The Thirst Crusher. I just cannot comprehend anyone willing letting my housemate stick his penis in their vagina, but that is what is seemingly taking place. The dude's head looks like a fucking shoebox with googly eyes attached, his voice sounds like the permanently amplified version of someone who shops exclusively at RM Williams and he has the personality of a particularly dull Jack Russell. Fuck I hate that guy, and wish cancer upon him.
Also, right now I can hear a group of drunken college kids singing Hey Jude really loudly as they walk down Lygon Street. And I'd give it about half an hour before that fucking weirdo starts with those nightly boooooooooWOOP! noises. I think they come from the commission flats, but I'm really not sure.
In conclusion, I'm getting out of here as soon as I can. I'll probably end up in another dicey random sharehouse situation, cause I don't really know anyone who's looking to move out and rent is fucking ridiculous in this city. Finding a vacant rental property within 20km of the city would probably be next to impossible right now.
Hvedekiks, overtrukket med mælkechokolade. Yesterday I went and did a criminal ID computer sketch thingo. It was weird how they just cut the eyes, nose, chin and hair from a bunch of mugshots, then I had to pick some and they'd put them together using photoshop. Actually turned out rather well though, I thought.
Then today I had to go through a book of mugshots to look for the dude who mugged me. Or, as the detective called it, a "folder of skinnies". After I had gone through it once, I asked if I could have a second look, to which the detective replied "Sure mate, take as long as you want. Take an hour! I just wanna catch the black cunt!" Wahey, racism overload!
In other news, I'm looking to move. I'm hoping for either Richmond or Abbotsford, but anywhere away from the suicide flats I currently live across from would be great.
And I got a new phone, but the same number. I have no-ones numbers in there though, so fill me in honchos.
Sugar is the new oil. In a week I may be living with a dude named Chill. Yes, CHILL. Basically he is this dude:
But you know, more Asian.
Other potential housemates have been a Comm/Law dude with a baby face who goes fishing and a skeezy looking troll dude with a Slazenger shirt and a neck beard. Also, some guy named Andrew (HEY? HEY???) who called just before. He seems nice on the phone.
Oh yeah, my former housemate left without telling us, without paying this month's rent and after racking up a huge phone bill. ACES. And she was the good one.
So I was watching So I Married An Axe Murderer (the less said about this movie the better. Anthony LaPaglia with a centre part? Oh dear!) when Two Princes by SPIN DOCTORS came on. Now, it's a common-held view that this song, and this band for that matter, is a fucking joke. Really woeful. College rock. Cheesy lyrics. Lame guitar solo. Just not good in any way. But I Youtubed it anyway, and mid way through watching the clip, I found myself thinking...
MAYBE I LIKE SPIN DOCTORS???
What the fuck is going on? Is it just nostalgia of watching Video Hits in 1992 and seeing this video, wedged between Boyz II Men and Crash Test Dummies? Or deep down, do I legitimately like SPIN DOCTORS? Do I have a serious medical condition? Or is it just because the singer:
In other news, I'll be back in Perth for a few days in late November. Spooky!
Well obviously you do, otherwise you'd have fucked off to play internet Scrabble (scrabulous.com) by now.
So on Monday I called up the removalists to ask when I'd be getting my shit, and they said they had no idea, but gave me the number of the Victorian company who was handling the home leg of the epic two-week journey from Perth to Melbourne. So I called them, and the lady told me to expect it sometime on Tuesday or Wednesday, and that she wasn't sure of specifics. About an hour later I received a text message telling me that the truck should be here between 10am and 12pm on Tuesday, and that I'd get a call from the driver half an hour beforehand. Excellent, I thought.
