Friday, May 22, 2020

Curling for chick shit

We've been letting three of the eight chickens into the garden each day because of a civil war fought over the yellow pekin and consequently there is chicken shit dusting the path between patio and shed. 

I grabbed a broom from a dustpan and broom set but it's designed for one handed use by normal people. I'm short and I needed to double-hand it to get the right amount of power to dislodge a turd and fling it out of the way. I went fast, because it's annoying, and so it came to be that it seemed just like curling, like the ice-based game, but for chicken shit.

I stepped on a freshie yesterday; I had to limp to the shower to de-turd it. 

Tiny chickens are adorable; their out-sized shits are not. 

Tuesday, May 12, 2020

Chest hair finally paid off

I am covered in a generous down, save, of course, for the top of my head; my hair has a demarcation line it will not cross.

I chucked my morning meds in my mouth and missed with one of them, it plunging down my neckline where it was caught in a thatch of chest hair like a hero off a cliff that lands in a clutch of vines.

It was the main one too; the head med that turns acute injury-metastasised anxiety from "YARGH!" to merely "yargh?".

It's typical that I'm dusted with all over hair yet for the one spot it sexually counts.

It takes all sorts to make the world. I just hope the prenaturally handsome appreciate the contrast my presense provides.

Friday, May 08, 2020

Heavied by the mob

This happened a while back but my mind just recalled it. 

I was riding along when I heard an insistent murmuring above.

I looked up and there were ten thousand cockatoos roosted along the phone wires.

Well, it seemed ten thousand. It was probably 200 or so.

It was 199 too many. I can handle the occasional blast from an off-in-the-distance bird but, holy cats, that's too much. 

I nervously slid to a halt then turned to flee lest they go from murmuring to murder noise which is what a cockatoo sound like when screeching; it sounds like murder. Two hundred of them would sound like genocide.

The cockatoo; looks great, sounds horrid and is best avoided.

Monday, May 04, 2020

Yelled at by bogans

Being outside and in Australia is all that is needed to be yelled at by bogans and it's usually from a vehicle like a car or ute but I wouldn't put it past them to try it from a hot air balloon or out-rigger canoe.

I got yelled at. I'm in my forties but it's a hard worn bald bearded and fat forties. So I cop a higher frequency of bogan drive-bys. Today was a dual-cab and the comment left in my visitor book was "flashie grandpa; fucking hell."

I was riding my bike and the yell startled me. I cried from fright and shame.

I was still crying when I got home twenty minutes later. 

I shouldn't let the opinions of strange cock-spanks snarking abuse from the seat of their tough man car bother me. Though the scare was the nasty part they successfully reminded me I have a shit aged blob body that if you saw it in porn you'd think something was wrong with your porn.

You don't choose your body; so why hang shit on someone for theirs? Especially when they're the ones doing the exercise and you're sitting the fuck down.

Bogans; it's our contribution to world cuisine. If there's an Oz animatronic in the Disney "It's a small world after all" ride what's the bet it yells "fuck you, you fucking fat fucks" as it recedes from view.

The ghost of Kenny Rogers

In the nation's capital during COVID-19 the government has mandated 30 minutes of daily outside exercise—well, they've said if you're doing it then just do 30 minutes to reduce exposure. 

So on nice days I've been barrelling out on the electric pushie and drinking in the bliss that is outside Canberra.

I am not the only one and the paths are replete with vehicle and animal types: prams, bikes, pedestrians, dog/s and so on. 

At first I rode well off the path to avoid. Now I just stick to the edge as hopefully as do they unless they are path dominant; my way or the fuck off and die from illness way. 

Then you get the surprise pop outs like someone who shoots past at speed or bursts forth from the dark under a bridge while passing someone else.

And that was the ghost of Kenny Rogers only in a form fitted black athletic suit with helmet and standing atop an electric scooter.

It scared me; he took a gamble that I'd see him and he nearly lost. 

Earlier I'd disturbed a pair of bank robbers under a different bridge, with rolled-up knitwear balaclavas, wrap around shades, gloves and their pushbikes. Of course likely not bank robbers but that's how they were dressed; if they don't want to be thought of as bank robbers then don't dress like them I say.

Or have a sack with a dollar sign on it. 

Canberra, we love our paths. I just wish peeps would take care with the social distancing; residents and guest phantoms alike. 

Wednesday, April 29, 2020

The kids from the pool

The other day I did a number two and for a moment my insides were in a null state, like empty with no feeling of a new one started. It felt like the bowel moving equivalent of that Community ep where Troy enters the room of perfect air conditioning. 

It didn't last long and I lost it but if you see me around I'll admit that I had it.  

Friday, April 24, 2020

A great blob of boil blood

The ever boil on the inside of my right leg was popped and it gobbed itself in a Pollock-esque spray across the room, striking the arms of the white Dr Evil chair, new for working from home, the desk and things on the desk. 

I thought we'd got it all then saw a weird icon on the address bar that was in fact a great glob of boil blood. Its silhouette remained and required licking of a finger and vigorous rubbing to remove as it had dried over its 24 hour sit on my glass into virtual reality. 

Blood; it's unsettling when it's outside you—more so when ejecta twixt with ichor and pus.

Tuesday, April 07, 2020

There are no good no hair days

It occurred to me when I praised someone for having a great hair day that those with no hair are basically status normal or it's shit. 

If you're balding then you're balding; there's no magical way to make that better; even a high polish would be met with suspicion not praise ("Why can I see me on your head?").

The good hair people, or people with hair, get to have those good days—and bad, but their bad is never as bad as balding.

Unless their hair catches fire. For the balding it's a pat, pat and you're done—there's no having to drop and roll for the skin of head.

There are bad no hair days, though, like when it's raining hard and you don't have a hat. It's uncomfortable and a reminder that rain is the tears of a laughing God who cries long amuse at your follicle defile.

Rogue Ball One

The wiki for cabin fever suggests riposte by engaging with nature where able so I had set forth on my electric pushie to enjoy being outside and still at least six feet from any other person.

Here's the thing about balls; they age. They age and they keep descending like a pendulum on a broken grandfather clock. Down, down, down, down, down.

I switched to harry high boxer-type undershorts so it means my testicles are no longer lovingly cupped by folds of snug fabric but dangle at threat from dangers below. 

In this case it was the neck of the electric pushie's saddle when my left ball got squashed between seat and thigh.

When you cop a hit to the balls there is a pause, a pause for the body to collect itself then report the damage done, like when when damage control stats get yelled at you when your spaceship is raked by enemy fire ("Shields at twenty-two per cent!").

The message came back a moment later, like when you're waiting for a report to get auto-emailed to you, and the jist was "ow" but not "yargh!"

But it put paid to tooling around on the electric pushie—and all those words make sense to an Australian—and I had to glide all the way back because to pump a pedal meant to brush a sensitive scrote and elements within.

I've noted this before but when men come of age they're told the basic stuff you get for being an adult. I don't recall any middle-aged or older man telling me that not only will I get super long hairs shooting out of my ears or their rims but that balls will keep dropping and become hazardous to your health. 

Also at 148 your prostate explodes for like 10d6 fire damage (DC 15 Con / Fort save for half). 

I get that the price paid "to fuck" is to eventually die because fucking has no purpose other than being awesome and propagating the spawn. Though you can't live in 'em, you can only bud them and jog them on.  

However the price paid for living beyond your normative spawn begetting years, with the average paleo lifespan being 33, but why do the balls keep having to drop? 

It's just the icing on a sensitive overly exposed testicle cake. 

Darwin fuckers.