Turn and Face the Flag Son

My friend went to Indonesia and saw the biggest flower in the world. 

"What, Elton John?" I said.

Then I repeated it to everyone I met for the next week. Maximum mileage. Loathed worldwide. 

My girlfriend is a dreamer. In bed asleep she talks. In bed asleep she groans. In bed asleep she clicks her mouth and barrel rolls. The other night I walked into the room and she said "Are you the admitting consultant on the ward?"

"It's me" I said.

"Are you going to admit these patients?" She asked.

"I don't admit anyone. My job is being cool"

"Well I'm going to have to do it then". And she huffed.

Pseudo Effluent

I've been taking cold and flu tablets for the past three days and I think my brain is getting tweaked. Is that possible? I'm not sure - maybe it's just having a cold. I'm sweating and cold and my teeth ache like they're going to fall out. I keep hearing my phone ring but when I check it there's nothing.

And Mr Whippy keeps driving around the block. Seriously for three hours yesterday he did laps of my neighbourhood. All I could hear was green sleeves. I put my head under a pillow and ground my teeth real good like a cowboy grinds jerky between his back molars. All I could hear was green sleeves. I'm guessing Mr Whippy has an unhappy home-life and some afternoons he just trundles out to another random suburb and drives around aimlessly until he knows his wife has slept off her mean bender. He doesn't care how much reconstituted dairy and cooking chocolate he shifts. He finds solace in the whir of the refrigerated unit and the solidness of his repetitive jingle. He can't face Marilyn today, can't look into her shandy clouded eyes and listen to her yell "Frank! Where the fuck are my pants Frank? You haven't been wearing them down the bowling alley again haven't you? Oh I bet you have! Put on my makeup as well didn't you - didn't you Franky?!! I bets you spent all me money on fish and chips for your friend Ron! I can sees yas now. Eating dim sums and cornjacks and squid rings and spooning all over the bitumen of a beachside car park -two chubby, oily, salty, vinegar boys! You're a sickness! Give me back my pants you toad! And they better have the crotch still in tact! You better not have cut the crotch out again you worm! Oh Franky you really are an A grade fuck up. You're a baked custard and I ain't hungry! Now come here and suck on my toes and I might just think about letting you sleep in the shed tonight you ballbag!"

That Mr Whippy has a problem and I refuse to exit the house when I hear his depresso jingle crawl down my street. He's a baked custard and I don't feel like egg based deserts.

Also, I'm working one day a week in a large government department. The toilets in this place are worse than that of a train station in New Delhi (fascist?) or say Rockingham (topical). There are three cubicles in the toilet on my level. Each one can be compared to that story about bears and porridge if you substitute bears and porridge for "absolutely covered in human excrement" and the bit about one being too hot and the other being too cold with "every single toilet". Does that make sense? Is that an incorrect analogy? Lets just say 'gut chutney'. It makes me doubt the human race even more than I already do. They're out to get us, you and me. Stay up.

Schweppe of Evan

Sleeping in the afternoon. That's what I've been doing. I'm getting good at it as well. Might go pro. I've got sleepy dreams and I'm going to chase them. I hit the sack around 1.30-2ish in the afternoon and sleep right through to like 2.30. That's about 45min of battery charging. Coupled with my extreme exercise routine which involves belly flopping from coffee table to couch, I'm going to be virtually unfuckwithable at around 3.30. The harsh day will have worn out most of my competitors and I'll be pumped like a baby that got raised on labrador milk. I'll be writing prank emails to muesli bar companies with the ferocity of a man that sleeps with lions for pleasure (not to win bets) and will even be able to navigate a wonky wheeled trolley through the labyrinth of nylon covered custard legs at Woolworths while stocking up on lifestyle products such as tinned tomatoes and moth traps. I'm siesta-ing my way to the top.

I had this boss who was always losing his phone.
"I've lost my phone" he would say.
I didn't say anything because I was to busy drawing pictures of sharks and thinking of band names such as 'warm bath' and 'electric piss eels'.
It was a big phone. Like one from as far back as say 2002. He was always leaving it around the place like some kind of calling card. Like I made an 'electric piss eels' sticker from the label writer and applied it to the inside of my drawer as a way of saying 'don't give up on your dream of starting a two man fuzzed out scuzz buzz band'.