12 o'clock came and went, and no call. By 2pm I still hadn't heard from them, and decided fuck this, I'm bored as shit, it's time to wander two blocks westwards and attend a macroeconomics lecture with Jessie. There is no phone reception in the lecture theatre, but a) What's the likelihood they'd actually call in that hour timespan I was out of reach? and b) What's the worst that could happen? They'd happen to call then, not be able to get through, leave a message and I could arrange delivery at a later time. The next day, as a worst case scenario. I mean, they'd already gone well past the allocated timeframe, so surely they'd be apologetic and try to work with me, right?
Wrong. So, so wrong. Upon leaving the lecture at 3:15 I learned that I had missed 4 calls between 2:55 and 2:58. I checked my messagebank, and found four messages of static, or background talking, and nothing else. Then a few seconds later I got a text message telling me that they were unable to deliver my belongings and that I should call them immediately. Which I did.
Yeah, the gross old bogan lady on the other end informed me that because I was unreachable for that 3 minute period they considered the delivery a write-off, and had to put my stuff into storage. To get it out would cost me $180, and the earliest I could hope to receive it was Thursday. The fact that it was three hours after the latest specified time didn't matter. Neither did the fact that only 20 minutes had passed since their first attempt to call me. Needless to say, I was rather ropeable. Just ask Jessie. I'm sure the tram ride to Richmond which immediately followed this exchange was rather unpleasant for all involved.
I returned home around 5:30ish, feeling really shitty about everything. Tired of sleeping on a single mattress on the floor. Annoyed at the fact that I still had no CD player, no TV, no computer. Pissed off that I was being ripped off $180 by some shonky bogans from the western suburbs. Convinced that the Elder Gods were conspiring against me, and that maybe this whole transcontinental moving thing wasn't really going to pan out. And then I found this note on the dining table:
We finally got a TV, but it doesn't work (I'm buying one of those cable things tomorrow). Sorry for changing the place, it worked best with the TV. If you don't like it, feel free to move it back. Hope it's ok.
See you soon, Love Shay.
PS Phil the removalists came and dumped all your stuff in your room.
What the shit? I freaked the fuck out for a few seconds, before turning around and seeing my bedroom door completely blocked up with boxes and my mattress. What the fuck happened here? You know what, I don't fucking care. I have my shit, my room feels like an actual bedroom, I can sleep on an actual bed and access the internet in my own wardrobe (yeah, it's weird) instead of wandering down to an internet cafe and I never have to deal with those removals fucks ever again. Life is a pretty sweet fruit.
So that's my lot! Apart from that I've been reading a whole bunch of Richard Dawkins (then telling Jessie all about it. This may sound like really dull conversation, but I'm only competing with her seemingly neverending supply of Hamish and Andy anecdotes, so clearly I'm in front), writing the words LLAMA, INCA, EPEE, ERIN, LAOS and SAC repeatedly in small boxes and coming to terms with the fact that my local Safeway closes at midnight everynight. IMAGINE THAT, PERTH FOLK - SUPERMARKETS BEING OPEN LATE EVERY SINGLE NIGHT OF THE YEAR! So if I'm craving a family sized custard tart and a roast chicken at 9pm, I can walk a mere 200 or so metres in a southerly direction and obtain these things! What's next, shops being allowed to open on Sundays? Oh wait, that happens here too. And not a single family has been torn apart! And junior sports are still thriving, as far as I can tell! So this means the lobby behind the NO AND NO campaign before the last set of referendums was talking absolute bollocks? NO WAI!
Become a member for cheaper rates! Two permanently locked doors + two flights of stairs proves to be quite a hassle when you're in the midst of a mad diarrhoea dash from the tramstop. Keep that in mind.
My stuff still hasn't arrived, but I do have some furniture! Well, a lamp, a chair, a half-finished set of drawers and a desk-in-a-box. Who knew the lack of a hammer/flathead screwdriver would be such an obstacle to Ikea furniture-building?
