November 2007 Archives
Today I saw a mullet driving a forklift. Honestly. I walked out the back room of a hotel, and there it was, dark brown and curly with a dark and greazy sheen to it, just perched up on the seat of the forklift moving a palette of VB around in the storeroom. It was incredible... mullets have come a long way since the days of being nothing more than a rabbid head vegetable or dead piece of scalp animal. They can do stuff now.
To be honest, I had thought the humble mullet were almost extinct, or had been driven into changing their appearance and hiding in the Jerry Seinfeld hairstyle of the 90's. But it appears that the mullet population, once on the verge of extinction are coming back. In fact, the more I work out in Western Sydney, the more I find that the mullet population is not only recovering, it is positively thriving.
Take this little Ginger Mullet Ninja in the picture. This pic was sent in to LOS by Spenny a while back, showing a rare ginger mullet that had taken up residence upon the head of a smallish unsuspecting child. Now, for the duration of time that the mullet choses to make this little child his home, the child will unfortunately be ridiculed and subjected to all forms of abuse and neglect from his school peers. He will also never have a girlfriend, well not one with teeth anyway.
I just think it is wonderful to see the mullet making a comeback. But be warned, if the mullet population increases too quickly they may begin to migrate eastward in the search for expensive head space real estate. I propose that if these head vegetable creatures progress further eastward than say, blacktown, it will be necessary to cull the numbers and keep the population in check...
...anyone with me?
please be warned, this post contains my male nudity...
In previous entries on LOS I had made mention of some "fun places to take off your pants" which can be read here and here, and being that I had a few other baby photo's laying around I figured it was high time I dropped a couple of others into the mix... So, lets get moving shall we?
Fun place to take off your pants number three...
Imagine a giant white slippery enclosed half pipe filled with warm water. You strip off and jump in and spend the next hour splashing and sliding up and down the half pipe, a naked young version of Tony Hawk, only without the tattoos and skateboards.
I spent a lot of time as a kid in that old bath... mostly because my mother would often drop me in there and use it as a surrogate iron and porcelain baby sitter while she spent time reading womens magazines, playing her horrid piano accordian, or for when she went off around the neighborhood visiting neighbors and taking naps.
Good huh? My bathtub was my babysitter...
I'm a contemptible chap at times. Not that I intentionally mean to be, but I have this habit of offending people soon after meeting them. By 'soon', I often mean something like 'in the first moments of our first conversations'. Often these people I meet tend to like me, or at least think neutral of me by the end of the conversation, but realistically after the first few minutes, they do believe I am very rude and crazy.
It is a hobby of mine.
Take the case of one individual we shall call... uh... 'Siam', which is not her real name. We had never really spoken, but we had seen one another around on a number of occasions. In our first real conversation, I may have actually told her that her haircut made her look like 'Betty Boop'. Now, I'm not normally one to talk down a female's appearance, and in my defence, I believe she started trading insults first. So right here, I am putting it out to the public to decide. Does she look like a cartoon character? I think the answer is yes. In fact, more like a big 'Hell Yes'.
In our second or third conversation, this individual 'Siam', began to tell me a story about how she drove her car into a wall. The conversation went something like this...
"I crashed my car into a wall..."
"Just bumped it?"
"Haha it wasn't a bump, I drove straight into it. My car went vertical as I drove up the car stopper."
"You drop UP the car stopper? You must have been going pretty quickly..."
"Its a V6, it just takes off fast."
I'm not sure a Magna takes off fast... but anyways...
"Did you hit the wrong pedal?"
"No, I just thought I was in reverse, then when I took of... well I wasn't."
"You didn't check to see what gear you were in?"
"It was because i was constantly changing as i had to straighten up to get out of the tight parking spot. So I lost track of where i was up to..."
"Um... usually its a case of 'Last time I went forward, so this time I'm going backwards' right?"
"Oh, shut up, you are mentally superior to me" ***
So 'Siam' was driving and got confused. There were only two directions to go, either forward or backwards, and she somehow got confused and got it wrong, and managed to bounce the car vertically over a concrete barrier, smashing the car into a wall. Not a little pole, or a small fence or barrier that is hard to see - she drove straight into a big hard solid wall. Which is understandable I guess at the end of the day...
