Archive for Coffee

Why does the fish man smile at me like that?

Posted in Things Rank And Gross In Nature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 31, 2008 by Buck Frain

Within the seafood industry there is a joke. A nasty, nasty joke.


I went the market on Wednesday and bought some fish. I enjoy cooking and fresh fish is a wonderful thing.  So I looked at the various things on offer and my eye was caught by some big butterfish steaks on special. I lived in South Australia for a while and butterfish is the standard fish-n-chip-shop fish. It’s a mild, white flesh fish, nothing fancy but very pleasant. These steaks looked fantastic, they were from a much bigger specimen than the fish-n-chip-shop fillets back in S.A., thickly cut, succulent-looking and at a price that was impossible to go past.


I asked for one of the butterfish steaks and the thin guy behind the counter pointed at them with eyebrows slightly raised to check he’d heard me right. Yeah, just one. I confirmed with an upheld index finger. He smiled a little quizzical half-smile, barely noticeable, was it a polite acknowledgement of a wise choice? Was it nothing to do with me? I paid for the fish and thought no more about it.


I pan-fried my butterfish steak with some chopped spring onion, fresh ginger, soy and lime juice. Served with steamed vegetables and wasabi mash, and accompanied by a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, it was pretty damn good if I do say so myself.


The next morning I got the joke.


I had to go to work early, there was a briefing for a new business job that was coming into field. Fuck, briefings are boring. Sit in a plastic chair and listen to some reasty twat who doesn’t know the first thing about communication, with a monotone, barely audible voice drone on and on about some bullshit survey. Sweet cunting Jesus, I could fucking kill myself! I stopped at a café on the way to buy some liquid fortitude.


While waiting for the coffee I felt the sharp pain of a rogue fart just bursting to get out. There was no-one else around me so I figured I could just gently let it out silently and no-one would be the wiser. I misjudged. Not by much but it was enough. It would have been literally a matter of milliseconds before I resecured my sphincter but the damage was done. No sound, but the deadly warm wetness of a shart. I’d shat, just a little but there was no mistake. In the middle of a coffee shop I had shat myself. Escape. I caught the eye of the girl making my coffee Excuse me, I just need to use the bathroom. I shuffled off to the bathroom trying desperately not to look conspicuous or to spread the damage too far, or more imortantly to let go of my tightly clenched sphincter which, I was certain, was holding back a great tsunami of shit.

Through the door, into the cubicle, lock, belt, trousers-undies-sit, release. Oh fucking hell! A terrifying splatterfest of semi-solids and jetting liquid erupted from me. The stench made me dry retch. My own stench made me dry retch. The tsunami subsided. I realised I was sitting on the toilet arms outstretched, bracing against the walls of the cubicle. I relaxed my arms and looked down at my underpants to inspect the damage. It was just a small streak of liquid at the arse crack. I checked and it hadn’t soaked through to the pants. Big relief. Leg by leg I extricated myself from the soiled undies replacing my pants. What to do with them.


I stood and turned to see the damage in the bowl. WHAT THE FUCK? To my unmitigated horror, the fairly regular, squishy looking turds floating in the bowl were in surrounded and coated by a layer of clear orange-brown oil. I swear it is true. There was a layer of oil over the water in the bowl. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. I’d shat an oil slick. I looked at the crotch of the undies. It was oil. I sniffed them. EW! Only once, dry retch again. They stank of shit (surprising!) and old fish. Fucking butterfish! That was the fucking cryptic smile. He fucking knew. THAT DIRTY MOTHERFUCKER KNEW AND HE SAID NOTHING!!! CUNT!!!


Butterfish should come with a warning – MAY CAUSE ANAL LEAKAGE! I never understood the term anal leakage before but this was it. The sphincter, that wonderful muscular device which can tell solid from liquid from gas so effectively. That magical sphincter is rendered completely useless by oil. And just for those of you laughing your arses off right now: anal leakage SUCKS!!! FUCK YOU, FISH GUY!


Keep it together. I had to get my coffee and go to work. Ah, the coffee. Fuck, work! My gut rumbled. Ooh. There was going to be more visits today, I would be on anal guard like a bastard all day. But now I knew the score, I wouldn’t get caught again. It’s not a fart, just remember it’s not a fart, maybe you’ll never be able to fart with pants on ever again. That’s OK, I can live with that, just please let me not shit myself at work.


I wiped and straightened myself out. I flushed. Oh God NO!!! The horror. Oil, being lighter than water, doesn’t want to flush away. After four flushes I gave up and left a few little pools of oil floating in the bowl. I opened the cubicle door, still alone, took my oil-shat undies to the sink and washed them rigorously with hand soap, wrung them out and stood at the hand drier drying them, silently praying no-one would randomly enter, or even worse, come looking for me. Fuck, how long had I been away?


The undies dried. No-one came. I was ready with a what-the-fuck-are-you-looking-at expression if someone did come in. What, you’ve never seen a guy drying his underpants before? Back to the cubicle, pants down leg-by-leg undies back on. Two more flushes, just for luck, out, wash hands.


I returned to the café, paid for the coffee and left. It was cold, the coffee girl looked at me a bit funny, I realised I was sweating, she probably thought I’d gone in for a sly phone-wank, I was late for work – fuck you, wobblers! During the course of the day I had five more shits – all with, thankfully, decreasing amounts of oil.


I tell you this: everything in this post is true. Beware of butterfish! Be afraid of butterfish! VERY FUCKING AFRAID! Butterfish causes anal leakage. Unless you are buying it from a fish-n-chip shop in South Australia, in which case I suspect it’s just flake, DON’T FUCKING BUY IT!!! It’s a joke fish, we’re not meant to eat it, fishmongers stock and sell it purely for comedy value, the rotten fuckers! If you buy and eat it then your arse will leak oil and you’ll shit your pants.


If, on the other hand, you’re looking for something to serve to people you hate, this is the dish for you, it’ll fuck ’em!

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!!!