My house doesn't feel like an actual house, more like a really crappy hotel which is completely lacking in any facilities. I've been here 8 days, and I've seen my housemates a total of 3 times each. I may as well be living by myself, which would be okay, but I don't have any of the benefits of actually living alone. Like perma-nudity. Cause who knows when they might actually rock up? I HAVE NO WARNING SYSTEM. And I still don't know if they're THOSE housemates. You know, the type who insist on seperate bottles of milk/tubs of butter/utensils. So I'm still real apprehensive about actually using my kitchen. Or any part of my house that isn't my bedroom, really. The laundry, for example. Speaking of which, it's inconveniently located as an offshoot of the bathroom. So if someone's showering/pinching a grumpy, I can't wash my pants. Or vice-versa. If someone has stuff in the dryer, is it okay to start showering? Fuck, this is perplexing.
The radio is playing Dangerzone by Kenny Loggins. Any doubts I had about my move have now been washed away.
THINGS I MUST DO TOMORROW:
- Go to hardware store, buy tools. - Ring removal company, inquire about whereabouts of my belongings. - Sniff milk which expire two days ago, use on cereal if non-offensive. - I dunno, wander down Lygon St and buy some souvlaki or someshit. - Read my book in "bed", be really cold and sick, cough a lot, speak to no-one for a good 12 hours or so.
- I moved! I still have no stuff, and I'm sleeping in a sleeping bag on a single mattress on the floor, but who cares? I have a lovely view of the BIGGEST FUCKING SUICIDE FLATS EVER across the street from me, and trams going past my window every five minutes or so. Oh yeah, it's also real fucking cold at night. Like, I can feel my blood solidifying in my veins cold. Fuck that shit.
- Yeah, apart from that, I've just been napping with Jessie, wandering around aimlessly, catching trams aimlessly, hanging with Pete (his dad let us backstage at the museum! What a dude! I think Jessie's dad could take him though, he seems a bit short. But then again, Bruce Lee totally took Kareem Abdul Jabbar out in whatever movie that was though.) and eating Sultana bran in the dark cause the light switch is all the way over the other side of the room. Oh yeah, our house has no TVs either. What the fuck, housemates? How am I supposed to keep up to date on the EXCITING NEW WORLD OF NEIGHBOURS?
- Oh, I bought these:
Fuck yeah. They've got little samurai pictures inside them and everything!
The following is a list of things I need to buy, and probably should have purchased before the aforementioned shoes:
- Drawers - Desk - Chair - Lamp
I already got myself a washing basket from Safeway (It's still fucking Woolies to me), so don't fret, my dirty clothes are safely stored in a plastic cylinder.
And my housemates are nice enough, judging from the minute amount of time I've spent in their company. Rich/Richie/Richard is a ranga from Geelong who loves Collingwood and studies social engineering or some crap. Shay is a girl... yeah, I know absolutely nothing about her, apart from the fact that her parents are Sri Lankan and that she plays Tegan and Sara real loud so it filters upstairs into my room. And Kathryn is Rich's girlfriend who unofficially lives there. I know little about her either. But none of them seem to be nazis or members of Resistance Australia or anything. Or vegans. Gross.
PS If you're looking for a chicken, cheese and tomato meal washed down with a mid-sized beer, come to my neighbourhood. Within 500m of my house I know of 3 $11 PARMA AND POT! combo vendors and one $12 one. The last one either has the best fucking chicken parmagiana in the world, or gets no business at all. I bet they use only the finest grade tinned tomato paste on their schnitzels. La Gina or whatever.
El Nino to warm up Anfield As of the 21st, I'll no longer be a resident of Western Australia. Fuck yes. I'll really miss the daily racist, bigoted, xenophobic and generally arse-backwards letters from the "Your Opinions!" section of the West Australian though. And how will I keep on Ben Cousins' daily goings on?
Speaking of Ben Cousins, he came into my work today. Jerk didn't leave a tip. Manky old shot which has been sitting around for about ten minutes for you then, Ballbagosaurus.
