Monday, November 24, 2008

Life, death and the very white butt cheeks of very young male strippers...

Oh for farks sake, for the price of an admission ticket he could have bought some spray tan at least was the exasperated comment of my best friend, B.

His alabaster coloured, probably hairy ass was encased by a show-stoppingly bright blue g-string, the cheeks tiny in appearance and in comparison to the triangular shaped back of a male that works out regularly pumping iron.

If he comes near me, I fucking swear I'm jumping that table I told B.

Oh, look at him, he's a baby, he's young enough to be my nephew she noted.

My eyes rolled.

Hellllooooooo, he's young enough to be your son darls, I replied, somewhat startling myself the moment I made the admission.

In his very early twenties, he had a slightly terrified, deer in the headlights look as he worked his way around the still brightly lit room filled with women of all sorts, shapes and sizes.

One rather large woman next to me bounced excitedly.

The closer he got the more her bits jiggled.

Did I say there were women there?

There were.

But then there were the...

oh dear....


that had somehow found their way into the room of mostly whatthefuckarewedoinghereanyw ay women.

One such couple were well into their fifties, possibly sixties.

Nan and Pop looked over my way.

Pop smiled.


What on earth could they be here for?

What could have possessed him to make the journey to this amateurish, pitiful and oh so cheesy show?

Secrets to be learnt and later unleashed in their bed with the Spotlight doona on special below the wooden framed picture of their five grandchildren?

Was it due to distrust and insecurity issues?

After all, who knows what a woman is capable of, unrestrained and in the company of a man who could be her grandson, parading his bum and body, gyrating (very badly) to the music of the Village people...

Perhaps she was like me, deciding at the last minute to go, free ticket on offer but wondering whether she would be an object of derision, lampooned that she was a dirty, horny old bag who had absolutely no business in being there.

And I wouldn't have gone but for B.

She wasn't having any of it though.

You see, B had made a pact with life.

A few years ago and unbeknownst to me she had been diagnosed with skin cancer and about to have the operation to cut the tumour out of her leg right down to the bone when she texted me how she didn't want her very best friend to find out, perhaps after something had gone wrong or it was too late.

She told me how I had been and always would be her best friend.

Afterwards, with a new lease on life, there was nothing too outlandish, ridiculous, outrageous or unachievable.

There were no negatives, only positives.

Life was what you made it.

Tired of your job? Then quit.

Want a holiday to a far away place you've always fantasised about but never quite had the balls to go through with? Well, stop your fart-assing around softcock, pack your fucking suitcase and stamp that passport.

Don't bitch about what's wrong with your life, change it.

It was the new, improved, and so shiny you had to get the ridiculously big sunglasses to protect your eyes from it way of thinking.


Unable to argue with her, there I was.

This dirty, horny old bag at a (free) male stripshow.

Lucky me.

Especially after I told her I was sure this particular bloke (a baby, really) was performing his second ever show and then the compere yelled 'Give a big round of applause to Tim, he's been very nervous as this is only his second show'...

When it finished, all too soon I'm sure, and the doors opened to all we hit the floor.

For a few hours there was no work or family life pressure, financial problems, depression, fear or loathing.

It had been years since B and I had gone out on the town together, literally years and it was just like we'd done it last Friday night, out on the piss and taking the piss out of everyone.

She would dance behind all those unfortunate enough to be near us, mocking their clothes or dancing and bumping into them only to flash them a brilliant, toothy and apologetic smile when they spun around.

One man with too many gold chains flashing on a too hairy chest with far too much confidence bore the brunt.

You're fucking crazy he eventually told her.

She was tormenting me, such was the pain of my stomach muscles from the laughter and I fell to the floor snorting, gasping and unable to breathe.

I didn't know if it was the alcohol or her.

Maybe it was both.

We are sooooooo getting our heads smacked in I told her wiping the tears of mirth from my eyes.

I had to sit down after that.

Honestly, there's only so much excitement a dirty, horny and very, very drunk old bag can take.

A few days later when we spoke on the phone she asked what the hell had I been talking about, getting our heads smacked in and I protested that I'd been worried we'd gone overboard a bit.

Oh who gives a fuck she replied dismissively.

