Archive for Disaster

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!

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.