München. Party of 10.

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There once was ten bogans who road tripped to München in Germany for a little party they heard was gonna be off the chain. The party had a name.

The ten bogans piled into one small van-type bus in London and set upon their way. Google maps said it would take them 12 hours but they were all prepared with lollies and choccies and a couple of bottles of vodka for sipping in the back- but only beer for the driver. They were pretty responsible when it came to their safety and such. After one hundred toilet stops, a quick detour through the Netherlands and 25 hours the bogans and their little bus arrived.

“München!” they all said in perfect unison together. “We made it! Huzzah!” And they promptly patted themselves and those nearest to them on the back. They unpacked their shit at a campsite which they had found with the help of a device which could apparently talk to the satellites, and they purchased beers from a vending machine- which was a first for all of them- and they bought some chippies with mayonnaise on top and they prepared for the big party, which was fancy dress. All of them had lost their invitations because they had not printed them off Facebook but it soon became clear that everybody at their campsite was also headed to the party so there was a special bus they could jump on to get right there.

When they got to the party the ten bogans were so pleased. This was a big shindig. Unlike any shindig they had seen ever before. Matt had a sister, Sharon, who once had a really big wedding for her second marriage- but even that couldn’t compare to this party. Beers were served in the most ginormous glasses which Barry found out were actually 1 liter big: “That’s like a carton of milk!” He grinned.

Everybody had got right into the spirit of dressing up- all the girls had tight bodice type dresses which almost looked like fancy lingerie outside of fancy white blouses and the boys had all went right out with button down shirts and nice corduroy shorts and suspenders and the lot. It was just a great vibe at this party. Whoever’s birthday it was must’ve been totally stoked with the turnout too.

“I’m starvin’ marvin’ fellas,” Said Jacqui. “I’m off to find meself one of those pork knuckle things. They look farkin’ good.” And she was off to find herself a pork knuckle. And they didn't see her until midday the next day coz apparently she found a pork knuckle and some free beers and some new friends and then she had found the bus home but she had missed the stop outside the campsite on account of her having a little kip on the way. When she got to Austria in the wee hours of the morning she made some more new friends who asked if she wanted to stay at their house and then they drove her home the next day. Jacqui was pretty lucky really ‘cause it would’ve been a right pickle to get back with no money all the way from Austria. Jacqui was pretty lucky a lot. Sally said she must’ve had an angel type watching over her shoulder at parties and social occasions.

Well, Jacqui’s angel was not present while the other nine sank pints and danced on tables and annihalated pork knuckles and made strangers do pushups for saying random words which they never had any hope of avoiding. There was a lot to be said for peer pressure and yelling at strangers. But, Jacqui’s angel was certainly not present when they left that night: Danny had lost his dignity in the back of a beer hall, Matt had lost his flip flops, Barry had a black eye from an unfortunate prosting, Sally and Tara and Megan were all short of phones, cameras and sunglasses because Sally had left her bag under a table of beers. Then they couldn’t find it. The other five didn’t get home- they were all caught urinating in public and were taken immediately to jail and weren’t released until Brent’s rich uncle Bill wired through €10,000 for bail in two days. No. No lucky angel for them.

But, they still had pictures of the event on Matt’s camera and so, later when they all perused the Oktoberfest album on Facebook they remembered the adventure with grins and fond memories.

The Lane 7 Pin Technician

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"Excuse me Ma'am, can I help you?"

"Whatchu is? Maintenance?"

"No, honey, I'm Starlight Lanes resident Lane 7 Pin Technician." He spoke in a voice which he'd cultivated over his 19 years until, he hoped, it had become reminiscent of the margarine-soft tones of Elvis Presley blended with the gravelly manly manliness of Chuck Bloke Norris. "Looks like you've got yourself a blockage here. Can I help?"

"Uh, yes please," She snapped her gum at him in a flirty way. "Our pink ball's stuck down there. Cindy fought it was her turn again so she chucked her ball down on topa mine. Pushed mine back di'nit, Cinders? Ya know, it's really messed up our rotation Mr. Technician. No chance we can get a free game over 'ere is vere?" The girl stepped towards him, revealing a very revealing slit in her black mini dress. The opening between the spandex fabric stretched almost as high as the gold chain belt which hung loosely from her small waist.

"I- Chuck Bloke Norris don't fail me now!- I'll see what I can do for you ladies. In the meantime, let's get rid of pinky down there." As he began his walk down the side of the lane to get to the other side the girls called out to him some skanky remarks.

"How ya fit all that man in them overalls Mr. Technician?"

"Yeah, yeah, after you fix them pins I've got a couple more for ya to look at!"

"Looks like we got us a lucky strike tonight, Cinders!"

"I'll be your spare wiv two pins in the air!"

They got progressively more witty as the tehnician grew closer to the secret behind-lane door and he lamented stepping out of earshot. But a job was a job and he took his job very seriously.

The technician had applied for this particular job 6 times before he got it. That showed the boss that he really wanted it. Since that joyful day when he had signed the tax file number declaration form and donned his yellow 'Staff' badge that technician had made it his job to prove his worth.

Within six months he had become the best lane technician at Starlight Bowls. He hoped that one day he would become the manager of the whole entire place.

The technician had always loved the bowling alley. There was something about that sound of urethane against wood. That special and satisfying 'knock' that could just set your spirits soaring as high as the sky. Plus, it's a well known fact- chicks dig guys who bowl. And by spending a lot of time in the lanes, our lane 7 pin technician was, indeed, a little bit hotter by association.

In truth, he couldn't bowl to save his favourite bowling shoes- but nobody really had to know that. As long as people kept throwing balls on top of other balls, this technician was an A grade hot commodity.