...because despite the fact they can be run over, hit with falling anvils, shot, cut in half and still re-inflate, refresh and reattach themselves, cartoon characters just shouldn't drive cars.
***May not have been actual response.
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow this federal political campaign creeps in this petty pace from day to day... It has been a long six weeks on the trail for this two older grey haired gentlemen. To be honest, I think the Australian public probably feel as though the campaign has been running all year. Can we just vote now? Can you old men please just stop with the irritating ads that interrupt my television viewing? No more dings, buzzes, scare campaigns, budget deficit talks and please, no more fat angry men shouting "We're coming back" into a megaphone. Oh, and you kiss another baby, I'm totally calling the police on your paedophi... ahem.
Much has been made of this election... Many see Howard as too old and out of touch. Many others see Kevin as nothing more than a 'me too' man. The Howard led coalition announces its budget strategy, Kevins labor agrees and says it will follow a similar policy. Howard announces an Aboriginal intervention strategy, Kevin agrees. Howard announces limited African refugee policies, Kevin mumbles something like "me too". Howard kisses a baby in a shopping centre, Kevin turns up 30 minutes later and kisses the same baby.
I mean really, if Kevin is pretending to be Howard, what is the point in voting. Apart from the Industrial Relations reforms (which have benefited the economy, but will most probably be the downfall of the Howard Coalition) Kevin and Howard are almost identical on policy. As the lady at the pizza shop said tonight, either way, no matter how you vote, a politician gets in.
So heres the thing, perhaps we should let this election be decided not by careful analysis of policy, or voting along party lines. Forget voting for your most active local member, or voting along the lines of your favourite personality... you can even forget about voting for cheesy campaign lines like "a time for change"...
(Incidentally, if you vote to change any government purely because you are bored with the current government and its leaders and just 'feel like a change' you should probably let your pets vote for you... it will be a more informed choice. Seriously people, we are talking about a nation here, not re-arranging furniture!)
So how will you decide who to vote for in the election? I say we leave it to the comic genius of the two leaders. First of all, lets all take another good look at the video of K.Rudd eating his own earwax. Awesome. He doesn't even look remotely disgusted... I see where he is taking that, using that disturbing gross kind of humour that makes us cringe and laugh at the same time. I know for a fact that Kevin eats earwax regularly at family BBQ's as a party trick for the kids...
"Is the minister concerned that residents have been circulated with leaflets saying that... I would like to assure you that earwax is a perfectly nutritious afternoon question-time snack... Is the minister also aware that the bistro downstairs has cut earwax from its lunchtime menu?"
And now onto Howard and his comic genius. Remember that Howard comes from a slightly different era than Rudd, an era of pure kinds of entertainment, of Charlie Chaplin and the Three Stooges. His comic genius style is more firmly rooted in the 'Slapstick' routines than Rudd.
For the record, my brother in law often tumbles, slips or falls over things. Of course, like John Howard he always jumps back up saying "Haha! Got you! I meant that!". But his bleeding knees say otherwise. Classic humour.
So tomorrow, if you can't be bothered actually thinking about who to vote for, and about the continued economic security and development of our nation when you head into the booth, and because last time I checked your pets cannot actually vote for you, remember to vote along the lines of your favourite politician comedian.
Will out.
Now, I'm not usually the protesting type, despite my association with the teachers federation and all that... BUT I think I may have finally found a protest that I can... uh, support.
According to media reports Swedish women have begun a campaign to allow them to go topless at beaches, swimming pools and, uh... football matches. The group set up the "Bara Bradiost" network, which literally tanslates as 'just breasts' with one spokesperson saying "We want our breasts to be as normal and desexualised as men's, so that we too can pull off our shirts at football matches."
I for one say 'awesome', and think this is a campaign that I can really support, or uh... leave unsupported... I'm not sure which, but I think this is a campaign that I could really get behind... or in front of, yeah I think I would prefer being 'in front' of this campaign. It still remains to be seen if this campaign fizzles out, or has some bounce to it, but while it is running, perhaps we should just flip on the high beams and shed some light on equal opportunity.