I have to hand in my resignation notice in the next couple of days. I can see that being really fucking awkward. Everyone knows I'm leaving and everything, but to obtain my sweet sweet annual leave payouts I have to submit it in writing. Also hand back my uniform. Fuck. I was really hoping to rock my illfitting beret and filthy apron combo and nowt else when I meet my new housemates for the first time. Thwarted again!
In other work-related news, some upstanding citizen decided to leave the biggest, chunkiest puddle of vomit on our back steps last night. It looked like spaghetti carbonara! I had to take a running leap to avoid getting it all up in my business. My business socks, that is. 3 pairs for $10.99 from Target.
Hey, you know what is much more delicious than rogue pools of Saturday night Northbridge spew? Baked banana! With caramel sauce and icecream! Fucking Ready Steady Cook really came through with the goods with this one. In fact, I am in the process of baking a banana right now!
Note: "Baking a banana" is in no way sexual innuendo. I actually chucked a banana in the oven.
For those of you who are not in the know, I'll give you a quick rundown of what this map means: See Victoria St down the bottom? Everything below that is the CBD. See the green-white-green sandwich at the corner of Victoria/Rathdowne? That's Carlton Gardens/the museum/IMAX. That giant squid and I are going to become very close acquaintances, perhaps even lovers. See that arch-window looking motherfucker just to the west of my target? That's Melbourne Uni, which means many hours of doing crosswords in Gender Studies lectures lay ahead for me.
Now I just have to organise my shit to be moved, and book a flight and I'm gone!
To start off with, I think you might need a rundown of my usual day off routine, as a reference point:
- Stumble out of my room anywhere between 11:00 and 12:30, plonk down on the grey couch directly outside my door, stare at the carpet for a while as Matt and/or Pete play Mortal Kombat: Shaolin Monks or watch a DVD with the audio commentary on or sommat. - Go get some Sultana Bran, back to the couch. Maybe watch some Dr. Phil or Oprah. - Go for shower, fall asleep in shower, go back to my room, fall asleep in room. - Maybe walk to McDonald's? Who knows? - Probably diddle around on the innanet for a bit, I don't know - Yeah, I really don't know what I do with my time, hey.
- Okay, it started off slowly. After a whole bunch of snoozin' and a series of short, half-awake phone conversations with Jessie, I finally emerged around 12:30. - Dicked around for a bit, but inspired by my "retrieving the coffee-machine screw from the drain!" heroics from last night at work, I decided to once and for all fix our blocked bathroom sink! - Pulled the U-bend off, a bit gunky but nothing too bad. The real fun ws in the other bit of pipe, the one which is shaped like a mind-blowing 3D MC Escher letter S. You know the one. It contained a huge wad of black, horrid-smelling crap. At first it just appeared to be hair and soap scum, but upon getting it out of its polypipe lair (by using the highly technical manoeuvre of whacking it against the brickwork outside) I discovered that the core of Satan's Wad™ was in fact a highly complex Spirograph-looking mess consisting of about 12 rusty, gunk-covered bobby pins. Okay, one bobby pin would be understandable. I mean, the odds of such a thing being accidentally dropped down the drain aren't exactly stacked up. Two? Yeah, yeah whater. But twelve? That's a fucking concentrated terrorist campaign waged against the plumbing of 35A! Who would do such a thing? Al Qaeda? ETA? The UVF? THE KLF??? No, no, it was most likely Rachael. What's up Rachael?
OKAY I MUST INTERUPT MY THRILLING RUNDOWN OF MY DAY'S EVENTS TO TELL YOU, MR. POSSUM OR WHATEVER YOU ARE, TO GET THE FUCK OUT OF OUR CEILING. OR AT LEAST MOVE YOUR BASE CAMP AWAY FROM MY ROOM.