One time I went to the toilet to do some thinking. In that I didn't need to go to the toilet, I just wanted to leave the office and no one could object to a toilet visit. For some reason I went to the toilets instead of going out to the park across the road. Perhaps I felt that I could make good of my lying by physically attending the site of where I said I would be. Who knows? Who cares? Not you or I friend.

When I reached my destination I saw my bosses phone sitting like a dumb person on top of the toilet roll dispenser. What was I to do?

It was obvious it had been removed from my boss's pocket so he could have a crap. A horrible thought. His red face sweating as demons of his unhealthy lifestyle left his body.

Maybe he made a call while taking a dump. A conversation that surely would have been punctuated by a shortness of breath and the sound of bricks being nudged into a wishing-well. The vilest of vile.

But what was I to do. The lost phone was there. It was there. I had read that complimentary mints in hotels and restaurants are a covered in fecal material. When you put them in your mouth you basically get a popping of burnt-umber schweppe of essence. This is true because a cousin older than me told me when I was seven and I have lived to this rule ever since. I imagined this phone may be haunted by brown ghosts. More so than usual.

So I picked it up like the wimp I am and returned to the office and said "I have found the phone" and then I went back to the toilets and furiously washed my hands like an OCD man who has touched a bird.

Super Emo Holiday Part Colt 22.

Shopping centres can be the worst place on earth. At this time of year they're usually full of kids in new era caps and thongs trying to dry hump. I'm beginning to hate kids. Teenagers especially. Actually, kids in groups. Kids as individuals are actually people. Catch the train and you'll have to listen to some little dietary deficient bastard tell their b.f.f. how they saw a guy a the juice shop and he was asking how Alison was and i was like she's ok and he was like how was you're holiday and i was like i've just been getting smashed and like going to parties and he was like do you know where there are any parties and i told him that we were having one so now we've got to have one at like your place because Steven is a total dick and wouldn't let me go out on thursday night and i was like you're not my dad you can't tell me what to do and mum was getting pissed off at me so i just like spent the whole night on msn and ignored them and they were like... ENDS


I kicked the footy in the park yesterday. I realised that i was wearing shorts but no undies. I don't do this often. Only when I have job interviews. It helps me relax. I also like to drink some water from my dog's bowl to get some wolf bravery and punch a wall until my knuckles look like Colin Barnett's gums. I walk into that interview and tell those potential enemies that I've just damaged the letterbox of their enemy. It shows that I'm already loyal and that i'm prepared to take direct action like a fat 40 year old pensioner takes direct action at Miss Mauds. 'Escuze me! Escuze me! You seem to have run out of black forrest. I really love that and I came here all the way from Morley especially for a piece. I paid for all you can ate and this isn't all I can ate. You're going to make some more? There will be some more? Ok, ok, it's just that i love it. It's a special day for me. Going to have a haircut and buy a gold necklace. I will wait for the cakes. Lucky they're coming, lucky is right, I know a councilor in Morley and he would like to know about this situation if there wasn't any of the cakes but it's all ok because they're coming. Five minutes? Five minutes?'.

Direct mofk'n action. If it's a government department there isn't really a direct competitor so I usually tell them I kicked a robber in the nuts and that he bit my hand. And i demonstrate by swing a kick into the air and then biting my hand where the wound is "Arghhhhhh!" Then I tell them I took him to Mcdonalds and bought him lunch (after I subdued him with a headlock - cue grabbing an interviewer in a headlock and showing them how you can incapacitate an attacker by hooking a finger in each nostril) and that how all robbers just need a hand "You should have seen the little bugger eat! Two quarter pounders and a sundae - I think he still robbed me! Hahahahhahaha!!"

Jobs that's how you get them.

Disecting a Summer Holiday: Volume One, Edition One. (Limited run 2xCopies)

Whoa.


My holiday is fast running out like yak fat in a Mongolian lamp. I haven't accomplished half of what I wanted to. There are more unmarked boxes on my checklist than there are welts on my pale thighs (32).

I have, however, got sunburnt. I'll check that box. Excellent. Now I'm worried I'm going to develop the..... well you know, I'm not going to say it. It scares the crap outta me. It's kind of funny- there's this whole new push "Australian kids don't actually get enough sun. They lack vitamin D. The television told me so. We should also be able to hit them". I reckon (and I'm not technically a scientist- although my mum has a science degree* and I sometimes listen to what she says*) that you probably get enough sunshine running out the back and hiding while someone knocks on your front door. I don't think we need more sun.


Shouldn't have drank so many beers before typing. I have no idea where I'm going with this.

Sunburn is irresponsible and comparable to smoking?

Yeah, that'll do.

*I think my mum has a science degree. It's degree of some sort.
* My mum told me to wear sunscreen and to apologise when I broke things.

Hospital drugs, the terrible two and the vaseline conjunctivitis

I've just got out of Hospital. I had my tonsils removed. I said to my boss 'I hope they take out my tonsils'. He said 'They'll pull out your tonsils and your balls will come out with them- they're connected.'

The Hospital I went to was small and old. I don't have private health insurance no more. In the waiting room, I leant on a table. The table had dried blood on it.

My operation went pretty well. I remember lying on the operating table waiting for the anethetist to shoot me high. like always he said ' a sharp scratch' and you feel a little pinch. But this time it was a little different, about five seconds after my shot of sleepmaker I felt the strongest pain in my left arm. It felt like my veins had been hit with electrified piss. It burnt bad, I said 'my arms really hurting' he said 'that's quite normal' and the dugite venom hit my heart and the oxygen took my mind.

I woke up in a parking lot of hospital beds with Vaseline all over my eyes.

It was in hospital, four days ago, that I became a drug addict. My throat hurt like I had a herring bone bridge where my tonsils used to be. The nurse or someone gave me a shot in my thigh. I was still feeling the anesthetic and it didn't really seem to make much difference. But hours later that night after having lame duck- no street cred-panadeine, I was hanging out for some good shit.

The bed next to me was taken by a fat troll from Rivervale. I listened as he got prepped for surge ( I have a phd). When asked if he had any problems he said ' yeah, I stop breathing.' He also said he had sleep apnea (spellink?). The nurse said that he was actually too overweight with the operation and was surprised that the doctor hadn't suggested he shed a few kilos of butter before he carved him up.

Anyway, this guy grunted, farted, sighed, mumbled, mouth farted, snored, and generally pissed me off all night. I kind of hoped he did stop breathing during his operation. (only for a short time, only for a short time.) He lied there all night in these little green undies with his bush escaping from all sides. I might seek compensation.

Anyway (x2) , i got my first real hit of peth. Man, as soon as the Samoan nurse shot that morpheate (spellink?) into my glutes I was ok. I sunk right down into that bed and let waves of darkness take my head. I was Hunter S., I was Hendrix and Cobain.

In the morning I wanted another but apparently the doctor only allocated me two hits. The fat man next to me got four, and he only had surgery on his foot, he had local anesthetic and he got four!

If I had private health insurance I could of got some to take home(probably not), Jim McGinty hates the working man. Shame Carps, shame.

I'm going to break into a hospital.

I'm Back, Rabies

I've just got back from Melbourne. For work. Here is a story.
We were sitting at a conference dinner and the night's 'entertainment' was announced. "SWe have a special treat for you tonight, Susan (Elaine/Judy/Jill/Offal) will be running a musical session. It's a little different to what you might be expecting- I'll give you a clue; she won't be singing."

"She's going to strip!" yelled my boss.

No one laughed.

"The last time I was in StKilda I was in this bar and there was this woman that I was drinking with and she got up on the bar and took off all her clothes and then she wanted me to pay her and I said I didn't tell her to do it," My Boss, Melbourne 2006
(The entertainment was a musical quiz featuring music that appealed to the crowd. They'd heard the tunes as they sat in car parks, on televsion ads or on the shitty 'hits for the lowest com denom' FM radio played at their doctor while they waited to to ask questions about constipation.)