So is this a real serious campaign? Swedish women wanting the rights to go topless? Could men the world over ask for more? Now we just need to organise a campaign to ban overweight English men from removing their shirts, and another to ban grandparents from wearing bikini's and budgie smugglers on public beaches.
"Oh really?"
"Yeah, no more driving to an illustrious golf club and looking rather posh, I am now back on the pushbike and back into my old fitness regime."
"Well, your stomach and two chins will thankyou for it."
"What?"
"Nothing."
Make a mental note:
Always carry sufficient blu-tac supplies when you need to put up a crapload of posters. Because it is never fun to be forced to become the Ebeneezer Scrooge of stationary supplies and ration the blu-tac out in tiny amounts.
And it is even less fun to be forced to rummage around the walls looking for left over lumps of blu-tac that were left behind by previous bar activators and posters and such.
And worse than that, is the false hope, followed by despair and disgust, when you mistakenly believe you have discovered a little gold mine of blu-tack, and you begin to pick at it to remove it and stick it to your slowly growing blu-tac ball...
...only, as I pick and pull at this super sticky vault of blue-tac, I begin to smell sweet sweet peppermint. Hmm... peppermint, and as I am using my actual fingers to pull and tease this blu-tac free, I realise that it isn't blu-tack, and that for the last minute and a half I have been intertwining my fingers with someones disposed Peppermint Chewing gum, that had been so thoughtfully worked into the Slate walls.
Awesome.
"Hey, so did you guys have fun on Saturday night?"
"Yeah, we played my new wii for hours when we got home!"
"I was speaking about my birthday party..."
"...oh, yeah."
...please laugh and not be offended if you have shorts so tight that you can hear the stitching holding on and screaming for dear life...
Parents, are your children driving you crazy? Are the kids sick of those crappy colouring in books Nanna gave them two years ago? Are they tired of playing Pong on their Atari gaming system? Are you looking for a fun place to drop the kids this weekend, while you do some quiet shopping?
**Introducing the all new MONKEY BITS 2000!!!**
The MONKEY BITS 2000! is guaranteed to provide endless hours of fun for children of all ages! Either jump on the monkey's log, or get down on your hands and knees and clamber in between the monkey's legs for hours or even minutes of monkey related pleasure time!
The MONKEY BITS 2000! is non-toxic, and comes in a wide varitey of colours shapes and sizes, and is fully customisable depending on the individual clients needs and/or desires. To use your brand new MONKEY BITS 2000!, simply wash for hygene purposes, and using a large indistrial fan, blow on the monkey's log until firm.
(Caution : MONKEY BITS 2000! may need to be regularly blown with industrial fan to maintain its shape.)
...but really, all sexual connotations aside, would you really want to let your kid climb into something that resembles a monkey's vagina? I mean, they teach us to avoid that kind of stuff at school right?
"Kids, Mummy is tired, how about you all go play in the monkey's vagina for a while ok?"
Cinemas. Synonymous with teenage entertainment on a Saturday night. Do you remember the days when you had to use your home telephone to call up your friends to organise an evening out? Can you still see yourself at the age of 16 pleading with your parents to give up part of their Saturday evening to play 'taxi' for you and your friends, to drive you almost all the way to the local shopping mall but actually drop you and your friends off just around the corner out of sight of the actual mall itself so you didn't look like a dwebe getting out of mummy's tarago in front of the 'in' crowd you felt you needed to impress? Do you even remember the word dwebe? How 1990 is dwebe.
Did you have parents like mine who drove cars so crappy that most of the time I would prefer to walk an hour into the movies, or scam lifts of friends whose parents drove normal cars. Did you have parents with a twisted sense of humour like mine? Despite all my begging, pleading and sobbing they insisted on driving past the drop off corner that was 'out of site', instead preferring to embarrass their young son by driving straight into the mall, and plowing straight into my group of friends? I swear my parents were Uncle Buck... and they certainly didn't believe in 'cool'. No matter how hard I tried, I never made it to 'cool' on a Saturday night at the movies...
