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… that at the Northcote Plaza jeweller:
Who would have thought this was possible in Catherine Deveny’s home suburb?
Archive for category A funny thing happened on the way to ...
There I was, innocently standing at the station waiting for my train, wearing my op-shop jeans, well worn band shirt and jacket, listening to my iPod and trying very hard to look like I was not trying very hard, playing to that imaginary audience that always exists in your head when you’re as self absorbed as I, when in my peripheral vision I saw a young girl walk along the platform. She was quite attractive (tap, four stars) and so I broke out of the cooler-than-thou character I was trying so hard to convey and subtly (I thought) checked her out. Upon closer inspection, it turned out that she was there with a boy who (one can only assume) was (and I also assume still is) her boyfriend.
He saw me checking her out; she did not.
He instantly started groping the girl like a randy rottweiler having a crack at her leg (she was a little bit more receptive than yesterday’s girl, I will admit.)
The insecurity of people like this makes me laugh. What are they so afraid of? Are they really scared that another guy will be able to pick up their girlfriend at a train station while they’re with her? Do these guys really think they need to metaphorically cock their leg and metaphorically piss all over her?
I hope she metaphorically chops his metaphorical cock off.
So, the other night I was having dinner with Campbell and our mate Goobermetrics. We were at a Vietnamese restaurant and it was very adequate, thanks for asking. Having pushed back our empty plates (beef for Campbell, squid for Goober, and tofu for me) and in the process of draining the last of our beers (VB for Goober and some Vietnamese brand for Campbell and I), we were talking about my recent trip to India. Campbell had asked me about the Giardiasis I copped just as I returned home and I was recounting the amusing (now, only in retrospect) tale of how I had to see two different doctors in two states to get my hands on the drugs to nuke my little parasite visitors.
“I went to a GP in Victoria,” I was saying, “and listed off all of my symptoms that were textbook Giardia. The doctor just rubbed his hands together and told me to let it run its course. But I’d had diarrhea for a week and hadn’t digested any food in as long as I can remember, I told him; I was weak, I told him. But the doctor just told me it had to flush out and he refused to give me the drugs.”
“How long was it going to take to flush out?” asked Campbell.
“Could be six months!” I exclaimed.
“That’s bullshit,” intoned Campbell and Goober dutifully.
“I know,” I continued, “I mean, I should’ve told him I’d take a photo on my iPhone of my turds so he could see the unique Giardia colour …”
“They’re a different colour?” asked Campbell, intrigued.
“Yeah! Well because the Giardia stops your intestine from absorbing any fat they’re like a greasy …” I began, about to describe this unique colour, but I stopped when I noticed Campbell and Goober turning red in the face and holding back laughter, and followed their glances to the next table where an elderly couple had paused in their eating, forks poised in mid-air, due to mental images of Giardiasis-induced diarrhea.
At a job interview …
Q: If we were to offer you the job, where would you like to see yourself in 10 years time?
A: In 10 years time, I’ll be 61 years old, so I’d like to see myself as retired.
Stupid job interview questions.
Have at it.
So, I’ve been busy. Apart from welcoming a new Baby Rogenous into the fold late last year, I’ve been arsecrack deep in manwork — something of a radical departure from the poncy stuff, like blogging, with which I prefer to fill my idle hours.
Anyway, chief among my domestic projects has been the construction of a sandpit to hold three 1000lt water tanks I scored for Christmas. The job, up until the weekend, had involved digging out part of the lawn in my severely sloping backyard and building/propping up a level timber box. This left me with a large hole to fill — too large for me to be able to afford all the expensive packing sand I’d planned to sit the tanks on.
The classifieds in the local paper came to the rescue, with one woman — who we’ll call Jane — advertising a metric shitload of free cleanfill for pick-up not far away. So on Saturday morning, at what I assumed was the reasonable hour of 10am, I grabbed my phone and called hers.
After about 10 rings, an extremely hung-over-sounding man answered:
