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.

La' Grande Chuzzler uh.

The other night I was talking to a young doctor at the Subiaco hotel. She seemed a little scratchy, like a glitchy record, one of those people that could easily make you feel like drinking yourself into a coma and collapsing in a corner to avoid hearing their opinions on

We started talking about the upcoming state election and she went in to overdrive. "I've grown up with Labor politicians at my house" She wanted me to know this. She said it about five times. Then she told me that they actually smoked weed- they were 'potheads'. Didn'tyaknow?

"Eric Ripper has basically been the Premier of Western Australia for the last five years. He's a great guy." And on, and on. When ever I think of Eric Ripper I think of the time he and Geoff gallop went to the Peters Ice Cream factory (I'm not really sure why - some dairy farmers. Anyway, both of them were decked out in those white smocks with little whit hats on holding Drumstick icecreams. Ripper was murdering his. They were probably going to get a few press shots inside the factory with some machinery in the background, you know smiley smile. But Ripper couldn't wait. He was ripping his apart "MMMMMUMMUUU ICECREAM!!!!!" There was milky residue running down his sausage fingers as he pushed the cone further up into his grand moustache chuzzler. There was so much perversity in his eyes - it was almost akin to a sex crime.