- So yeah, after successfully un-clogging the drain, I was left with teh task of putting it all back together. Uhh... But after some sweet sweet trail and error, I managed to fit the mystery black O-ring back in its rightful place, and everything seems to be hunky-dory. Until it bursts in the middle of the night (I have a contingency plan for that though: A Tupperware container under the sink! Genius!) - I don't know if any of you have reached offical Manly Man's Man sink-fixer status, but if you had you'd know that sink-fixing is stinky business. And no amount of hand scrubbing would seem to lessen the stank. So what does one do when unable to remove a smell from their skin? Replace it with another smell! And what smell is particularly renowned for defeating any of scent and stamping itself all over the soft epidermis of your palms and fingers? That's right - dishwater. So yeah, I did the dishes. - By this point I was in the midst of a cleaning frenzy! So my towels and bedding all became so fresh and so clean clean. - Yeah, I had a shower and fell asleep in the shower. Nothing can stand in the way of that. - Next up I was sitting in my room draped only in a green towel, probably mere minutes away from a naked afternoon nap (Why does everyone have such a problem with nude napping?) when I got a message from Matt. Police drama at the corner of Angove and Charles? I'm there! I was also feeling rather peckish at the time, so I used this as an excuse for a McDonald's trip. There seemed to have been some sort of harsh as fuck car accident, but all I saw was a little silver hatchback up on its side and police/ambulance/fire crews everywhere. No sign of another vehicle, so how this car ended up in that position, I'll never know. And in case you were wondering, my quarter pounder was okay. Maybe a C+. Competent, but lacking initiative or innovation. - At some point I braved the TORRENTIAL DOWNPOUR (Read: Light shower) and made my way to Charles St. Fressssh, where I bought some flour, milk and eggs. Pancakes? No... - Yorkshire Pudding! Okay, it was subpar. But it was my first real go at it, and our oven eats bag. It was still okay though, edible enough. A decent starting block for a career in the field of oily, salty batter-based beef accompaniments, I feel. - Oh yeah, I also cut my nails somewhere along the line. My hands resembled this before I did so:
Fucking Dinocheirus up the wingwang!
So yeah, that was my day. Who knows what tomorrow will hold?!?
People of journalland, I shall now share with you some of my favourite poetry! I know all of you are all reeling back and going "The dickens? Phil reads poetry???" Well no, I don't. At least I didn't, until I stumbled across these gems!
- The few positive things I had going for me here, well it turns out they are just as fucked as everything else - Setting your expectations really low doesn't make you feel any better when things turn to shit - Never returning seems like a good option.
Open your eyes before I leave a surprise on your white pasty thighs Fuck, I am tired. Not specifically right now, because it's 4am and that is completely normal, but just in general. If you're ever wondering what I'm up to on my days off, there's a really good fucking chance that I'm asleep. Or wandering around the loungeroom aimlessly after just having woken up, before crashing on the ugly grey couch and falling asleep once more, while Matt and/or Pete play Xbox less than a metre away. Some may point to my ever-increasing work schedule (I think I'll crack the 100 hour fortnight within the next two months for sure) as a cause. Some will look towards my even-more-fucked-than-usual sleeping pattern (random 6:30am starts/midnight finishes with no discernable pattern will do that to you. Also staying up wicked late doing crosswords). And others may think it's purely because my diet has gone to complete shit recently (No matter what one certain Mr. Peter Long may tell you, Semolina is a wholesome and nutritious dinner choice), so I'm not really getting all the nutrienst I need to function. But I'm blaming the Tsetse fly and the sleeping sickness it brings. Yes, a disease that is rarely, if ever, seen outside of Sub-Saharan Africa is definitely a more likely cause than the ones listed previously.
You know who is totally in cahoots with that bastard tsetse fly? The beetle on my ceiling, that's who. Every night he's there, slowly circling my light in an ever-decreasing spiral, before changing directions and moving outwards once more. What are you trying to achieve, my brown shelled foe? Are you trying to hypnotise me with your intricate footwork, in hopes that I'll become your unthinking sex-slave? Or are you just high? Either way, your shit is leaving me concerned, baffled and a little weary.