On this particular day, our lane 7 pin technician successfully cleared the pink ball and came back to lane 7 to give a progress update to the skanky girls. They jumped on him and started pashing his face, right there on the awkward players seating circle.

The technician was given a real razzing by his boss and then he was fired.

He moved to a small city just outside of Perth and got a job his first time applying for a job at a bowling alley up there. It was called Wax On Lanes and he was the head pin technician, the only pin technician. At first he didn't think he could handle the stress of technicianing for allll four lanes at one time but, he swallowed his fear and gulped back his nerves and he handled that alley like a champ.

When the General Manager of the establishment carked it two years later due to severe complications from 20 years in the coal mining industry the technician was next in line for the job.

With a chest swelled with pride and a smile filled with teeth the technician became a manager. And after hours, when the last disco bowlers had polished their balls and left for the night, the ex-technician taught himself to bowl.

And he was bad. He was bad at bowling like prawns in a bucket of milk on a hot tin roof left out for the summer is bad. He was bad.

And when he realised he was bad his passion for bowling died an instant death and he got his truck license and moved earth.

If he couldn't be a four bagger, he didn't want to hear urethane touch wood at all.

Shoo, Fly. Don't Bother Jesus

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Jesus wept as he pushed his pushbike through Wollongong. Jesus was a pansy. "It's too hot and I swear I've got a bloody blowfly the size of a 747 dive bombing me," He sobbed into his mobile phone headset. "Can you hear it? Madge, I just wanna come ho-" But that's as far as Jesus got. We'll never know what he was going to say. Because at that moment, mid-word, he inhaled sharply into a sob and hoovered the 747 sized blow fly straight into his mouth and down his windpipe!

Oh mah lord, what a kafuckus. At first Jesus couldn't breathe at all. He dropped his bicycle, not sure whether to be pushing air out or sucking more in because nothing seemed to be moving in either direction- before long he started to panic. He would definitely be needing to breathe very soon.

Realising that he wasn't going to be much help to it in crunch time, Jesus' body began to think for him. His little clogged up throat sent a morse-code message to his lungs which began to squeeze as hard as they could, forcing Jesus to cough-and-clear fly carnage. Well, he coughed and he coughed and he coughed, and with a sickening snap he gave one final, violent cough and the fly flew from his throat without flapping its wings, and he could breathe again... But now something else hurt.

Jesus had gone and cracked a rib.

He was pretty sure that's what it was. It could account for the cracking noise and the rib pain and the crack in the x-ray picture of his ribs which the doctor later showed him. Sigh. A cracked rib. Now, Jesus wasn't in a tippy top condition financially. He was sharing some kids with Madonna and they'd cost him a fortune in Kabbalah water on an outing to the animal sanctuary on a hot day last week, so there was nothing he needed now like a quick fix at a low cost.

Jesus wept as he pushed his pushbike through Wollongong, wincing with the pain of his broken bone. He walked with a little pimp lean just to make sure no shardy bits could pierce his heart.

Before long Jesus had pushed his bicycle to a little shopping centre and in that little shopping center was a statue of a horse, and this gave Jesus an excellent idea. He would stick his ribs together with glue! He was a very intelligent man who lived with a firm belief in the deliberate order of things. So, he decided that, to precisely reverse the damage previously done he would have to retrace the steps of the broken bones- They got broke on expiration, so they should get fixed on inhallation.

And he chained up his bicycle and he walked with his little pimp lean right into the craft shop on the corner and got himself a bottle o' Clag. He removed the lid and he breathed deeply, thinking thoughts of purity and healing. With his mind he channelled the glue fumes directly to the crack in his rib. He was careful to inhale with a violent force one or two times to make sure the process was artfully exact.

And then Jesus got a strange headache. His pain ebbed away like a polite crowd from the vicinity of a silent fart and, in its place, Jesus found a feeling that felt like light. His head was light, his bike was light, even the light in the sky was light. The sun, that's it, the sun was light. Jesus felt like he could pick it up and swallow it down like a dollop of cream. Everything was just, so, light...

After goodness knows how long, Jesus was startled to find a v-shaped formation of wild, black horses galloping straight across the light in his world. Their hooves thundered and their wild manes shook as they whinnied through town, blocking out the sun with giant boat hats made from newspaper- And Jesus realised the glue had not quite held him together all the way. "Must be too humid out here..." he decided. "Glue fumes can't set in this heat."

And his pain came back.

And Jesus wept. And it was warranted.

Thank you, @TracieLeeLee @CarFullofBogans, for your pain and enlightenment.

Tucker the Tommy Tomato

There once was a tommy tomato and his name was Tucker. Tucker was an angry little tomato. He was often so angry he nearly blew his stem right off. Tucker wore clothes made from ham and cheese toasted bread. He didn't need shoes because he trod very lightly on his tippy toes. That is how, when they did, all tomatoes walked.

Tucker got angry about many different things. He got angry when the traffic lights were red, even if he wasn't driving. He got angry when people did not say thank you, even when he wasn't giving. He got angry when there was not enough head on his beer, and he got angry when there was a very good head on his beer and it became a froth moustache on his top lip.

Tucker was just an angry little tomato.

Tucker got angry most often when it was sunny. He said his golden brown ham and cheese toasted bread ensemble simply would not look so sharp if it ever became a darker shade or- gasp- burned a little at the edges. Oh no, Tucker was not one for the sun. Being that he was already vine-ripened he saw no need for it. He poo-pooed at the mention of Vitamin D. He guffawed at the gall of them for suggesting sunlight as a method to improve his mood.

On one day in January, at Proserpine Airport, Tucker was stuck outside in the sun. Proserpine Airport, just outside of Airlie Beach, was an outdoor airport. The lounge for which to sit and wait for planes was in direct sunlight and it was always sunny there. Four seats sat in shade but they were filled with weary travellers who simply wouldn't get up for a testy tomato.
"Would you get up?" He asked them all. "I'm not one for the sun and my toasted coat can't take the heat."
"Sorry, Boss," They said, unconvincingly. "We're hungover, we're sunburned, and we're buggered."
Well, three hours later, Tucker's airplane was ready to be boarded and his clothing was ready to be aborted. His skin was soft, wrinkled and squelchy, and his coat was blacker than a starless night. If he'd been able to gather enough pressure inside his puckered skin he would certainly have blown his stem right off in anger.

But, as it was, he couldn't. So Tucker boarded the plane with a "schquelch schquelch" of his sagging tippy toes and he took his seat in first class. Before he buckled up Tucker ordered his first drink. "Hostess!" He boomed from within his sagging red skin, clicking his viney fingers. "I need a drink! One tall tomato juice. And make it snappy!" The hostess, thinking this was a rather odd request inside a very rude delivery, smiled at him and set about fixing his drink. But while she was hidden by the airplane curtain she giggled and snuck 3 large pinches of salt into his juice. She stirred them in well and put his drink on a service tray.
"Wait here!" He snapped, testily, and he drank. Finishing the juice with minimal sippage he slammed his empty glass down upon her tray. "Another." He said simply.
Well, the aircraft hadn't even been prepared for take off and here she was pandering to a testy tommy tomato and his beverage requirements? Oh, this would not do.
So the hostess filled his glass, this time adding 6 large pinches of salt to his glass and mixing them carefully. It should be mentioned, at this stage, that the hostess had man hands, so her pinches were really, very large indeed.
After Tucker had chugged the second glass of juice instead of filling out, as he had hoped, he looked down to discover that his skin had puckered even more.
He demanded another drink and the hostess again added a generous portion of her secret ingredient, giggling.
By the time Tucker skulled his third glass, his tummy had begun to hurt like somebody inside was wringing it dry. The pain was something quite intense for Tucker, who had not really known too much bowel discomfort in his time. Having never been in the position before, Tucker felt that this might be a time when one would be inclined to chunder.
At that moment the fasten seatbelt sign was lit and an amplified voice told him he couldn't move.
He squirmed and wriggled and tried to breathe deeply while a second air hostess watched him and scratched her head. She consulted her passenger list. "I don't remember checking in a fried, green tomato..." She mused. "Hm."

And then he couldn't hold it any longer. From deep inside him with the itch of salt and dehydration tickling at his guts, Tucker blew chunks. His stem flew right off and little tommy tomato seeds sprayed along the roof of the aircraft. His burned ham and cheese toasted attire crumbled away and he sat, naked, his insides out and his outsides empty.

Tucker, now nothing more than a tomato peel, was more testy than any tommy tomato had ever been. And he threw a tanty. He ranted and raved as his own tomato seeds dripped steadily from the roof onto his head. He caused such a ruckus the hostesses were forced to fold him up neatly and lock him away in an overhead locker for the duration of the 8 hour flight.

When he was finally let out, Tommy was a meek and sorry fruit. He was not testy, but timid. He always made sure to hydrate and he stepped out into the sun each day in a second-hand suit made from sea sponge.

And on special occassions, previously-testy Tucker made sure to smile.

Twenty Friends in Neckties

Twenty friends were going to a music festiva. Twenty of them. All friends. They were going in yellow neckties, bright ones, so that, if they got lost in the hum of things they had something to remove and wave in the air in order to be found again. Sort of like the meeting place by the flag that's always been so popular, but with movement included for a little sum'n sum'n extra.

The music festiva itself in fact was to be a complete and total celebration of a li'l sum'n sum'n extra musically, evidently, as it just so happened.

Of all the exceptional talents in the spotlight, Salt-N-Pepa was the biggest excitement for the 20 friends going to the music festiva. Though Salt was reformed and the lyrics were altered, there was something so spectacularly nostalgic about the notion of talking about sex together- Something that putting a ring on a hand well-liked, though quaint, could never ever replace. And so the excitement level was set, for the friends, at a rather high level.

Apart from Salt-N-Pepa only some of the 20 friends knew which music they were going to see, some did not know at all. Some would recognise the lyrics when they heard them, some would not at all. But they all, each one of the 20, prepared to enjoy themselves with gluttonous enthusiasm.

They had foreseen a hot day, a sunny day, a day vibing down upon all who walked the music festiva ground with a fierce and challenging gaze- This was not a day for the faint or dizzy.

The girls would wear sensible shoes. The boys would wear deoderant. Pre-empting stomping, tom foolery and shenanigans in intimate spaces well known to be 'mosh-pits' open-toed footwear and stank were out. Blunnies and steel capped boots were also out, but could have been in because that is how aggressive this day would be in its splendour.

This summer festiva was to be rich and vibrant and electric and eclectic and, ultimately, bass heavy.

These 20 friends who knew each other were ready to go harder than that ranga named White goes on a halfpipe.

Indeed, and so it was. Twenty friends in yellow ties set off to give that festiva 'ell.

The Night Wot Kaz and Macca Stayed Awake

“Aw, check this out Macca,” Karen called to her fiancé up the hallway. “Britney Spears went out for Valentine’s Day at McDonald’s. Aint that sweet though? They’re not above it all are they Macca? Bein’ a big star ‘n all. Hasn’t gone to her head…” She went on, muttering to the computer screen. “You’se better watch it though dahl- it might not getcha head but them Big Macs’ll get your hips. ‘Specially after those kids,” She clucked. “Don’t I know it…”

Kaz kept clicking, chit-chatting her way through her Celebrity Fix. “Ohh! A Barebottomed-Bishop! How odd! Aw, dahl that poor little Whatchamackalit, that new model one- fell off those shoes two damn times on the runway. Poor pet. Oh, look, she’s still smiling. Good on ya love! Oohh and look, Ivana’s in St. Barths… Ooohh that looks nice dunnit? Oh, Barb’ Streisand, why you lookin’ at the camera, pet? Everyone else is lookin’ at the- Gah!”

Macca gave her a fright when he walked up behind her. He was dusty from plastering but she didn’t complain when he wrapped his big bear arms around her. “C’mon then dahl,” He said. “Let’s go do some celebrity living of our own. Can’t just sit here all day livin’ through that ruddy computer now can we? You’ll get square peepers.”

“Ohhh Mac’! Can we go somewhere real special?”

“What’d’ya say to a counter meal at The Running Child my princess?”

“Weee! Mac! What a treat! Let me go get frocked up then!”

“You look just like a peach in cream to me, Kaz. But go ahead on, I gotta get the terps on me hands anyway.”

When Kaz and Macca arrived at the Running Child that evening they knew it would be an interesting evening. For one thing, vodka redbull jugs were on special, for another, chicken parmi’s were ‘round the clock and it was still only 5p.m. And for a third thing, as if they needed a third, the only other occupants of the smoke-filled establishment were a table of four canoodling lesbians and a young, angry looking heterosexual couple who appeared to have already taken advantage of the vodka redbull jug special.

While they were waiting for their parmi’s to arrive the girl of the angry heterosexual partnership leaned over and into their booth.

“How are you’se then?” She asked, looking at her nose.

“Great thanks, pet,” Kaz replied. Macca grunted mildly, not wanting to encourage her.

But as soon as her man friend left to use the toot she was back. “Oi, can I come sit wiv you’se?” She rolled around the side of the booth and climbed in with them without waiting for a reply. “That’s my ex-husband.” She said. “Wanker follows me everywhere! Follered me here from fuckin’ Melbourne. I’ve got a restraining order out ‘n everyfink…” The accused male walked up to Kaz and Macca’s booth at that point. Macca braced himself, as if expecting trouble. But the man just nodded politely to the strangers and spoke directly to his estranged: “Wanna beer?”

“Oh, yes please.” She answered and pushed her empty pint glass towards him.” A few moments later she followed him to the bar to make sure he got her order right. “He always gets the wrong fuckin’…” She stumbled away.

The lesbians, giggling, peeped over into Kaz and Macca’s booth from the other side, having heard the strange exchange. “They’re a ripe pair!” One said. “You blokes having a good night ay?”

“Yeah, we’re good, thanks love.”

And Kaz and Macca looked at each other, both entirely grateful that they’d come out tonight- what a ruckus!

It was unthinkable to imagine the night could hold more entertainment than their booth-hopping neighbours.

But if it was thinkable it could have been imagined.

Kaz and Macca decided they’d need another jug with tea so Macca got up, gentlemen that he was, and headed up to the bar.

And would you believe it, stop the press, hold the phone- in walked Pink and Carey Hart!

Kaz’s stomach tubes nearly jumped up around her throat and strangled her. She was so excited, terrified and her heartbeat so amplified that she couldn’t think or see for just a second. Pink and Carey Hart, in the Running Child! Their Running Child!

“Oh my God oh my God oh my God,” She chanted as she watched them head towards the bar where Macca was waiting, perched on a stool. “Oh my God oh my God oh my God,” She whispered as she watched Macca, oblivious to the celeb’aura that hung about them, take up a conversation with the superstar couple. “Oh my God oh my God oh my God,” She said to Pink while punching Carey Hart in the arm after she had somehow floated across the room to them in a daze. “Purple, it’s such a pleasure-” She gushed. Then, flushed. Horrified that she had just called her idol by the wrong name. “Oh my God oh my God oh my God. Pink, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what- Oh, I’m such a Gallah. And Carey, what a pleasure, what a sincere pleasure, this is my Macca, Pink, Carey Hart, this is Macca. Oh, and I’m Kaz. It is such a pleasure! I follow you both on Twitter! I’m KazShaz1342.”

“Haha Hey you sent that birthday cake twitpic hey? You in the cake, right?” Pink laughed. “I remember.”

“I took that,” Macca puffed his chest out, because, no matter who these Yanks were or were not- he was proud of that picture.

“Oh yeah,” Carey remembered slowly. “Hey, that was hot.” He slapped Macca on the chest. “Nice work man.”

“Cheers, mate! Now, what can I get you two to drink? You must be pretty parched- bit warmer here than in the states right now innit?”

“Yeah it is,” Pink laughed again. “What’s good here? I sure am thirsty.”

“Oh, Pink, you’ll love it- they’ve got a special on vodka redbull jugs tonight.”

“Sounds good to me, yeah, let’s do it, babe?”

“Sounds like a plan. But first, a tequila shot for our new friends.”

And the rest of the night was a blur. Chicken Parmigiana, flashing lights of papparazzo, the deafening roar of the karaoke machine, tweets and retweets, giggles of lesbian couples, screams of heterosexual and estranged couples, shots at the bar, and jug upon jug upon jug of vodka and redbull.

Kaz and Macca didn’t sleep for a week. And they never knew if it was simply from the thrill of it all or copious amounts of redbull.

Gentle Bedlam in the Botty-G

One summer night in Hobart, four young hooligans went looking for trouble.
It was the day after New Years Eve, some people know it as New Years day, and they’d, all four, had to work the night before. Tonight they’d enjoyed a few bottles of wine at the Taste of Tasmania and, after being kicked out of the harbour side venue at closing time, they hadn’t had enough. So they decided the best thing to do would be to enjoy a hot tub and more wine at Trudy’s house.

But when they got there the spa was bare. Apparently, Trudy’s brother had a private spa party the night before and somehow a small article of clothing became stuck in the bubble filter so the spa had to be drained. And so the four had none.

Still focussed on the continuation of the evening- the troupe of hooligans began wandering. Their wandering carried them across the road to the 24 hour bottle shop where they picked up a carton filled with cassie dee cans, and they continued walking. It was strange, and unheard of, but the first thing they came upon in their wandering was a high stone fence. They stepped back, in wonderment. “Corrr…” Jody breathed. “The Botanical Gardens.”
Without a word they began to climb. Thy passed the carton carefully between them as they clambered up the stone and over the spikes.

When they were all inside they looked around, dusting off their hands. And they breathed in deeply the sweet, sweet smell of well-loved lawns, open tulips and multiple water features.
“Here,” Chris said simply as he pointed to a patch of grass just inside the gate. And they set down their beers and set off on a tour of the gardens. They gave themselves a guided viewing of the Chinese garden, the duck pond and the bird avery. In wonderment, they breathed fresh, horticultured air and sipped their beer and revelled in the first hours of this new year.
Trudy and Jody were up a tree when the police came. The girls heard two voices, lower and louder than their mates. So they hugged the trunk and Jody shut her eyes tightly to make sure that they weren’t seen. She didn’t open them again until she heard voices directly below.
“How ya goin’ there ladies?”
The police officer was shining a torch directly in their eyes.
“Good thanks,” Trudy responded cheerfully. “Will you be wanting us to leave now?”
“Nah, I don’t think so.”
“We do intend to sleep here tonight,” Trudy went on.
“Alright then. Have a good night ladies.”
Trudy and Jody were silent, disbelieving, until the officers and their torch light faded into the distance. Then, giggling, they tumbled out of the tree and ran up the hill to meet the boys.

When it was time for bed they rinsed their teeth with one last beer and snuggled together on the gentle slope of the lawn. They woke, with their noses buried in each other’s armpits, to a shower of water sprung up from the sprkinler system embedded in the grass. Golf carts hummed around the paths as workers waved on their way to unlock the gates. It was time for the public to come in. So the four young hooligans picked up their empty cans and trundled back out to the jungle of life.

Deathwish Darren

Deathwish Darren was a daredevilish fella.
But nobody noticed most of the time.

Darren did normal death wish things like mowing the lawn in thongs, swimming in lightning storms, jumping from the roof into the pool, enjoying high speed rides in the back of his ute and fishing with a carton of tinny’s to pass the time and one too few life jackets in the boat.

But Darren also performed activities that only a person with a death wish should. Darren went after ladies with large boyfriends. Not large like double-whopper-fanatic large, these boys were large like captain-of-the-wrestling team, work-out-thrice-a-day, eat-egg-whites-for-dessert large. There was no telling why Darren was only attracted to ladies in relationships with large men, but there it was. Fact. He was constantly leaping from bedroom windows, ducking down under car windows, and hiding in bedroom wardrobes and under beds. There was also no telling why multiple ladies were attracted to Daz with a death wish but there we have it. This story is not really about the ladies.

Daz lived with his mother and she was always getting steak out of the freezer to slap on her sons eye. “What this time Dazza?”
“Tree branch mum,” He would say sometimes. “It was hanging really low- I didn’t stand a chance.”
“Hmph,” She would reply, knowing better because she was his mother and they always do know better.

Darren enjoyed cow tipping, but with crocs. And he didn’t tip them, he poked them. He snuck out to the swamps on his own late at night and waded amongst the mud and reeds and poked crocs while they were sleeping. Daz really had a death wish. He poked the biggest crocs and he poked them with small sticks. Once he poked a monster croc with his flip flop. That night Dazza’s mum had to put his foot in an ice bucket while the rest of him hopped about packing an overnight bag for the hospital. He had to be flown in with helicopter because he lived in such a remote area and while the chopper was up in the sky he hung his head outside to feel the wind on his face. Ooowee the paramedics were mad.
“Daz!” They yelled. “Get your head inside the bloody chopper! Do you have a death wish or summin? Remember you now have one less foot for us to pull you back in by if you slip.”

The doctor back at the hospital was confused when she saw Deathwish Daz and his foot in an eski.
“I’m sorry, Darren,” she said. “You said your foot just fell off while you were out for a lazy stroll? And you think it may have snapped off after freezing in a puddle of ice water you came across in the billabong?”
“Dayum straight Doc’,” Darren grinned. “You wouldn’t read about it, ay?”

But you would read about it, if you lived there. A lady from the paper came to do a feature about the phenomenal occurance, she thought it was important to warn people about the dangers of small, chilly bodies of water.
Daz was instantly attracted to the lady journalist. Her name was Bella and she was engaged to an Incredible Hulk of a man named Gargantuo (it was almost as though his parents had always known.)
By a phenomenon almost as strange as puddles that snap feet off Bella was unconditionally in lust with Daz almost instantly.
“Oh, Daz,” She whispered as she brushed the bandage that contained his freshly re-attached limb. “We’ve just gotta get freaky, babe.”
Daz was not really the type to say no to a proposition like that, even after significant blood loss. So he draped a dressing gown over his head and loaded himself into a wheelchair. Bella pushed him down the hall, bumped him down the emergency staircase and they bazza bolted across the carpark to the helipad where Daz had initially landed, footless.
Now, Deathwish Dazza did not know how to fly a helicopter in the certified sense. But he sure did know how to take a risk- so up she went, in a hobbledy way and Dazza and Bella were on their way to find a suitable destination for kinky business.