I guess it is kinda hard to look old and cool and sophisticated when you have to clamber over baby toys, pieces of chewed up biscuit and a dirty baby seat in front of a coffee shop.
Enough of that tangent. Cinemas are synonymous with teenagers, flying popcorn, rolling jaffa's down the aisles, and boys sitting through the most painful of chick flicks in an attempt to touch up make out with that girl in the back row.
Gold class is something totally different though... it brings to mind images of grandeur, expensive cocktails and a somewhat affluent and more mature clientele. Older couples, executives, 20-something year old couples, out on a 'special' movie date where the boy sits through another agonising girl movie in the hope that he will get the chance to spend the next evening out with the boys rather than at home with his lady friend.
Gold class and normal cinemas are worlds apart. And as far as I am concerned, those worlds should stay apart. Very apart. So when those worlds collide, it actually becomes a little, well... akward and disgusting. Take the picture below for example. Here, in the midst of our beers, cocktails and gormet finger food, we have two old people making out on a gold class couch under the watchfull (and possibly distressed) gazes of Dean Martin, Marilyn Monroe and James Dean.
I don't want to see an old lady in nanna pants making out with a bald wrinkly 60 something year old... I don't care how much you paid for your tickets, or how much viagra you have taken, making out in Gold Class just isn't cool. If you want to make out, go into a normal cinema and sit in the back row with the pimply 16 year old teenagers and gross them out so much they won't want to experience human contact for years. Don't make out on the lounge in front of me please... eww. In fact, making out at your age is probably a health risk, have you ever considered that? I mean, we have all heard of the dangers of sex in this modern day and age, but have you thought about the dangers in making out any day at your age?
Please, for the sake of those of us with life left to live, please put your false teeth back in, and stop making out in public... I mean, I was about to eat and everything, and then you two started romping on the couch in full view of everyone there. Even the staff in the lounge had a bucket of ice and two blank bingo cards ready to cut your old person love time short.
So please, next time you oldies are out and about, please, dear god, think of the children. Your pashing could emotionally scar us, and you wouldn't want that on your conscience for the next 2 years until either death or alzheimer's comes to claim you, would you?
... I looked at her heaving square shoulders, her bulging tattooed biceps and double triple chin, and decided that offending this behemoth was possibly a bad idea for a skinny white guy from the northern suburbs, yet I somehow summoned the courage and said;
"Not only are you an immensely disturbing bogan, you are also lacking in manners biatch".
We then exchanged numbers and insurance details, and merrily went about our daily business either one none to offended by the unfortunate meeting in the carpark outside the liquor store.
Yeah, ok. So the previous exchange isn't quite as accurate as I may lead you to believe... I mean, how many massive westy bogans would have the courage to stand up to me? Plenty one would assume. To fill you in on the story, a couple of weeks ago I was out in the western suburbs of Sydney, in the Doonside / Mt Druit area for work, and had just driven into a parking space in a small suburban shopping centre. I sat in the car finishing my pre-call checklist, which involves a series of intricate steps.
1) Sight actual liquor store.
2) Ensure all alchohol promo material is out of sight.
3) Ensure no bogans in close proximity to vehicle.
4) Ensure no druggos in close proximity to vehicle.
5) Ensure no criminals in close proximity to vehicle.
6) Ensure no dunks in close proximity / underneath vehicle. etc etc.
As I sat in the car going over this most important checklist, a rather large woman walked back to her car which was parked next to mine, put her shopping in the boot, walked around to her driver side door, opened it and got in. Only, when she opened her door, her massive... uh... body mass sent the door springing further open and into my passenger side door with a loud and not unnoticeable thud. She heard it because she looked at me in the car. I heard it because the car shook.
Now, this is when it gets a little odd. She didn't get out to apologise, or to check my car for damage. She didn't leave a note or any of the other little measures we often take for granted. She didn't even just drive off into the sunset... no.
She proceeded to shout at me through her window. Now, I can't say I understood much of what went on, but whatever was going on, it involved a lot of flying spit, a lot of mouth-words, much head shaking and angry face pulling... on her part.
Me, I did nothing. I just sat there thankful that my doors were locked and that if she ever did try to chase me (on foot at least) I would simply have to run to the Donut King store only metres away, where she would be distracted long enough for me to cross the Nullabor on foot.
And the funny thing about all of this, is that I wasn't even that mad about her hitting my car door. My car has a few knocks on it, so really who cares... and at the end of the day, when I am face to face with a tattooed female rugby union front rower with no neck, teeth or manners, a dent in the door is better than a dent in the side of the head...
... and thats a fact.
Just a little something I put together 'a la cyanide and happiness' style to illustrate the stinging pain of the pain killers, and the burning shame of the ironic realisation that followed... ahh well. Stay tuned for some weekend humour in 'spenny penny's' coming soon...
If you are a regular reader of LOS, you may well be aware that yesterday morning a wicked enchantress called irony appeared from behind a bright orange forklift and punched me in the face. To cut it short, an a manouver designed to avoid what turned out to be the sound of a forklift bouncing off the walls, I accidentally bounced a forklift off a roller door. A loud brightly coloured metal roller door. Awesome.
But it got me thinking about other times I have been slapped in the face by irony in the past. And a prime example of being bitch-slapped by irony actually happened just the other evening. I was going to dinner from a friends house, and asked him for a pain killer just before we left. Now, let me make a confession about something before we continue... I can't swallow tablets. No matter how hard I try and swallow, those little buggers touch my throat and cause me to cough, gag and bring up my lunch. Even those tiny little fluro blue Demazin tablets can have me gagging faster than a.... you know what? I'm not even going to finish that joke. Point is, I can't swallow tablets.
Now, normally when I take pain killers -which is pretty rare cause I'm tough like Michael Jackson- they are your standard household varieties like Panadol or Nurofen tablets and such, which I chew and swallow with milk. It tastes disgusting I know, but it is either a few moments of bad taste or a few agonising hours of period pain.
But Reggie presented me with two of the biggest pain killer capsules I had ever seen. They were glowing an evil bright red colour, and were the size of dogs balls eggs. This was never going to end well. Seeing as though I had to act tough in front of Reggies little nephew and his female babysitter, I figured I'd just pop the red eggs into my mouth with some water, chew, swallow and be on my way... at least that is what I figured.
It went down a little differently - I chewed, swallowed, chewed some more, and as I tried to take a breath the liquid capsules started burning my throat. They burnt so badly that I started coughing and gagging and spewing my water and chewed capsule into the sink. The pain in my throat was so bad and affected my throat to such an extent that I actually lost my voice, I lost my very essence of communication in the midst of this choking and searing pain.
And then the irony struck me like a wayward cartoon anvil. Why is a tablet whose sole existance is to relieve pain, causing me such intense pain? Why is something designed to take away the pain in my head, causing even more pain in my throat? Oh Irony you wicked child, why do you choke me?!
You know, I am sure there is a moral in all of this... something about having the right tools for the wrong job, or how as people we can have all the talents and gifts necessary to achieve something, only we have forced ourselves into the wrong place instead of letting things flow...
...but right now all I can think about is that damned irony. Stupid evil pain causing pain killers.
10 of these things belong together,
10 of these things are kinda the same,
But one of these things are doing their own thing,
And now it's time to play a game, it's time to play our game.
...Ok, lets move on from the Sesame Street songs and onto the games. Really. Today I spent the entire day at our storage shed re-arranging and organising the palettes of promo material while the rain pelted down saturating anything and everything within meters of the doorway. Oh, and saturating me as I went back and forth carrying palettes of stock from the drop off to the shed on the electric forklift.
So, lets play the game. Can you spot something a little unusual in the picture of the rows of bright orange storage sheds? Does something look a little, uh, out of shape perhaps? Perhaps the next pic will help.