The plans for what is likely to be my final Melbourne holiday ever are totally falling into place! The next time I go after this will be for good. Scary, y/n? But yeah, from the 11th-20th April I'll totally be open-game for any Victorian man-rapist types as I lurk in dark alleys dressed in seductive, yet easy to remove clothing. Or I'll just be napping in my hotel room with Jessie for the the entire duration of my trip like usual. We're sleepy people, okay?
I feel I should invest in some new shoes. Maybe another pair of jeans too. Likelihood of this occurring? Slim. I have a history of waiting until my shoes are completely destroyed until replacing them, and well... my trials and tribulations in the finding of 32 inch long leg bearing jeans are well documented.
Wow. This guy is saying (singing?) what we were all thinking - that mIRC still rulz. There really is only one man with his finger on the pulse of the hip set, and that's our man Basshunter. Not to be confused with...
Bass Hunter. Dear god, that game was dire. The only thing it had its finger on was a sweaty fat man's taint.
Speaking of gouche massaging, there's a group of people who are especially suited to just that - the upper-middle class "Oh let's stop into Dome after seeing a delightful picture at the Piccadilly!" set. Fuck all you bitches right in your fucking stomas. Stop standing behind the coffee machine and barking orders at me while I have a scalding jug of milk in my hand, go wait in the line by the till like everyone else. Stop demanding that I clear off the specific table you and your cronies want, when there are at least 20 other tables free. Clearly the massive line stretching from the counter halfway to the door (which you tried to cut minutes earlier) indicates that I am fucking busy right now. Oh and finally, stop coming into the fucking kitchen. You have absolutely no business in there, and unless you ordered a foccacia of some sort and they're delivering it to your table, the staff in there have no fucking business in dealing with you. They are busy doing other things, and asking them to refill the water jugs (Oh fuck, those cunting water jugs. Stop taking them away from their station back to your tables, you senile old wenches. It just causes the next member of your post-menopausal clan who comes in to bitch at me cause there are no jugs left. Just fucking pour yourself a glass and move on, for fuck's sake. You don't need 4L of water between the two of you) will only result in them either a) Purposely fucking with your food order, should you have one or b) Telling the front of house staff to fuck with your coffee/cake. And as for you, Mrs Olive-Green Pantsuit with Butterfly Brooch who came into the kitchen tonight while I was emptying the deep fryer to tell me that your hot chocolate was "a little mild", I wish a painful, drawn-out death to you in the near future. What the fuck did you expect me to do about it? Fill it up with the near-boiling, crap-filled canola oil which was gushing into the bucket I was holding? And what the fuck does "mild" mean, in terms of hot chocolate? Mild is a taco-sauce exclusive term!
Hey, how do you think deep-frying a slice of strawberry shortcake would pan out? I need your opinions!
In other news, I head back to Melbourne on Sunday night, so if anyone wants some Victorian exclusive wares, let me know. I'm talking Savoys. And whatever it is they call polony over there. Devon? Fritz? Strasbourg? Fucked if I know. And I dunno, maybe some South Melb Saints/East Melb Spectres/SE Melb Magic/North Melb Giants/Victoria Titans/Geelong Supercats beanies or somethin'. I'm here to help!
I should hire Rocky III-V tomorrow. I need to know what happened with Butkus! And Timmy the tortoise!