Dazza landed, with a few major dings to the choppers nose, on a rocky precipice next to a golden eagle nest. It didn’t really look like a comfortable place to be but it did look dangerous and that was just intoxicating to Daz.
Bella didn’t even notice the rocky ledge, the sheer cliff face or the cheeky mountain goat peeping at them as she jumped out of the chopper and ripped off her shirt. Dazza was so entranced that he couldn’t look away from his borrowed Bella. Almost. Dazza did look away and he looked right into the eyes of a Bunyip! Up here, on the side of a craggly cliff, so far from the Billabong. You wouldn’t read about it.
And you wouldn’t. Because, enraged by Bella’s siren red bra the Bunyip charged from the mouth of the cave out of which he had so suddenly emerged, and he knocked Bella off the ledge and she landed, quite well broken, 300 metres below. She would never write a feature to tell that particular tale.

Darren, completely freaking out, looked around for a random escape from danger and, as was usually the case, he saw just the thing: A vine, which really shouldn’t have been growing in the rock, was growing in the rock. Just like in Jack and the Beanstalk (but without a goose and golden nuggets) Darren shimmied down the vine as fast as he could, bashing himself on rocks and soil and mountain goat horns all the way to the bottom. It was a long vine.

The base of the cliff was a thick, wild forest and Dazza wandered, tired, hungry and with his newly repaired foot throbbing for five days before they found him. They’d already found Bella’s body and- having great difficulty believing that she was thrown from a cliff by a Bunyip after willingly flying away with a novice chopper pilot- they charged Dazza with manslaughter.

He really wouldn’t have minded jail too much, it was certainly a dangerous place but the Judge, having reviewed the testimony of several character witnesses and having been presented with Death wish Darren’s medical history, ruled that Daz was clinically insane.
And they sent him to an institution. Darren spent the rest of his days in a fluffy white padded room, with his arms bound to his sides. He woke each morning, sweating in the memory of nightmares filled with marshmallows and monogomous relationships.

Deathwish Darren

Australia Day

“Wake up! Wake up! It’s time to wake up, Gaz!”
And it was time to wake up, there wasn’t a moment to waste.
It was 11a.m. on Australia Day and the 100th best song of the year wouldn’t wait to play.
There were cold frothies in the fridge, warm special cheese on the bench, and frozen snags just waiting for some charcoal and sauce.
By the time Gaz had slunk out of bed and wriggled into a fresh beater and footy shorts, Margie had already filled the splash pool out the back and found triple J on the radio they’d purchased in the Boxing day sales.
“Hurry up Gaz!” She came in and pinched him on the bum while he brushed his teeth. “Baz and Bec’ll be here in a sec.”
“I’m ready, babe.” He turned to her grinning and took the tinny she held out to him. “Happy bloody Ozzie day, sweet cheeks.”
Margie giggled coz she really liked that nickname.
Ding Dong!
Barry and Bec’ were right on time, which wasn’t too hard coz they lived next door.
And it was a beautiful day. Baz was wearing a lot of zinc coz he’d already had to have one lump chopped out of his nose. He had a carton tucked under each arm and when Garry saw them he was pretty excited.
“Naw, Baz- is that what I think it is?”
“Dunno what you’re thinking B2 but if you’re thinking a Barry Special home brew you’re damn right mate! Got an opener? Let’s get these babies on ice, I wanna show you something new I’ve been trying- long fermentation they call it. This is my maiden brewing, this stuff has been sitting there since Christmas Eve, oh yes.”
And the boys hurried down to load Baz’s brews in the eski by the barbie.
Margie bustled about getting the potato salad together while Bec cut up the onions ready for barbecuing.
“So, d’ya hear about the big reveal of the number 1 song already?” Margie asked.
“Yeah, I read about it online- what a bloody shame. Don’t mention it in front of Gaz, he’s mad as a cut snake- keeps going on about the poison of the internet. Everything needs to slow down he reckons. He’d be happy with the transistor and the daily paper. Old fart.”
“I don’t suppose he complains when your ebay store payments come through though does he?”
And the two ladies laughed at how silly men can be.

Australia Day

Adam of England

There was once a man named Adam. And he was the finest story teller in all the land of England. So the children came from miles around to listen to him speak.

Adam was an interesting teller. An unwitting genius, he was captivating and modest, humble, and oblivious to the marvel he created- Adam told his stories in his sleep.

In lieu of snores, he spoke of the evils of lentil beans and the pathetic lives of panda's, he told tales of swinging ducks, spring cleaning oompa loompa's, and he melded marvellous musings about the magic of a hairy vagina.

Quite quickly, and much to their children's dismay, the parents of the youths who had travelled from across the land followed with wooden spoons and censored Adam's stories so that they might not be enjoyed by any person under 18 years. It was truly a shame, for they had travelled far and their ears were hungry, and there was much that they could learn from sleeping Adam.

He knew a bit, it was sure, about the ways of the world.

But, these censoring parents did not let Adam's stories lay wasted by his bedside. They too travelled, from near and far, on and offline, to listen to him speak. They giggled at the light in his words, the truth in his utterance and the poetry of his uncensored babble. They recorded his stories and spoke his words and, quite soon, they wore t-shirts in his honour.

This, this was Adam. The first son of sleeptalk.

Adam became a god, of sorts. His words were spoke in every land, outside of England and beyond.

"How are ya mate?" A person might ask, in the usual way.
"I am awe-some. Deal with it fucker!" Became their response.
For Adam had said it, and it was so.

Finally- partners had words to describe a visit from a mother in law, the layman learned the art of pillow baking, and the words "butter...nut... squash" would replace Prozac and Zoloft forevermore.

Adam gave the people a voice. His words touched them in ways that they hadn't previously known they would like to be touched. Adam made prudes giggle at the 'C' word and he made vegetarians turn towards pork chops. He let the people rest, knowing that everybody dreams of a cock hunt now and again...

And, in waking, Adam discovered that the story of an attentive wife might be the most worthwhile tale of all.

*All good quotes the rightful property of the mouth of Adam, http://www.sleeptalkinman.com/

The Dancing Debutantes

Narelle, Geraldine and Charlotte nearly had an accident on their way to work Sunday night. By “nearly” I mean they did have an accident, an accident with a parked car. And then they drove away, not quite quickly, but certainly in haste, the wrong way down a one-way street.
So, when they got to work on Sunday night there was adrenaline pumping through their veins and they were a little more giddy than usual.
Bruce the Bouncer was waiting in his usual place on the top step having a conversation with Magda the bar manager.
“I been tellin’ ‘em for monfs, Magda,” Bruce grumbled. “What vey need in vere is some male talent. I been turnin’ girls away all night. Group a seven girls just expressed their interest- but 20 bucks a head is too much ‘nless they’re leso’s.”
“Bruce, I know, I know it,” Magda sucked sharply on her ciggie. “But there’s sumfin’ about when you got gonad’s grindin’ on a pole… It just don’t work dun it?” She smiled her gaping holed smile at the three girls and hurried them inside. “Come on my dancing delights, get your curvy butts inside! You’ll be pleased to know the poles had their annual steam clean just this morning. So slide with confidence my little ones.”
And Narelle, Geraldine and Charlotte were all very pleased.
“Come on girls,” Charlotte whispered to her sisters. “I’ve still got the jitters. Let’s get a drink before we go on.” Charlotte thought it was rude not to enjoy the free beverage that was included in their contract and she kinda sorta had a crush on Tommy, who worked behind the bar. She liked to think of him as Tender Tommy, because he was a bartender and she hoped he was also tender hearted. Sometimes, when she was dancing, she imagined she was dancing just for him.
Narelle, Geraldine and Charlotte were the only triplicate act in town. Being that they were sisters and had been since birth, it was easy for them to coordinate their moves, and the boys had always been fascinated by triplicity so the money was good. The sisters used their money to continue their university education. Narelle wanted to be an AFL coach, Geraldine hoped to one day be a psychologist and Charlotte had always intended to become an analyst for one of the national banks. The girls had developed both big dreams and big tata’s in their early teens.
Narelle, Geraldine and Charlotte surveyed tonight’s crowd and all three predicted it would be a fun evening but not their most profitable. There were two young buck’s-night parties and five nervous newbies and only two of the high paying regulars already seated excitedly at the edge of the stage.
Sighing amongst themselves the girls gulped away the last sips of their chardy’s and went out back to get unchanged.
Narelle went out first, she always went out first. Then, on the second verse of T-Pain’s “I’m in love with a stripper” out came Geraldine. The identical girls in bras and panties had the boys right where they wanted them- reaching for their milk money- when the song suddenly cut dramatically to “3” by Britney Spears and out came Charlotte, in sequins and shiny pleather lingerie.
“Countin’ 1,2,3....” Britney sang and the girls danced. They bumped and grinded and slid and swung, as they had so many times before. Notes of every colour rained down on them in the delicious, rich, downpour of spending that had been neither foreseen nor controlled by the men who watched, mouths and wallets open.
When the girls had finished, wiped down their poles, and collected their money they went out back to deduct 10 percent for the house and split the remainder.
With money in bras they returned to the bar for one more drink.

A random, in the shadows of the corner, smiled. She was impressed, they had been better than she had expected, skillful, professional. Quietly, easily, she slipped out of the club and began the long walk back to her car, which she’d parked as far away as possible, to avoid incrimination by proximity.
She wasn’t pleased to see a streak of black paint etched into her light blue vehicle when she arrived at it, but she didn’t have time to worry about that- She needed to be home before her daughters got back.

The Dancing Debutantes

Pleasant Petra

Petra was pleasant.
“You’re too nice,” They said to her. “You’ll never be nufink coz you just keep giving shit away.”
And they were right, for a while.

Petra gave away her favourite jacket, and she got cold. She gave away her favourite cat, and she got sad. She gave away her favourite boyfriend, and she got cold and sad. “But,” she thought, “Nancy,” (Petra’s oldest sister) “probably needed him more than me anyway.”

One day Petra nearly blew her stack.
She began to get frustrated at about 3a.m. in the morning.