See that bright orange roller door that appears to have been smacked in with an electric forklift? Funny enough you should say yes, because that is exactly what happened. You see, I had been moving palettes from the drop off into the shed in the rain, and was kinda in a hurry to pick up the last palette and dry off... So as I raced through the rain, I thought I heard a car approaching from behind, and so I stepped away from the centre towards the edge of the driveway.
Interestingly, the edge of the driveway happens to be where all the sheds are. Perhaps more interestingly there was no car behind me at all, and it was the sound of the electric forklift bouncing off the walls. So here is the really interesting part.
As I stepped to my left to avoid the phantom car, I accidentally made the forklift deviate slightly swerve violently to the left, avoiding any collision with a car, but unfortunately crashing straight into a bright orange metal roller door. In a bizare twist I accidentally swerved to avoid something that turned out to be the sound of the forklift bouncing off the walls, only to bouce the forklift off the wall. Interestingly I didn't just bounce it into the wall, it bounced through the roller door, and knocked the thing out of its metal moulding. Well done Einstein.
In a bizare twist I accidentally swerved to avoid something that turned out to be the sound of the forklift bouncing off the walls, only to bouce the forklift off the wall... Well done Will you Einstein.
Now, of course being male I blame everything else other than me. So here goes my attempt at the blame game.
1) It was wet. Everyone knows it is ok to smash into things when it is wet. Especially cats.
2) You are actually meant to pull the forklift thing backwards behind you, not steer it akwardly out infront of you where you push the lever left to go right etc etc.
3) I recieved minimal driving instruction from the nerd behind the counter.
4) The nerd behind the counter had eyes that pointed in different directions.
Now, I know I might be seen to be acting a little harsh, but really... is it my fault that I smash a giant forklift into a giant bright orange roller door, avoiding 5 metres of perfectly good concrete driveway when the minimal instruction I got was from a man with eyes that point in different directions?
Ok ok... so slamming into the roller door is entirely my fault. So I shall hereby stop making negative (and somewhat amusing) comments about female drivers and their almost psychic ability to seek out and collide with all targets regardless of size and obvious positioning. At least for a while.
I will only make this admission once. But once is enough. Today I drove the forklift badly, in fact I drove it worse than a woman... I drove it like a Jordan Giles.
There has been a new anti-speeding campaign here in NSW recently, that makes an explicit link between reckless driving and the size of a mans, uh, well... lets just say that men that drive stupidly have small shoes if you know what I mean... With that in mind, the following actual conversation raises a few questions.
Lou - "I was speeding in and out of traffic the other day on the way to work, and then I saw one of those new RTA speeding ads on a big billboard and I stopped and thought 'oh, I have a small penis' and got all sad."
Me - "Yeah... um, you are a girl though."
Lou - "I know."
Now, I'm not entirely sure who I need to talk to about these strange issues rolling around in the zoo that is my head. Do I speak to the RTA about changing their ad to incorporate women that speed? Or do I sit Lou down and explain that girls don't have penises.
Talk about tough decisions...
I know what you are all going to say, and yes I know the title sounds a little dramatic, but allow me to explain. On Saturday night my sister had to be taken to hospital with a rather bad back injury, and from what I understand (don't legally hold me to this) it is the fault of my ex girlfriend.
My sister was allegedly in the shower, something that scars me to think about to be honest, but none the less necessary for the telling of the story. Yes. Anyway, she was showering when my ex called her on her phone. My sister raced out of the shower to answer the phone, and just as she picked up the phone it stopped ringing.
Then my ex decided to call my brother-in-laws phone, which again my sister scrambled for. In all the scrambling she slipped and fell and hurt her back so badly that she was stuck on the floor paralysed. She eventually made it to her bed, but that was as far as she got. Unable to move and unable to call for help she had to lay there, unfortunately naked and immobile on the bed until her husband arrived home and called for help. Interestingly enough, my brother-in-law didn't grab the phone and call a doctor, nor an ambulance or any other kind of medical help. He didn't even get out his laptop and google "what to do when your wife is paralysed naked on the bed" to find out what to do... who did he call? My mum.
