Reasons you will hate me

The only spoon I imagine in relation to these two references a previously discussed episode of Oz. Except it involves one of those giant, novelty, wooden spoons. With nails in it. And electrodes.

Though clearly someone who can't even spell their psuedonym correctly should be ignored, if not given a good thrashing.

"psuedonym"
*cries & slinks away*

Yah. Touching.

Further proof that ruining the cuntry for future generations is tiring work.

They both look ready for the retirement village don't they

epon-anon

I feel your pane. You're awesome, and funny. Don't you ever slink away.

"We are such stuff/ As dreams are made on; and our little life/ Is rounded with a sleep."
WS

Yes, quite touching,
X

...

And it was all just a dream? If only.

This picture made me laugh more than I deemed possible. But then, maybe it was your incredibly witty comment.

SO funny.

Oh heck you just made me choke on my bed time cocoa....

And it's goodnight from me, and it's...good...night...fr...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Word verification: zzugp - the sound made by John Howard in his sleep when Peter Costello offers a tender caress.

Rudd concurs: "too cute by half"!

www.worldnewsaustralia.com.au/region.php?id=137490®ion=7 - 4 Jun 2007

MARIEKE’S BAD NIGHT OUT
Its not easy being queasy!


It was 11.30PM. Marieke’s brown thigh length boots clacked on wet cobblestones as she flounced through the night. Her usual petulant, rebarbative pout was absent, replaced with a mask, an ice sculpture, of cheated, twisted fury.

They had been bar hopping in St Kilda, celebrating Hillary’s 29th. At the Vineyard, they’d spent two hundred bucks on E’s except they weren’t E’s, they were small dollops of cat shit mixed with flour. Edwina from Northcote had figured out the scam when she realised that the pills smelled like her pussy, