Archive for the Random Shit That Gives Me The Cunt Category

Eugenic Fantasies Inspired By Vocal Toolishness.

Posted in Random Shit That Gives Me The Cunt with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 22, 2008 by Buck Frain

 

Yobbos who yell things out of cars. They are the stupidest creatures on the planet. Aside from the fact that they have nothing to say to anyone ever because their brains have atrophied from a lack of education and an excess of pre-mixed bourbon and cola, they fail to realize that whatever they scream out of the window of their work-in-progress Holden Commodores is unintelligible to anyone other than themselves. The slurred speech of drunken fucktards is bad enough but when flying past at 80km/h it’s completely indecipherable. It might as well be shrieking baboons. In fact, if angry baboons were caning a Commodore up Royal Parade shrieking at cyclists you probably wouldn’t know the difference. I’m pretty sure they weren’t baboons.

 

I find cycling quite a focused experience. There are plenty of things to be watchful for, fuckwits opening car doors without looking, fuckwits changing lanes without looking, fuckwits in trucks, taxis, buses, old fuckwits in hats, fuckwits in Volvos, any fuckwit with a fish sticker anywhere on their car and all manner of other psychopaths. But despite the exhaust fumes and the constant threat of death, there is something free and solitary about cycling that I like. Plus, it keeps me away from the plethora of annoying cunts I might take to task for their various transgressions should I be locked in close quarters with them on public transport. Yes, cycling is wonderful…until some cockbrain screams in your ear as he and his fuckwit mates hoon past. Screaming…for free…just because they’re tools.

 

It had been a quiet ride, so the jolt of random, aggressive toolishness scared the absolute shit out of me, I swerved away from the sudden noise and realised this placed me on a collision course with a very nice parked BMW, still spooked, I think I must have over-corrected and braked at the same time. After that everything is crystalline: the front wheel locked and its tyre gripped the bitumen perfectly pitching the back wheel off the ground and me forward towards a muddy white lane marking on the oily black road. My hands came out in front of me by reflex and I thought for a fragment of a second I might be able to roll out of it. One of my shoe cleats, however, had not disengaged from the pedal so the bike pursued me and, as my body was slowed by its impact with the somewhat unforgiving tarmac, my bike found safe refuge by pounding itself into the yielding softness of MY BALLS!!! Fade to grey.

 

I lay tangled in my bike in a crumpled mess on the road. My face resting against the soothingly cool, filthy bitumen, my knees and hands hurting somewhere vaguely in the distance. I writhed half-heartedly in near silence for a while. The all-consuming grey fog of ball-pain gradually lifted and I kicked myself free of the bike, rolling over to inspect the damage. Torn jeans, minor grazing, some juicy bruises to look forward to – Ah, get fucked! The bike appeared fine so with effort I gathered myself up.

 

The last time I fell off my bike was 1989…hmm, that unique mixture of pain and humiliation never changes. My inner seven year-old wanted to cry but thankfully my inner nine year-old was there to call him a pansy so we all got ourselves on the bike and eased into the tight, uncomfortable ride home you get peddling with unskinned flesh.

 

I’ve always been averse to notions like eugenics but…maybe I’ve been too hasty. Fuck ’em! If we could isolate the gene for a propensity to be a complete fuckhole in a car, and compulsorily sterilise anyone with it, the fuckwits will never pass it on to anyone ever again – the world would be a much better place. Genius, and while we’re in the lab there’s a whole bunch of other fuckers out there who shouldn’t be breeding. Bring it on! We can lay waste to all the world’s fuckwits, sure it’ll take a good 100 years for the current crop to die out, but what a grand day it would be, a world without fuckwits…

 

I think I need to have a lie down. Must take the helmet off.

 

 

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Winter – A Time To Share Sickness.

Posted in Random Shit That Gives Me The Cunt with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 3, 2008 by Buck Frain

So this is winter. Winter started two days ago and already it feels like there has never been anything else. Miserable bastard cold that soaks into your bones but that you feel guilty whinging about unless you’ve never been to a country where they have a real winter. Melbourne winter sucks, but if you were English and looked at the technical specifications you’d think of it as a rather mild summer. Of course, if you were Canadian you’d just laugh in my face or beat me with an ice hockey stick for even suggesting that we have a winter.

Aside from the bed-inertia that comes over me in winter, I don’t mind it. Except for sickness. Naturally, I don’t like getting sick myself, but other people’s sickness is what is truly detestable, and the beginning of the season it seems everyone gets something. Public transport becomes a disease swap-meet – sniffles, sneezes and coughs all on offer, the freshest and latest bacterial and viral concoctions, some oldies and some newies so resistant to modern treatments you’ll get comments back from the pathology lab doing your blood tests, or maybe even a personal letter from Kofi Annan suggesting you let weapons inspectors into your lungs.

Seriously, what the biologically-terrorising fuck is wrong with people? On the train this morning most of the diseased commuters were politely mopping their sniffles with tissues or covering their mouths to cough, except the middle-aged gentleman opposite me. Sitting there reading a book, not attempting to cover the occasional coughs that burst from him. The first cough surprised me and I realised I was in some danger of infection, but it was just one cough and, hell, maybe it crept up on him, maybe he was just too embarrassed to apologise for it. No. A few minutes later a little double cough, again no reaction. The fucker was doing it deliberately. He just didn’t give a fuck about anyone else. He could turn the pages of his book OK, so his fucking arms worked fine, maybe he was just so pissed of about being ill that he thought he’d take it out on the rest of the train. Maybe his head was so far up his own arse that the idea of other people hadn’t occurred to him at all. It was at this point I realised my circulation was fine, all of a sudden I was warm, even starting to sweat a little.

The third cough came. Again, this selfish fucker did nothing to cover his filthy diseased mouth. Excuse me, I said, would you cover your mouth when you cough please? He stared blankly at me. Did he not understand? You were coughing. Could you cover your mouth when you cough?, I restated. I was pretty happy with my composure, I was Mr Calmly-Assertive and I felt the few commuters aware of our interaction were probably understanding where I was coming from. Still, he met me with a blank stare and then went back to reading.

OK, don’t lose your mind. Maybe he’s got the message. Maybe he feels humiliated to be coached on cold etiquette on public transport and at his age. Let it go.

Again! He fucking coughed again! Didn’t cover it – cunt! HEY!!!, Now I had his attention, and pretty much everyone in the carriage had turned to see what was going on, but there was no way of bringing my tone down to a more intimate level. If you’ve got to cough, cover your fuckin’ mouth! Do you understand me? I’ve asked you nicely, now stop coughing in my fucking face. He was just staring at me. He went to return to his book again. HEY! I’m fucking talking to you! You’re sick. I don’t want your cold, so cover your mouth. Do you fucking understand? DON’T COUGH IN MY FACE! He was well aware that he was in trouble, he knew the game was up, but a nervous cough escaped him and he didn’t raise a hand. That was when I lost my mind. I leapt forward and placing one hand behind him onto the back of his head, I clamped my other hand over his mouth and screamed into his eyes: COVER YOUR FUCKING MOUTH, YOU DISEASED CUNT! PEOPLE HAVE TO LIVE AND WORK, THEY DON’T WANT YOUR FUCKING SICKNESS. COVER YOUR SHITTY MOUTH WHEN YOU COUGH OR STAY THE FUCK HOME! I SEE YOU NOT COVER YOUR MOUTH AGAIN, I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!!!

I had been shaking his head on every syllable. In his eyes was sheer mortal terror. I let him go. Everyone was looking at the madman. That was me. Ooh. I had just threatened a man’s life. On a packed train. Step away from the scared man. Nothing to see here. The train pulled into a station, not mine, I got off anyway. I waited for the next train.

I feel extremely stupid and ashamed, and I’m jumping at every little sound because I’m expecting it to be the police come to cart me away. I’m not a violent person, I’m not a crazed, militant, vigilante type, and I didn’t hurt the man. Despite what you may think from what you read here, I don’t put my hands on people, I’m all talk. I just hate bad manners and I really hope if I ever see the coughing man again that he just doesn’t cough in my face. I don’t think I’d go well in prison.