Because when I find crippled paralysed back injury people, that is exactly who I think to call first. Anyway, thankfully after a midnight to 5am stint at hospital, with numerous X-rays and examinations my sister was released from hospital and ordered to stay home from work for a few days...
So I'm using this post to send out a 'get better soon' message or something equally touching and all to my sister... and also using this post to point the finger at attempted sister killers!
Christmas is coming soon, too soon in fact. Christmas is next month, and if that doesn't put it into perspective, perhaps you should start to think of Christmas as being only 'three paydays away'. Seriously, if you are going to buy your family all those crappy presents that are either broken or thrown out by January, you should seriously start saving now by cutting out a few happy meals and putting those $2 coins into your piggybank.
Christmas shopping can be pretty harsh at the best of times with all the crowds, lack of parking spaces, crazy women and tantrum throwing men. Buying crappy and creepy presents is actually a lot harder than it looks, and I know this might be news to all of you who regularly shop at 'hot dollar', but buying decent and thoughtful presents that your loved ones may actually like is even harder. Yeah, surprising I know. So here is the first in a list of presents that I will be mentioning on LOS in the coming weeks that you should perhaps avoid this Christmas season. So seeing as though Christmas is a bible based holiday season, I think we should start with a gift from the bible that really rocked someones world.
Now all you single guys out there aspiring to win over the woman of your dreams, and their shotgun wielding fathers, please refrain from giving that kind of gift. I mean, unless you intend on giving your gift in a series of plastic bags (which isn't a good look - trust me) the logistics of transporting around 200 foreskins is just out of this world.
If you do choose to give that gift, make sure you have plenty of rubber gloves on hand, and maybe even a few of those robotic claws to pick the foreskins up off the ground after your future father in law has dropped it on the ground out of his shock and excitement.
Perhaps it would be a good idea to put a bow around the box when you present the gift. Better still, make it a kinda 'jack in the box' thing, so when the future father in law opens the box he will be totally stoked that a foreskin just eagerly launched out of the box towards his face faster than Hugh Hefner can say "Viagra please!"
And did anyone else notice how Saul asked for 100 foreskins... and David went out and collected 200. I guess when you are really having fun, I mean really having fun, I just kinda turns into a Pringles event... "Once you pop you just can't stop!".
I firmly believe that the children are our future. I've always said those little smiling faces of the school children today are the CEO's and high flying business tycoons creating tax havens and offshore bank accounts of the future.
Lately I've been working out in Western Sydney which is absolutely full of bogans!! the humble Aussie battlers and drug addicted battling single mothers. It is pram city in the western suburbs. Now, don't get me wrong, I have nothing against single mothers or battlers, but every 20 year old female in the western suburbs is pushing a pram no man in sight. Oh, and everywhere I go I find people asking me for money, whether it be 20c or $5, there are always people mooching off me. Talk about Karma. I think it is the pinstripe pants I wear to work.
And it doesn't end there... whenever I wear my work shirts that are emblazoned with the brand name of an extremely popular bourbon drink, the locals in the area who obviously worship this beverage always treat me with a strange respect. I think they belive I am some kind of God. If I wear a normal button up business shirt, locals look me up and down as if they are going to roll me. If I am wearing my Jim Beam work shirt, then the locals give me a knowing nod of respect, and then throw their shirts down on the ground in front of me so my shoes don't get dirty from the ground. Oh, and they also totally bow down and worship me too.
One thing that has struck me about that area of Sydney is the kids. They are everywhere... especially when they are meant to be at school. They are at the train station, in the shopping centres, smoking outside the local pub, I mean those kids are literally anywhere but at school. And its not just the rebellious boys, but girls wandering the streets in packs too. Packs of them with their coloured hair, bad attitudes and short skirts. They stare at me like I am some kind of alien, and I wouldn't be surprised if one day in the next few weeks I was attacked and spat on by a wild pack of rabbid teenage girls. If I go missing soon, I will by lying in the gutters of St Marys or Bidwill with my face ripped off...
Oh yes, I believe those children are our future.
Incidentally, I also think those school girls of today are the single mothers of tomorrow... and when I say tomorrow, I mean quite literally tomorrow.