- It revolves around a young yet cocky and brash cop (Lundgren) and his rocky relationship with his by-the-books, straight-laced FBI partner. Oh, but the FBI guy loosens up at the end when Dolph saves his life! Shockah! - It's about two aliens. One is blonde and evil and is dead set on killing people, injecting them with copious amounts of heroin and then drilling into their brains and stealing their endorphins. The other has black hair and is an intergalactic cop on a mission to stop Alien A. Oh, and they shoot each other with ridiculously powerful weapons (including a magic "electromagnetic" spinning disc device) throughout the movie, resulting in many an explosion/dive towards the camera to avoid said explosions. - There's a gang of stereotypical evil 80's Wall Street guys called "The White Boys". They drive around in late-model Porsches/Ferraris and are hell-bent on killing Dolph for reasons I never quite worked out. Oh yeah, the capture Dolph/FBI dude at one point and force them to do a drug deal with a shady Chinese man for them. Chinese dude rips them off and runs into the alley, only to be killed by the aforementioned evil alien (Who, by the way, was named as "Bad Alien" in the credits. The other being, of course, "Good Alien". Top work producers!). And yeah, after this, the White Boys never appear again. At all. - The closing fight scene. Well, the last four lines of dialogue in it anyway:
Bad Alien - "I WINNNNNN!" Dolph - "Fuck you, spaceman!" (Proceeds to bust him in the neck with his own heroin injecty Scorpion-spear do-whacky. Alien then falls back onto a conveniently placed spike which impales him and leads to the longest fucking "Aaaaaaarghhhhhhhhh! Aaaaarrghghhgghgghh!" death scene in cinematic history) Bad Alien - "I come in peace!" (He said this a lot, hence the original title of the film. But the thing was, he didn't at all! It was one huge interplanetary lie! Oh Bad Alien, we trusted you!") Dolph - "Then you go in pieces, asshole!"
EXPLOSIONS ENSUE! Dolph gets his lady! High fives are had with his new FBI friend!
FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK! You cannot beat that in terms of all-round quality.
Do you know what else is fucking ace? That's right, the North Perth McDonald's. Yeah sure, it's filthy, even for a McDonald's. And they ALWAYS fuck up your order (Seriously, every time. Once they even forgot to put the top half of my Quarter Pounder on), but for sheer so-bad-it's-good entertainment, it cannae be beaten. Take tonight's display for instance:
(Huge shady dude with scary pale-green eyes, stubby-shorts and bare feet walks up to the counter)
Cute Asian Girl At Counter - Hi, what can I get for you? Scary Barefoot Ex-Con Guy - Yeah, can I get a thickshake and my mate out of lockup please? CAGAC - Uhh... Sorry? SBECG - I said, can I get a thickshake and my mate out of the lockup please? CAGAC - Sorry, we're unable to do thickshakes right now because the machine is broken and umm... what was the other thing? (She turns to me with a confused "What the fuck?" look. I try to stifle my laughter) SBEGC - My mate. Out of the lockup. He wanted a thickshake, and he couldn't get one. 20 years he's been coming here! 20 years! And he couldn't get a thickshake, so he got a little upset and they came and took him away and now he's in jail because of youse! CAGAC - I uhh... I... (Looks at me again, this time laughing, and I'm completely losing the plot by now) SBEGC - They loaded him in the paddywagon and took him away all because he couldn't get a thickshake after 20 years. He's been living in this area and coming into this store for 20 bloody years! CAGAC - Umm... would you like me to get my manager? SBEGC - Bloody oath I would! (Girl goes to get her manager, who's a mid-20's dude with a horrible curly faux-hawk. The crazy ranting ex-con continues his argument with him, and it emerges that his friend was going through the drive-through, got angry about the lack of thickshakes, got out his car and punched the service window a few times. Unsurpisingly the cops were called)
Sadly, my food came before the conclusion, but I did notice the girl from the counter bent over the chip-fryer in fits of laughter as I left. Aces!
In other news, I got a job at Dome in Northbridge, starting Monday. Hurrah! Feel free to come on in and see me, if you want a globule of semen in your club sandwich that is. By that, I mean don't fucking come in at all you fucks. You know those hats and aprons are ridiculous, and I shan't be seen wearing mine!
Pete and I's 18-pack of Kirk's Club Lemon investment was a shrewd one indeed! Thumbs up for the P contingent of ThirtyFiveGay! Thumbs down to the third guy. Just kidding, he's pretty ace and you should give him a warm bearhug when you see him next, and ask him to show you his trick of putting sticks of dry spaghetti in his beard.