Inconvenience Stores, EFTPOS & The Death Of Community

Posted in Random Shit That Gives Me The Cunt with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 20, 2008 by Buck Frain

I’ve told you about my morning ritual before. All I want in the morning is my coffee. This morning I had no milk. Fuck. I know it’s never gonna be a good day when I have to put pants on before I’ve had coffee but I know they won’t serve me at the shop if I’m not wearing pants. 

So pants, shoes, shirt, just like a normal person, eyes still crusted over with sleep I head off to the corner shop. 

My corner store is not a franchise, it’s a traditional mum & dad business run by an ancient Indian couple. They barely speak and they move with a Thorazine slowness that is infuriating when all you want is a metcard before you miss your train. Luckily, I have time this morning. I place the milk on the counter. The wizened old crone shuffles to the counter, looks the milk over, looks at me, peruses the chart next to the cash register. Four dollars. she mumbles through her three remaining teeth. You think I’m being unkind but it’s the truth. I realise that I only have 95 cents and a sweaty piece of chewing gum in my pocket. I shove it back in and pull out my wallet. Empty. I hand her my card. Minimum $10 EFTPOS she recites blankly. 

I know I have less than $10 in my account. I drank tequila last night with mates and I know there is no $10. I don’t have $10 in the account. I’ve got about 8 bucks ’til Wednesday. She is unmoved. $10 minimum purchase. I’m not impressed. I just need some milk so I can have coffee. Why? I ask. She doesn’t understand. Why $10? She looks at me like I’m a trouble maker, someone definitely not to be trusted. It’s the rule. $10. Like that explains anything. FUCK! I fuckin’ hate this shit. 

I’ve heard the various justifications and they all sound like complete bullshit. The banks charge us money on small purchases. I’d believe it, the banks are all cunts – that doesn’t justify it, though. Do you know how much these machines cost per month? Obviously not too much or you wouldn’t have one, you fuckin’ tight-arse! Blah blah blah. It’s fucked. I have money. I want to hand it over in exchange for goods. This is the way it works, isn’t it? The cunting banks just fuck everything, how many times can they charge fees for the same transaction? Aren’t they supposed to provide a service or put something back into the community? CUNTS!!! IOf course, it could just be a cheap upsell technique used by drowning businesses to coerce a few extra dollars from a desperate consumer, and I confess in the past I have bought shit I didn’t even want just to get the shit I needed. I’d probably do it today if only I ACTUALLY HAD TEN DOLLARS WHICH I FUCKING WELL DON’T!!!

So I stare at the old woman across the counter. I change tack. Could you just put it through? How about you charge me $8 for the milk. You double your money, I get milk, that has to cover your costs, yeah? She shakes her head and waves an index finger at me like a naughty child. No no no. $10 minimum. OK. That failed. In a last ditch effort: OK, can I just take the milk? I’ll pay you on Wednesday, I promise. Her eyes widen like she’s never heard anything so preposterous in her life – which is a long fucking time to not hear anything like this. No! She’s shouting at me Put it back if you don’t have money. You come back on Wednesday with money I sell you whatever you like. Go on! Get out! Get out of here!

She reached for a broom and was going to sweep me out of the fucking shop, for real. She grabbed it, raised the bristles at me and began to walk around the counter – I just left. You win, lady. FUCK!!! I’ve been going to her fucking dank, cockroach-infested shithole every couple of days for two years. Two fucking years and this is what I get for customer loyalty. I get swept away like garbage because I wasn’t spending ten lousy bucks. I can’t seriously go back there now. Not ever. I’m a fuckin’ person. I bought their overpriced shit because of convenience. FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING OLD BITCH!!! Where is compassion? Where is community? Where is the next nearest fucking shop to my house? FUCK! How fucking depressing. Black coffee, a big dose of humiliation and the loss of my corner store forever.

How My Monday Turned To Complete Shit!

