No, it didn't drop out of my arse.
I've just staggered free of an arse-pounding embrace of the TPC, an electrified whore of an exercise bike foisted upon me by a cackling surprisingly attractive hagette named Casso. The region just under my tail bone is in screaming agony. Even as I shift in Son of Dr Evil, my now just-christened-with-that-name replacement chair theWife sourced on the intertubes using her finely honed bargain sensing senses, a croquet ball through the hoop jarring cries upward through my backside nethers like the despairing final holler of a drowning man.
Holy smegging-smeg. To the shower with you, beggar! And soothe away thy grinding ache.
Speaking of beggars, as in beggars belief, I dropped the loaner iPhone the other day. It happened at dusk in a car park outside a Woolies. The phone has a protective rubber sheath designed to absorb impact. Most fortuitous. Only the fucker literally bounced under the car to fall in the exact middle of the vehicle's width. I lay flat on my stomach, lying at a slant due to my frame having to drape over the curb-side like a Dali clock (1). At full stretch of my 'now revealed to be semi-vestigial' arms, I came a full middle intermediate phalanges short of nail gripping the edge of the rubber sheathe where it puckers up and out at the side and being able to drag it back.
So I moved the car to get to the phone, but as I got up to get into the car I had to explain what I was doing to a concerned tradie who stopped to goggle at my bizarre curb-side slanting when his headlights had fallen upon me as he drove around the corner. He then proceeded to park in the now opened up space next to my car but on the opposite side to my recent curb-side slanting. As I reversed the phone was revealed into view and he darted forward to pick it up and then kindly handed it to me through my window. I then had to park, get out, and extract myself from the scene so I didn't have to painfully extend the weirdness that had just happened.
Mikey moments!
And here's the thing. In that exact same Woolies car park, about 12 years ago, I was worried I was going to get into a fight with a stranger. We'd broken down and were awaiting NRMA and theWife and I were guarding the free space next to our car so the repair van could pull up. This dickhead in his little red workman's van pulled in and tried to park. He rolled down the window and in a semi-thick Eastern European accent asked us to move. theWife tried to explain what we were doing and he drove forward anyway. She cursed him out and maybe even at that moment have done a George and screamed 'You know we're living in a society!'. I, being a dude, was worried he'd then get aggro at me and there'd be violence. Only he merely smirked and jauntily sloped off in the direction of Woolies. Fortunately the car park on the other side of our car opened up and we went and guarded that.
Stupid jinxed car park with its jinxing. Though it's funny how one story had a nasty tradie and the other a good one. One vexed me, the other helped. Ying and yang and all that jazz.
(1) I dislike being laughed at in the negative way. You know, where it has a splinter of spite in it. I once referred to The Persistence of Memory as 'Dali's Melting Clock painting'. My friend C--- then went into hysterics at me because I'd flubbed the name of the artwork. In retrospect that's far more on him than it is on me. But I loathe mispronouncing words or naming things incorrectly. The other day in a meeting people were wondering where D--- was. I said 'Maybe he aspirated away?'. I meant 'apparated but, because I was the first to point out my fuck-up, saying quickly 'oh no, apparated, not aspirated' then it didn't matter as much. And I was able to take the piss out of myself. Anyway, it's a pet seethe to be laughed at. By I suspect it's a pet seethe felt by many.
I've just staggered free of an arse-pounding embrace of the TPC, an electrified whore of an exercise bike foisted upon me by a cackling surprisingly attractive hagette named Casso. The region just under my tail bone is in screaming agony. Even as I shift in Son of Dr Evil, my now just-christened-with-that-name replacement chair theWife sourced on the intertubes using her finely honed bargain sensing senses, a croquet ball through the hoop jarring cries upward through my backside nethers like the despairing final holler of a drowning man.
Holy smegging-smeg. To the shower with you, beggar! And soothe away thy grinding ache.
Speaking of beggars, as in beggars belief, I dropped the loaner iPhone the other day. It happened at dusk in a car park outside a Woolies. The phone has a protective rubber sheath designed to absorb impact. Most fortuitous. Only the fucker literally bounced under the car to fall in the exact middle of the vehicle's width. I lay flat on my stomach, lying at a slant due to my frame having to drape over the curb-side like a Dali clock (1). At full stretch of my 'now revealed to be semi-vestigial' arms, I came a full middle intermediate phalanges short of nail gripping the edge of the rubber sheathe where it puckers up and out at the side and being able to drag it back.
So I moved the car to get to the phone, but as I got up to get into the car I had to explain what I was doing to a concerned tradie who stopped to goggle at my bizarre curb-side slanting when his headlights had fallen upon me as he drove around the corner. He then proceeded to park in the now opened up space next to my car but on the opposite side to my recent curb-side slanting. As I reversed the phone was revealed into view and he darted forward to pick it up and then kindly handed it to me through my window. I then had to park, get out, and extract myself from the scene so I didn't have to painfully extend the weirdness that had just happened.
Mikey moments!
And here's the thing. In that exact same Woolies car park, about 12 years ago, I was worried I was going to get into a fight with a stranger. We'd broken down and were awaiting NRMA and theWife and I were guarding the free space next to our car so the repair van could pull up. This dickhead in his little red workman's van pulled in and tried to park. He rolled down the window and in a semi-thick Eastern European accent asked us to move. theWife tried to explain what we were doing and he drove forward anyway. She cursed him out and maybe even at that moment have done a George and screamed 'You know we're living in a society!'. I, being a dude, was worried he'd then get aggro at me and there'd be violence. Only he merely smirked and jauntily sloped off in the direction of Woolies. Fortunately the car park on the other side of our car opened up and we went and guarded that.
Stupid jinxed car park with its jinxing. Though it's funny how one story had a nasty tradie and the other a good one. One vexed me, the other helped. Ying and yang and all that jazz.
(1) I dislike being laughed at in the negative way. You know, where it has a splinter of spite in it. I once referred to The Persistence of Memory as 'Dali's Melting Clock painting'. My friend C--- then went into hysterics at me because I'd flubbed the name of the artwork. In retrospect that's far more on him than it is on me. But I loathe mispronouncing words or naming things incorrectly. The other day in a meeting people were wondering where D--- was. I said 'Maybe he aspirated away?'. I meant 'apparated but, because I was the first to point out my fuck-up, saying quickly 'oh no, apparated, not aspirated' then it didn't matter as much. And I was able to take the piss out of myself. Anyway, it's a pet seethe to be laughed at. By I suspect it's a pet seethe felt by many.
I would've called it Dali's Melting Clock painting too. Why is that funny? o.O
ReplyDeleteIt was funny to him 'cos I got the title wrong.
ReplyDeleteC--- had some issues.