Ethnography

Do you ever wonder if the women behind the cosmetic counters at Myer cry into their Lean Cuisine at night? That section is harsh- the lights are turned up so high that you start feeling dehydrated after 30 seconds. Light bounces off all the surfaces and everything doubles as a mirror. The employees have bee-hive hair, turtlenecks and are called Jan. Jan’s wear too much makeup and perfume. Jan’s get married to barrel chested Barry’s who eat too much meat and womanise. If Jan didn’t work at Myer she would be nicer. Her desperate turkey wrinkles and white pumps would fade. Ethnography.

Karren spends too much time with her mother-in-law. They shop together every weekend. Karren collects watches “if they are on special I gotta get them. My boyfriend says ‘don’t you bring back another stuffin watch”. Karren laughs at dick jokes. She probably needs to eat more raw vegies and get some roughage. I’m not sure why she shaves off her eyebrows and draws them back on with caramel coloured pencils. They’re either on or off lady. Ethnography.

Ken is a social climber. “It’s funny you should mention Robert” even if the mention was brief “He and I both love fishin’. We’re getting to know each other real well.” Ken bluffs his way, feels he has nack for that kinda thing. His nose looks like it has been chewed by a rat. He talks too much about himself. He talks too much about himself. Ethnography.

wick-wick-wicka-work

The first thought that goes through my head when I begin a new job is "It's going to feel really good when I quit this job." Every single job I've ever had. What will I say when I leave? Should I wear short shorts and a gortex jacket? I bet you Nas doesn't have to sit at a desk and talk to boring people. I bet you Nas says " Awwww hell" and goes out and buys ten pairs of Basketball shoes. I bet you Nas eats fried chicken whenever he feels like it and washes it down with a chocolate protein shake. I bet Nas has super tough dogs and a black car.
"To see me on the street without a pound of reefer would be like Malcom X catching the jungle fever" Ain't gonna happen is it Nas?
"Damn straight fool."

Hip Hop has been ruling my life lately.

Christmas in March

I met up with an old uni associate today. Unlike me, he decided to try his luck at honours. Which basically means avoiding looking for a job for at least another year. He told me his friend was getting married. Why would a twenty one year old get married?

The kid’s a Christian. Has to become an honest man. Turns out he’s been opening his presents before Christmas day. (ooh err)

Another local paper has run with shopping trolley theft. I feel pretty chuffed that I was able to ride the crest of this fast breaking story before my competitor the Fremantle Herald. The same paper that granted me an interview for a cadetship but cut the love before I was able to get a leg over ( the rungs of the ladder). Ha! I’ll bet they’re sorry now. I have a news barometer. Shopping trolleys= biggest bloody story of the year! And I managed to make comment before the Herald (or the too late to compete with eat.sleep paper) had even collected the views of pensioners and derelicts. Apparently trolley thieves will be facing fines. Joe Bloggs said he didn’t care because “he didn’t steal trolleys”. Jeez, nice work.

I would have suggested a little undercover reporting. You know a little field work. I would assume one of the two appearances of trolley thieves. A) Smacky. You know faded tracksuit pants, two litres of milk, thongs, Wrestling T shirt, thin straight hair. Or B) Forgetful pensioner. Two litres of long-life milk, dog food, trackies, cardi.

Then I’d go and talk to the smackies and forgetful pensioners.
Me: “Hey, you know of any hot trolleys. I’m talking the type that drive straight and would make an excellent mode of transport for my heavily pregnant girlfriend.”
Smacky/Pensioner: “I remember when you used to be able to buy a pack of smokes for 30 cents.”
Me: “Yes and we were allowed to use our sprinklers all day long. Now my garden is blasted deaded.”
Smack/Pensioner: “ Hey, your alright. Guys, he’s one of us”

I’d buy their trust with a knob of polony and some Fanta. Then I’d have the story. Simple. Journalism award? Make mine a double.