Posted in Random Shit That Gives Me The Cunt with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 13, 2008 by Buck Frain

On the train on the way in to work yesterday afternoon, standing there minding my own business when a complete scrotum-head spilt his coffee. I’ve no idea what he was doing and I doubt he did either but we had stopped at a station, his station, not mine and somewhere in his haste to make it to the door he upended what seemed like a whole cup of coffee down the front of my shirt and pants. 

He hadn’t even noticed until I yelped something containing a few mild expletives, at which point he turned around, noted his cup…hmm, lighter…and me…ooh, angry and wet. He smiled, embarrassed and mouthed a cowardly Sorry, but continued to back-step his way to the door and freedom. I mouthed a considerably voluminous Cunt! as the doors closed. A concerned woman, unperturbed by my profanity, asked me if I was OK and handed me some tissues, which I dabbed ineffectually at my stained crotch whilst holding the fabric at a safe distance while it cooled. The coffee hadn’t been overly hot and thankfully hadn’t done any medical damage but I was left with the cosmetic problem. A white shirt and fawn pants completely cunted by some uncoordinated fuck’s crappuccino. What the flyblown-arse was I going to do? 

There was no turning up to work in my present state so I rang the mill-stone-around–my-neck that employs me to let her know I would be late. WHY DO YOU ALWAYS LAUGH AT ME, YOU FAT BITCH? LOOK IN THE FUCKING MIRROR, WHAT DO YOU EVER HAVE TO LAUGH ABOUT? I hate her so much! 

I got off the train, crossed to the opposite platform and caught a train back home. I’m usually at work early on account of having a bit of an obsessive problem with lateness so I had time up my sleeve. I got off the train and the wetness of my clothing coupled with the wind made me quite cold. I hurried home and snapped my key off in the flyscreen door lock. Snapped it. Right off. 

Oh, ha ha HA!!! FUCK YOU, GOD, YOU OMNIPRESENT PIECE OF CLOUD-DWELLING SHIT!!! FUCK YOU!!! Isn’t it funny how your neighbours never ask what’s wrong when you’re screaming blasphemies at the sky? Fuck you, Gareth! He doesn’t speak to me because his girlfriend smiled at me once. 

I rang my land agent, he’s a complete cunt, as they all are – I believe it’s a prerequisite for the job. He told me he was heading out the door and as I’d snapped the key off, it was my responsibility to find a locksmith, not his. It is Monday, isn’t it? 

Stuck outside my house – the backdoor can only be opened from inside. After a few phone calls, finally, I found a locksmith who could come out and fix it. In keeping with the rest of my day, it was after 5pm so after-hours rates were all I was going to get unless I wanted to sleep on my front step. He’d get here in half an hour. Yeah! I love life, it rocks! I rang my stinking anus of a boss and let her know I wouldn’t be in at all. She was less amused by this call and I could tell she’d hold that shit over my head for a good 18 months – fuck, maybe I could poison her donuts, everyone hates her, there’d be so many suspects I’d be almost certain to get away with it. 

The locksmith arrived, he was a cheerful-looking guy in his early forties called David. I was genuinely grateful to see him. He approached and I could see him taking stock of the shivering, coffee-stained figure I’d become. I could see him feel that inevitable sense of smugness one has when they know their life is substantially better than someone else’s, and without any malice he smiled Looks like you’ve been having a good day so far!, he joked. The lackadaisical whimsy of his comment severed a neurological connection deep in my brain, something twanged inside my head and I broke into uncontrollable laughter. I looked at him and shrieked with laughter. I knew it was ridiculous but I couldn’t stop. The shivering from the cold gave way to wracking sobs of hilarity as tears rolled down my cheeks and my body cramped with the pain of hysterical laughter. David looked very concerned all of a sudden and putting a hand out as if to half sooth and half keep me at a safe distance. Are you OK? 

That sent me off even more, I couldn’t articulate a syllable. I mouthed words that wouldn’t form and he just stared in fear at the giggling mess now collapsed and gibbering on my front step. With some effort I rolled away from the door. Trying desperately to control my breathing and stop the laughter, and I waved him towards the door. Nervously he edged towards the door, glancing back at me to make sure I didn’t do anything weird – like a guy covered in coffee laughing like a maniac on the ground outside his house isn’t weird.

