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