at 7-00am, just as I was getting up, greeted me with a kiss, the offer of a blowjob which I gladly accepted, and was fast asleep when I left for the office. Ten hours later, when I got home, she was still asleep. I proceeded to cook my dinner/her breakfast, after which we had thrilling second sex, followed by cuddles and some thrilling third sex. At about 11-00pm I indicated I was going to bed, whereupon she had a shower and got ready to apparently go nightclubbing again. In a repeat of the previous evening, she cruised back in around 7-00am as I was getting up, we did a few quick laps of the rack and she was fast asleep before I left the apartment. This bizarre ritual went on virtually unchanged for five days, the only variation being the increasing degree of haggardness with which she greeted me each morning. By the sixth morning she looked ten years older than the girl I’d recently met; all the clubbing was starting to take its toll.

I inquired of Cass as to what she intended doing about getting her real estate career started in Sydney but the questions went unanswered. The nightclubbing however went on and her youthful visage came off accordingly.

I became a little suspicious…

One night, as she departed in the now familiar 11-00pm taxi, I decided to follow her from a safe distance in my car. She went straight to Kings Cross, alighted on Macleay Street and disappeared through a heavy, wooden door which may or may not have hidden a nightclub. I waited out the front for about five minutes, contemplating whether to go in and see what she was doing or simply go home and get some sleep. I was just about to drive off when Cass reappeared on the street, unsurprisingly (had I given it even the slightest thought) dressed in a denim mini-skirt, pink blouse tied off below her bongos and white, six-inch pumps. Superb; I was dating a hooker.

Now I should mention that I have nothing against hookers or hooking in principle. Having worked for eighteen years in the money market, I‘ve witnessed with my own eyes, amongst other various body parts, the miraculous sex-for-money-led economic recovery that took place in the 80s/90s. I say ‘to each their own’ and if franchising the comfort of your orifices is your profession of choice…well pucker-up then, Peckerhead…but having my ‘girlfriend’ fuck the indiscriminate orts and leavings of the sexual buffet for money (or for free come to think of it) is a ‘whorse’ of an entirely different colour.

Angry at being taken for a fool and slightly unnerved by the thought of five days worth of memorably unprotected sex, I slunk home to bed. The following morning I passed on the blowjob, scuttled off to the clinic for a complete check-up, which rather miraculously turned up nothing terribly disturbing other than elevated cholesterol, and spent the day preparing a break-up speech for later.

That evening, I gave Cass the speech, which spoke entirely of my inability to commit daily to a relationship and nothing of her ability to commit nightly to misdemeanours; I simply didn’t have the heart to let her know I knew. She took the news stoically, fortified mostly I’m sure by the reassuring words concerning her immediate future and partly by the shot of heroin she took shortly before I got home.

She thanked me for ‘everything’ and asked if she could move her meagre possessions out the following day, while I was at work. I agreed, passed on the offer of break-up sex and went to bed. When I got up, she wasn’t yet home from the previous night’s clubbing, however upon my return from work that evening, I saw that she’d made good on her promise; all her things were gone.

As I looked around the house, I felt a tinge of sadness, a sudden emptiness, though not because I was sure I’d never see Cass again, but rather because the cunt had taken most of my possessions with her when she went. In fact, she must have hired a fucking truck to fit it all in; TVs, stereos, tables, chairs, clothing, shoes, sports equipment, cutlery, crockery, paintings. All of it…everything that wasn’t bolted down; she must have spent the entire day there, with help, removing the contents of my apartment.

The ensuing insurance claim strangely failed to mention I’d left a heroin-addicted prostitute unattended in my place for a day...

(This story was first published a while back on Lombay's splendid site. I'm in the process of salvaging certain articles for posterity and dumping them on TWG. Aplologies to anyone from the old days who might have suffered through it before...)

come again...

Have you ever wondered why the 75% of chicks that apparently achieve orgasm from plain, simple fucking ever even have them ??
From a biological perspective, what is the point of the female orgasm ??
Obviously my people need a bio-mechanism for getting the good stuff out of the gene-vault, up the insemination-device and into the egg-chamber. Not to bore you with specifics but there’s a precise set of muscle-spasms required to achieve this result…and as luck would have it, it turns out to be insanely pleasurable for us.
Then again, if sex was painful, how often would your people be able to talk my people into having it ??
Anyway, the male orgasm is absolutely required for the act of reproduction to occur in Nature; the attendant ecstasy is just a fluke.
But why do chicks have orgasms ??
Well, one school of thought is that the neural pathways, which necessarily include the body’s pleasure-receptors, are laid down very early in the embryonic development, irrespective of gender. What my people get, your people get.
Basically, you chicks get a free ride on the Orgasm Express courtesy of the freakish anatomical symmetry which occurs very early on in life.
So, all those jollies you’re getting are pretty much on our tabs, ladies.
How about taking the time to stop and thank my people.
Then again, I suppose you probably think the free set of useless nipples my people get when you’re given yours is a fair exchange of perks…

good dyke, bad dyke...

I am a huge fan of lesbians: I have all their movies…
However, as with almost everything…there’s good and there’s bad.
There are good lesbians, like the ones that wash their cars naked then turn the hose on each other before settling down for a scorching session of smoo-smooching…
And there are the bad ones, like Terri and Sharon Arnold, who…besides being a pair of hideous moose-pigs, form part of a new movement whose members claim their inalienable right to ‘have’ children irrespective of sexual inclination, age, fertility or financial capacity.

This is not a post about the morality of same-sex unions; I don't give a rat's-ass what you do in the privacy of your own padded dungeons. It's about selfish, short-sighted, stupid minorities...and the idiot firemen who inseminate them...