The laughter began to subside. Gradually, I brought myself under control, only bursting out again occasionally whenever he looked back at me. He must have realised looking at me made it worse and he just focused on the lock. He was fast. Within 10 minutes he’d removed the offending lock and replaced it with a new one. I had calmed down and gotten to my feet and was acting like nothing out of the ordinary had happened whatsoever. I casually handed him my credit card and soberly thanked him for having helped me at such short notice. He also pretended everything was perfectly normal, handed me my new keys and left me to my open house. 

Once inside and changed, I reflected on the expense of the afternoon. One lost shift, serious laundering and $150 worth of lock. The lock may have happened anyway, but in the interest of being petty and small-minded, that fucker on the train cost me over $350. I remember your face, motherfucker, you owe me three hundred and fifty bucks, and when I see you next, I’ll fuckin’ ask for it. You fucking spastic, UNCO FUCK!!! You travel on my train line and I’ll fucking see you again, be fuckin’ sure if it! I’ll have coffee too. I’ll never go to work again without coffee. I’ll have coffee every day, really hot, strong, black coffee and if you don’t have my money, I’ll fucking spill it on you and I’ll burn your fucking balls off with my coffee!!! And I’ll fucking laugh at you and your stupid burning balls and your stupid stained clothes. HA HA HA!!!

 

Whose Grass Are You Really Cutting?

Posted in Random Shit That Gives Me The Cunt with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 6, 2008 by Buck Frain

I worked late last night. Thankfully, I don’t work 9-5 all the time. I sometimes think the one thing that saves my sanity is that I don’t have a strict routine. Last night I finished up around midnight, got home by 1am. Of course, getting home at that time you don’t want to go to bed straight away, so I sat up and had a glass of wine and watched some TV, knowing I didn’t have to get up too early – all very civilised. 

My bedroom is being torn apart. Jesus, mother and fuck, wha…? I roll over too abrubtly and crack my eyebrow into the corner of the bedside table. ARSE!!! I’m awake. 

Still squinting one eye beneath a hot, smarting brow, I reach for my mobile to check the time. 8:30am? My middle aged neighbour is mowing his lawn, or more specifically the nature strip outside my fence AT 8:30am! BASTARD BASTARD BASTARD!!! Between him and me there’s a wooden fence and a glass sliding door – he might as well be mowing my fucking doona! What the fuck sort of person does this? Who the fuck are these people who have nothing better to do at 8:30am than mow their cunting lawn? This fucker is constantly mowing his lawn. He must have fucking mowed it twice a week every week since I moved in, it’s a miracle there’s any fucking grass left. I’m serious, the mad bastard’s out there every three or four days mowing! What the shitting pissflaps drives a person to obsess like this over a fucking shitty piece of lawn? 

It’s not a golf green. It’s a pissy triangle of lawn on a corner block and a nature strip outside his fence. With water restrictions he hasn’t been allowed to water the shit for years, but arse-rape me with a bag of carrots if the old ballbag’s not out there twice a fucking week trimming the cunting Jesus out of it. I think he must be retired, he’s always at home and only other thing he does is have screaming matches with his wife through the kitchen window. Now, that’s just fucking weird, and that always happens first thing in the morning too. It’s always the fucking same – with him in the garden and her indoors screaming at each other through the closed kitchen window – at least no-one gets hit. They’re Greek so I don’t understand a fucking word of it but I think that may be a blessing. Who the hell wants to know what two people, who’ve been married way too long, scream at each other about? But I do think about it – well, it’s not like I’ve got any choice when it wakes me up and sounds like they’re actually in my house. Part of me really wants to know what they scream about. Maybe I could help. 

