Archive for Gross

Tumour Boy Vs. Spaz Hand

Posted in Things Rank And Gross In Nature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 11, 2008 by Buck Frain

 

Until recently, I had a vaguely repugnant growth on my wrist. It was a hard lump, a nodule about the size of a pea. It had been there for a few years and was originally scar tissue from an ancient and very trivial injury that, instead of having the decency to fade away like Andrew Ridgeley, decided it wanted more of the limelight like Kate Ceberano and began to build itself into my conjoined twin. There was no real problem with it being there other than it wasn’t paying rent and it grossed people, most importantly women, out. So, on the tried-and-true principle that chicks dig scars more than benign fibrous tumours, I decided to have it lopped off.

 

A simple plan to be sure, went in for day surgery, surgeon cut it out – ugly fuckin’ thing, looked like a Cronenberg version of the ball that rattles ‘round in a referee’s whistle. Sadly, he wouldn’t let me keep it, I wanted to sell it on eBay – stitched it up with three little sutures and that was it.

 

I had an appointment with the surgeon a week later to have the stitches taken out. Hmm…fuck that, I thought. Why pay some over-educated git $50 to take out stitches? Anyone can take stitches out, I’ll take the bastards out myself. I sterilized the nail scissors and took out the stitches – easy. Feeling terribly proud of myself I leant back and stretched my hands out in front of me and pop!

 

Fuck! I’d ruptured the wound and now had a gaping hole in my wrist rapidly filling with thick gelatinous blood. Whoa! Strangely, it didn’t hurt but it did make me feel decidedly queasy. I locked up the house and made off to the nearest hospital’s emergency department.

 

There really is no-one like a doctor to making you feel like a twat. I had to ‘fess up to taking out my own stitches and toolishly popping the wound open. The doctor did his disapproving head-shake. Do they learn that in university? Bed-side manner 101 – patronising head-shakes and knowing sighs. Yes, I feel stupid already, my blood is coming out, now shut up and do your job! It turned out that the wound was unclean and needed to be debrided. Ah! No, not my fault! Get fucked! I kept it clean, I fuckin’ did everything I was supposed to, don’t even go there! The fucking stupid surgeon I originally saw fucked up the wound by putting in pissy superficial stitches on the surface of the wound so that beneath the skin it wasn’t held together at all. The wrist is a joint, it flexes, it needed stronger stitches, it wasn’t my cunting fault at all! But would anyone listen to that? Of course not. I took the stitches out myself so everything is my fault. Bah! It’s all cunts!

 

So after cleaning the wound out with a vigour usually reserved for removing baked-on scrambled eggs from old pans, he stitched it up with one hardcore suture and I was on my way with a new dressing and an appetite for codeine.

 

Out of hospital, off to the city. Getting off the tram, trying to avoid getting my throbbing wrist bumped by shit-licking, fuck-faced, spatially-unaware Joes Public who couldn’t wait for people to exit the tram before cramming themselves onto it, I lost my balance. Lurching forward, I reached for a handrail to stop my fall out of the tram, which I misjudged like a fuckstick, catching the back of my thumb on the handrail and following it with the bulk of my body weight. The thumb bent around underneath my hand until it gave a barely perceptible snapping sound. FUCK! FUCK! FUCKING CUNTING BASTARD!!! I cannot express quite how much it hurt. I’m unsure if I was swearing out loud or just muttering incoherently but I shambled around at the tram stop for a few minutes as the pain shot up my arm and my hand blew up into an udder with finger-teats.

 

Gradually, I relaxed enough to do some basic first-aidy tests to see how much mobility/strangth I had. They all hurt really really badly, the thumb was definitely cunted – I crossed the tram tracks and went back to hospital.

 

Same doctor, more humiliation, X-rays. He actually laughed at me and said: You’re not having a very good day, are you? Yes I am actually, sluthead, I normally spend my days with my head up a pig’s rectum and skewers in my testicles so today’s bitching! CUNT!!! No, I nodded and gave a courteous laugh – this guy could still hurt me.

 

The X-rays came back: the thumb was not broken, that’d be too easy – 4 to 6 weeks in plaster? Nah! I have a partial tear to a ligament which is painful but sounds really minor and wussy, and means I have to wear a cast for 8 weeks!

 

Brilliant! Just cunting well brilliant!!! I have to look after my right wrist – not too much lifting or movement there for a week or two and I have a cunting great nylon cast on my left hand and forearm for the next two months. I am domestic comedy. Watch Buck shower! Ha ha!!! See Buck wash the dishes. How many will he break today? Ah, he’s such a cunt!

 

Any sympathy votes I may have scored for the wrist have evaporated with the thumb, it’s too pitiful to be anything but fuckheadedness. I am just a loser now, a figure for ridicule and scorn. That may have never been any other way but the perception was never quite so focused on the truth as it is now. Fuck you, tumours! Fuck you, gravity! Fuck you, the medical profession! FUCK!!!

 

 

On Being A Stinky F*#ker!

Posted in Crap Jobs with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 5, 2008 by Buck Frain

 

I was on the 86 tram today, heading up Smith Street in Collingwood, when a guy got on. He was an unkempt, very Smith-St-looking guy with a big backpack and hair matted into one big dread. Yeah, dead giveaway – one matted dread, not even cool, cared-for dreads plural, but one manky slept-on nest – the mark of a lazy fucker with no sense of self or personal hygiene. I wouldn’t care,  I do hold a certain affection for the squalid sleaziness of Smith St and its population…except that he stank, I mean really stank. He got on the tram and and instantly a wall of  foetid, unwashed rankness seared my eyes and stuck its fingers down my gag reflex. I dry-retched and I could see that everyone around me also appeared to be suffering.

For fuck’s sake, why would you want to be a stinky fucker? Why, out of all the possible choices you could make in life, would you choose not washing yourself? Fuckin’ WHY??? And don’t even try to tell me it’s because he’s poor because I’ll shit in a postpack and mail it to you! I know poverty, I’ve been poor and I’ve travelled to countries where they have real poverty, people still manage to wash themselves. People living on less than a dollar a day still manage to regularly wash their clothes and their bodies and behave like people, so this cunt’s stench is nothing to do with poverty, this was a mother-fucking lifestyle choice! 

Again I will ask: WHY? What does the smelly person get out of being smelly? There must be some upside other than saving water and preserving the world’s soap reserves. What the feculent-rotting-carcass is wrong with bathing?  I mean, when I was 7 I didn’t like having showers but that was more due to their disruption of the day’s activities and their being the precursor to bed-time rather than from a desire to be a stinking shit-merchant. So what is it? Could it be a strategy of dealing with fellatiophobia (the fear of being sucked off)? If so, it’d probably work – 99%* of respondents interviewed said they’d be much less likely to go down on a guy with a cheesy cock. 

I’m all for diversity, I genuinely am. I love that I live in a pluralistic society where people can live more or less however they choose. I don’t look down upon those people who prefer not to conform to sterile consumerist norms. No, I celebrate the individual’s right to choose their own path even when their choices are very different to my own. But there are limits to my tolerance. If you want to smell like spew-flavoured armpits, vintage dick-cheese and a busted arse, go for your life, BUT FUCKING WALK THERE!!! Don’t get on a public tram and make paying customers dry-retch because of your disgusting stink-fetish. I don’t care what reason you’ve got, there’s no fucking justification for it, DON’T BE A STINKY FUCKER NEAR PEOPLE!!! GO STINK IN A FUCKING CAVE, YOU MISERABLE SHIT-SACK!!! It happens all the time, stinky bastards are everywhere, some of them even manage to make an occupation out of it: 

Aaw, maaate, could you spare $2, I’ve gotta…

No, I don’t! Not for you, you fuckin’ stinking shitbag! You’re a smelly mother-fucker and I wish you’d fucking die!!! Fuck off!!! 