Petra had been frustrated on two occassions in her 35 years of life. The first was when she was six years old. Nancy asked to borrow Petra’s mint condition collectible trolls. Petra said: “Yes, but please be careful with them. They are mint condition collectible trolls and they mean a lot to me.” Nancy nodded and took them into her room, one by one, with a pair of mum’s good kitchen scissors. When there was not one troll left with stiff purple hair styled longer than an earlength bob Petra got frustrated. She breathed deeply and silently cried, shaking a little.
The second time Petra got frustrated was when she was swimming in the beach, enjoying the feel of salt water on her 25 year old limbs, and she watched someone steal her phone. The next day she went to the telstra shop and bought a new phone, then she went to Target to find a dress to wear to Nancy’s wedding. Petra found one she quite liked and she tried it on in the changerooms. She still quite liked it so she headed to the cashier to charge it. Five minutes later she ran back to the changerooms to find that her phone, left alone, had been reclaimed by another. Petra began to get a little frustrated, and she really wanted to call her mum to tell her about her bad luck at Target. So the next day, she bought a phone from a cheap second hand phone shop and went home to register it online. Online she discovered that her new phone was stolen property, so she took it to the police station. They kept her overnight for questioning and as she sat, in her holding cell, waiting for the sun to rise, Petra got so frustrated she growled a little bit through gritted teeth.
But, as a rule, Petra wasn’t frustrated much. She was pleasant. She never got mad, she was always polite and, if anybody hinted at wanting a thing, Petra did what she could to give it to them.
So, Petra began to get frustrated at about 3a.m. one morning and it was an interesting thing. She had been trying to sleep since 10p.m. on account of the fact that she had to wake up at 5:30a.m. to drive an hour to help her friend move to the house next door. But Petra couldn’t sleep and hadn’t been able to sleep all night. First she got a call from Timmy who had gotten too tired at work to drive, he didn’t think it was wise to get behind the wheel- so Petra got up and drove to his work and turned the radio down low so he could sleep while she drove him home. Then, she carried him inside his house, tucked him in to bed and quietly closed the door. She drove home but she couldn’t sleep because she remembered a friend, Sally, wanted her to write a letter of application for a job that would really make Sally happy. Sally had asked her for her help tonight and Petra had almost forgotten because she was knitting a scarf for Trudy’s baby, Baddox. She finished Sally’s application at 1a.m. and e-mailed it to Sally to revise. Then Petra had to take Pixie, her puppy, outside because he needed to pee. Pixie ran away and she had to chase him for 6 blocks down the road, then Pixie wanted to sniff a few bushes on the way home so Petra waited, patiently but growing a little less pleasant at every bush. When she finally got home at 3a.m. Petra discovered a forgotten key which was not in her pocket- she was locked outside and she began to get frustrated. But Petra took a deep breath and tried to think logically. She looked up at her apartment window, four storeys in the sky and decided she could climb to it. The drainpipe was strong and there were three window ledges on the way to hers. So she climbed. She removed her flipflops and left the ground and Pixie behind. Pixie’s leash kept him safely tied to the building but her teeth were in reach of Petra’s shoes so he set about eating them. When Petra reached her window she discovered it was locked but she was feeling quite frustrated now and a little less than patient so she scrunched up her fist and punched it through the glass. She cut herself quite badly but she didn’t feel much pain as she reached in, unlocked the window and pushed her way inside. Petra wrapped a teatowel around her hand and left her apartment, blocking the door open with a boot, to go get her Pixie dog. Downstairs, she held open the door of her apartment building with an old newspaper which had been left by the letter boxes and went quickly to untie Pixie. She was wrestling her left flip flop from his cheerful mouth when Chuck, her party boy neighbour stumbled past. “You’re bleeding lady,” he informed her as he entered the building, slamming the door behind him.
Petra was locked out again and she felt like she might be ready to scream. She began to think that the world was unfair. She began to question why she had pleasant for these 35 years of life. Petra wondered aloud, “Do nice people really finish-?”
But before she could complete her sad, sad sentence a giant swingset dropped out of the sky and fell onto her apartment building. The swingset was very large and very solid and it crushed the fourth floor entirely.
Petra stared up in awe at her dust-covered heap of junk home and strangely, as if in a science fiction movie, she saw something up there begin to move. A hand first, then a head, then two heads… they leant out over the rubble. “Help!” Nancy called. “Help!”
“My sweet Lord, Nancy?” Petra called up to her sister. “Are you okay up there?”
“I think, I think we’re fine, Pet’.”
“Ok, well, what are you doing on my house?”
“Petra it was the strangest thing. Pedro and I were swinging side by side on these here swings and the most abnormal thing happened- there was a gust of wind, it came from nowhere as far as I can tell, and it picked us up, picked our swingset right out of the ground. And it spun us and bumped us and flew us here- to your house. I just- I just can’t quite figure i-.”
But Nancy couldn’t continue to be confused because, out of nowhere just the same as before, a bed fell on top of Petra’s house. In it was Timmy who couldn’t drive himself home. In his bed. Where her roof should be. He was quickly joined by Trudy and baby Baddox and Sally and the lady to whom she’d given her jacket and the boy who’d adopted her cat, and everybody who Petra had ever been pleasant to- Plop. On top of her crumbly apartment.
“Well, isn’t this a kick in the head,” Petra mumbled, more confused than frustrated for now.
While the firemen began to pick her friends out of the rubble Petra sat, stroking Pixie’s fur and wondering what she would do without a place to live. She supposed she could be a homeless person quite easily, she wouldn’t miss too much of what she’d never really had.

But then a doctor came walking by, he hadn’t been able to sleep on account of a buzzing mosquito which had come in through a window he’d left open because his cat liked the fresh air. The doctor saw Petra, sitting on the side of the road with a bleeding teatowel wrapped around her hand and he came over and put a hand on her shoulder. And a bolt of lightning zipped across the sky and came to land on Nancy’s house across the city and it began to burn and make a spectacularly beautiful backdrop for this magical type of meeting. Two pleasant people, one electrical instant. It was love. And it was lovely.

Petra received compensation times five for her broken apartment and belongings. She received more than was standard because it appeared that at least five acts of God had ocurred and contributed to the destruction of her home. She felt sorry for the insurance man when she purchased her home so she’d gotten more act of God coverage than the regular person. While her hand healed her new doctor friend, Dicky he was called, insisted on keeping her under ‘round the clock surveilance, in his spare bedroom. He made her breakfast each morning and removed her stitches gently when it was time. He was kind and gentle and patient.
Dicky made Petra want to hum, so she did hum and she hummed a catchy ditty. And she hummed it in the video store and she hummed it in the supermarket, and one day, she hummed her catchy ditty in the park, walking Pixie, and an advertising executive heard her catchy ditty and it was just what he was after for one of his high-profile commercials.

He paid Petra for the tune and offered royalties for it’s use. She signed the contract with a pleasant smile and went home to show Dicky what they, together, had done.

Twelve months after a swingset landed on Petra’s apartment and a mosquito buzzed in the doctor’s home their love had became the forever kind. And they were happy, ever after, being pleasant to one another and pleasant still to others.

Pleasant Petra