Today it came to me. The lawn. It’s a metaphor. They’re an older couple and things have cooled down. She must have a big-ol’-retro-bush, she wants action, but he wants some new-school-pruned-punani. The manic mowing and the frustrated screaming – it’s all part of the same problem. What a thoroughly disgusting revelation – fuck you, brain! But, fuck, that’s what it is, I’m certain of it. The real question is whether they’re actually talking about it. Are they actually yelling at each other about it or do they shout about petty domestic trivialities unaware that the whole problem is a difference of aesthetic tastes in personal grooming and an inability to be sexually open with each other? That’d be a fucking tragedy, an ugly tragedy… but a tragedy nonetheless. If I could solve this I’d be able to get some fuckin’ sleep. But what the fuck could I realistically do? Leave subtle presents in their letter-box? Razors, wax strips, hair removal cream? That’s pretty fuckin’ scary. I’m so fucked off from sleep-deprivation I just want to run out into my yard and shriek at the top of my lungs: For fuck’s sake, SHAVE YOUR FUCKIN’ PUSSY AND LET ME GET SOME SLEEP!!!

Yeah…that could work. It could… On the other hand it could just get me murdered, there’s no explaining that shit away. BASTARD! WHY CAN’T YOU JUST FUCKIN MOW AFTER 10???

Self-absorbedness & The Illusion Of Public Solitude.

Posted in Random Shit That Gives Me The Cunt with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 2, 2008 by Buck Frain

Congratulations, you have a mobile phone! Ooh, it’s exciting, it takes photos and plays .mp3s, you must be really proud.

I understand that new technology is exciting. I too have a great love of toys and gadgets. But, I do not try out all of my 57 new ringtones in public. I don’t play music out of my phone on its piss-weak speaker at its tinny top volume in the middle of a crowded tram. I don’t do this because I recognise that I live in a society with a bunch of other people, some of whom may not share my taste in complete banality. I don’t do it because I’m not a complete fuck-waste. I mean really, you fucking bogan, put the fucking phone away. I don’t want to hear your shit music. I especially don’t want to hear it on public transport through a pissy phone that was never designed to be used as a public address system. Who the fuck are these people? This genetic underclass, they are who I picture when Marx (no, not Richard, cunt!) describes the lumpenproletariat, they are social scum. Fuck me, it’s Deliverance in a tracksuit and with an ice habit! Did you actually originate from a sexual act or did your obese, inbred mum pick you up from a deranged alcoholic’s wank-splatter on a public toilet seat? I just want to grab their fucking phones and hurl them out the tram window. Fuck it, why stop with the phone? GORMLESS CUNTS!

Slightly above these fuckers on the genetic inferiority scale are the shitbirds who have really loud phone conversations on public transport. These people can look quite normal, even respectable but because they can’t hear the person they’re talking to very well, they assume that they also can’t be heard, so on a quiet train carriage, they yell their conversation so everyone onboard hears it whether they want to or not. It could be business or the most personal shit in the world but they’ll just crap on like they’re alone. I fucking hate it. It really fucks with me, I don’t want that kind of intimate knowledge of a stranger’s life. It’s like some an unsolicited spiritual fingering, it’s fucking disgusting, mind-raping bastards! The only retaliation I have found is to offer the offender my opinion on their conversation after it’s over. Now that really fucks with them, they get really shitty. You know, it could be Hep C, was Sharon in jail? Or: He’s fucking you, man, if you pay more than $1500 you’re totally getting done! It’s amazing how they suddenly think I’m the bad guy. The whole carriage may be trying not to laugh because they all got the same shit as me, but no, to the freak, I’m the evil eaves-dropper. IT’S A TRAIN, YOU FUCKHEAD – YOU’RE NOT ALONE!!!

Of course, you don’t have to use a mobile phone to be an obnoxious PT passenger. There are plenty of fuckstains who can’t help projecting their conversation to the entire carriage when the other person’s sitting next to them. Are they drunk? Are they deaf? Are they actors? Are they just teenagers who haven’t been sufficiently beaten-down so they realise they’re not alone on the planet? Could be any or all, one thing’s for sure: They’re annoying bastards and fuck me dead if I don’t want to hack off their heads with a ripped-open Coke can.