Don’t even get me started on beggars. In developing countries, fine – all respect and compassion. In Australia – go fuck yourself! Take your mobile phone and call someone who cares, you junkie cunt! 

I know that sometimes everyone gets a bit sweaty – that’s fine, but fuck it, here’s some guidelines:

  • WASH!!!
  • Yourself and your clothes.
  • With soap.
  • Regularly!
  • DON’T recycle your underwear, you cheesy shit-fuck!
  • If you’re a naturally smelly person, carry deodorant.
  • If you’re going near people, FUCKING USE IT!!! 

I swear my patience with willfully these stinky fuckers is wearing painfully thin. Any decent citizen should be legally permitted to remove a smelly person from public transport, shops, anywhere they become a malignant nuisance, and set them on fire. People complain about passive smoking but inhaling the acrid vapours of decaying flesh and stale body waste is hideous, it’s a fuckin’ crime against humanity. If you want to stink like garbage you should be incinerated like garbage! GET FUCKED!!! If you see a guy with a jerry can on trains and trams around Melbourne, that’ll be me and you better hope you don’t fucking stink!

 

                

*Source: Buck Frain’s Attitudes To Genital Cheese Survey 2008. The other 1% threw up and/or declined to give an intelligible answer.

 

How To Lose Friends & Gross The Fuck Out Of People.

Posted in Things Rank And Gross In Nature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 12, 2008 by Buck Frain

Am I just old? Am I repressed? Am I a prude? I wouldn’t have thought so, but I have been forced to reconsider. Like most people in the world who aren’t being starved to death by western capitalism, I have a Facebook page, and surprising as it may seem, I have friends. Well…I have people who have added me as “friends” and that’s really what it’s all about – the appearance of popularity.

The problem I’ve always found with social groups of any sort is there are people who are your friends, and then there are people who you’re just supposed to accept because they have some space-time connection to the group. They don’t necessarily fit, and they may give everyone the right royal shits but for some reason no-one has the heart to fuck them off. Note well: If your social group doesn’t have a crap friend like this, have a good think because that crap friend may just be you.

Normally groups find ways of containing the unpleasant or embarrassing behaviour of crap friends Shutup Shon! Don’t worry, he’s OK, he’s just a bit of a tool.  But Facebook removes that ability to contain. It allows crap friends free reign to publish their inappropriateness to your whole social network. It allows the crapness to spew forth like a geyser of well…look up tubgirl if you really want to know. Actually, don’t.

I’ll get to the point. I logged into my profile for the first time in a couple of weeks and was shocked to find one of my brother’s crap friends had sent me a big picture of goatse. I wasn’t familiar with goatse and for those of you who also haven’t experienced it, in the name of taming it down, here’s a jack-a-lantern depiction of it.

Let me tell you, I’m not easily unsettled but goatse is fucking gross. But that wasn’t really what shat me. What really fucked me off was that for a week my real friends had been confronted with a hideous goatse on my page that had not been removed…for a week, therefore lending credence to the notion that I found it funny or acceptable or that it was in some sense my taste. I mean, fuck! People I work with, people I respect are checking my profile and one lowbrow fucker I added out of guilt is fucking my relationships up because he has no sense of the appropriate and has no internal censor. Inappropriate shit should be at least contained to personal emails, not broadcast to everyone you know.

So, before I have my entire social life undermined by one sick bastard, I’m getting honest. I’m doing some Facebook pruning and I urge you to do the same. Anyone who offends me or who I don’t genuinely like is going. That’s it, you’re out, get fucked! If you’re more of a liability than an asset, fuck off! It sounds mercenary, nasty and intolerant but I don’t give a fuck. If I embarrass myself that’s one thing, I’ll even cope with friends embarrassing me, but when some random shitstick vandalises my social page with grotesque fetishist wankery it’s time to cut the ties. NO MORE FACEBOOK GUILT FRIENDS!!! Fuck you, crap friends!