I love that girl....

Thursday, September 11, 2008

I have absolutely NO idea how your cat got lung cancer...really....

Next door neighbour's cat is a rather strange feline indeed.

Though I've almost (unintentionally) crushed it's little furry head as it's darted between my legs, thrown it out of my washing basked whilst it lay on top of my wet clothes and unceremoniously hauled it's stripey ass out my house as it's grasped the minute, fleeting opportunity with both paws to fly through the open back door it still really..


likes me.

At least once a day it will meow folornly at the back door whilst my son gets down on his hands and knees, looking at it through the safety of the glass sliding door and loudly pronouncing that "the little cat is looking gorgeous" with a somewhat terrified look on his face.

The only real problem I have with this moggie besides the fact it tends to jump over the fence and scare the fucking shit out of me as I dump the rubbish into the wheelie bin late as night is that I think it's a closet smoker.

Besides my venturing outside to hang out the washing and drive the kids here, there and bloody everywhere and thus fullfil my duties as unpaid house slave and free, cranky taxi driver I will occasionally step outside to light up.

As I sprawl about on the seat sucking on tobacco and 69 different chemical thinking about,, the little cat that's looking gorgous squeezes past me, sits in my lap, rubs against my hand like a masseur who doesn't know when to stop and purrs contentedly like the cat that did indeed get the cream (and probably the double cream at that) whilst my second hand ciggarette smoke with it's 4000 chemicals envelopes it like a thick cloud.

Though I tell it it's a vewwy, vewwy naughty puddy tatt and smoking is vewwy, vewwy bad it just looks at me with the highly amused expression one would expect when an adult talks like Elmer Fudd.

I can only conclude from this that it's either a cat which is rather partial to ciggie smoke or in a past life was a slightly neurotic, mostly frazzled woman with problems that were mainly created by her good self who needs a fag every now and then to escape the house, work and sometimes even her own mind.

I'm going with the later....

I have an aversion...

to filling out forms.

An affliction so deep-rooted, withering and potent in it's force that only many long hours spent with my hot and sweaty back pressed against the cold, uncaring leather of a psychiatrist's couch with a tear-streaked face and a very shiny, very red nose will alleviate the condition.


Take my hand.

Step with me this way.

Let me take you back to where it all began...

A portion of blame may be attributed to my father and his lack of English speaking/writing skills. Long days and nights spent on the tobacco fields trying to eke out a living for us all meant he was unable to learn much of the Aussie language except for the word "bloody" and a few other choice Italian swear words.

Friends popping in to visit me who had the front door opened by my father had his cringe-inducing shout of "Anica, WHERE YOU ARE?????" in their earholes.

Forms from his work were all handballed to the child who in reality had knowledge only slightly more than her parents in what she was reading and able to write.

My mother, who was unable to write in English but able to read my private diary detailing marijuana use, also enlisted me to write notes such as "I was sick and unable to work" to her employer and fill out any boring paperwork.

As I moved out of home I thought my phobia could be carried, coffin-like, with large, beautiful flowers and silent weeping to be put to rest.

But no.

My husbands brother and his family upon arriving in Australia from Bosnia some years ago now had form after form to fill out. The paper used was enough to fill a timber plantation.

Several times over.

Does Bosnia have less red tape and paperwork than Australia?

If so I'm moving there.

So you see I just can't escape my loathing, even in everyday life.

Want a red-hot, super urgent, mustbefilledoutyesterday credit application?

Sure, I'll put it in my manila folder.

You know the one...

Opened occasionally to peek at in disgust, pull Jim Carrey faces at and then put away to the furtherest corner of my desk.

I usually get to those tasks anywhere from now until twelve months later.

You right with that?

Most excellent...

Wanna give me a form which must be filled out, like, immediately, otherwise it will cost me bucketloads in fines?

Great, I'll hand you the money right now. Cash ok?

And did you want to kill my libido?

Fine. Just present me with a form which must be filled out in block letters and a black pen. Not even a handful of little blue pills will save that one.

So last night, having a quiet ciggie outside on the back verandah, unable to sleep I began to think about a form I had yet to fill out for my mother-in-law.

And farted...