In conclusion, if like me you use public transport, please: read a book, listen to your iPod, even have a quiet chat, but for fuck’s sake remember there are people around you. People who tolerate your presence only because you respect theirs and because they don’t want to go to prison for silencing you with a pen Joe-Pesci-style. Just because you have your head up your arse doesn’t mean the rest of the world ceases to exist, you’re not invisible! There is no “privacy” in public and just because you don’t care about other people doesn’t mean you can’t piss us off. If you push us too hard, if you play your shit music, if you shout to your mum about your herpes, one day… we’ll crack and we’ll choose prison. Why? Because it’s QUIETER!!! Ask yourself whether that Gwen Stefani track is really worth bleeding to death in a tram for!

Sometimes They Come Back.

Posted in Random Shit That Gives Me The Cunt with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 29, 2008 by Buck Frain

There are two things I do in the morning, every morning. If either of them are missing the whole day seems to get a bit out of kilter and never quite comes right.

My routine isn’t particularly complex – I have a coffee and a shit. Over time it’s become a deeply ingrained way to start the day. In the beginning, I’d get up, brew a pot of espresso and after a cup I’d need to go to the loo. After a while it got so that the cup of coffee had to be set aside part-way through and resumed after nature had its call. Nowadays, my morning is pure ritual. I put the coffee on the stove and once it heats up so I can smell it, my intestines gurgle and I have to bolt off for what I’ve come to know as Pavlov’s Bog. 

This morning was no different. Put the coffee on, the aroma like Pavlov’s dinner bell sent me off to the toilet. Mission accomplished, I flushed and began washing my hands in preparation of the almost-ready coffee when I realised something was wrong. The water was rising in the bowl, a revolting tide was turning and the brown trout were swimming back upstream. And there was nothing I could do. NOTHING – I was completely helpless! The plumbing had failed and now I was a mere spectator. How could this happen? That modern miracle that protects us from the cruel and filthy biological reality of being an animal had failed me and I was staring in horror at an advancing back-catalogue of my recent meals.

The water edged up to the rim of the bowl and, I realise now, I was still in complete denial, vainly hoping that it would just stop there. I’d have been happy if it stayed there just so long as it didn’t go any further. It did. I let out what I think was probably a very girly scream as the feculant soup and the healthiest of the trout flubbed out onto the tiles. Sheer panic gripped me, the stench was impactfully violent. Brilliant! A dream come true – my own private bio-hazard! My house was a sewer. FUCK YOU, GOD, YOU CUNT! I yelled at the ceiling. The flow had stopped, bowl still full and threatening, but flow stopped. A miracle? Hang on, I’m an atheist. I stared at the devastation, at the pool of shit and piss and old toilet paper sludge over my bathroom floor. Ew, corn! IN MY FUCKING HOUSE! BALLS!!! ARSE!!!

 

After regaining some composure, I hopped the dry spots to the freedom of the rest of the house, shutting the door after me. Alright, I’ll just never use that room again! For half a second it seemed a realistic proposition. I phoned a plumber, then I phoned the obese, giggling bint that is my boss to tell her I’d be late. Oh, ha ha, Buck’s house is filled with shit! HA HA HA HA HA HA! CUNT! WHY DON’T YOU DIE??? Let me wrap up some of these turds in some bread for you and you can EAT MY SHIT!!! 

Fuck I hate my boss, but that’s another story. The plumber came. He didn’t laugh, I found that comforting, mind you I doubt I’d ever laugh again if I was faced with other people’s excrement every day of my life. He fixed the trout farm in my bathroom. It took him most of the day – a tree root from next door’s jacaranda had taken up residence in my sewer blocking it up and forcing the flow of traffic back to the source. Bastard trees, stealing my poo! Fucking stupid water restrictions, forcing trees to eat shit. Fucking stupid drought, forcing us to have water restrictions! Cunting bastard human race, overpopulating the planet and using all the water on golf courses!  FUCK!!! Ah! At least I didn’t have to see my cunting boss today, and at least my house is no longer filled with shit. 

Be grateful for your plumbing and remember when you flush…sometimes they come back.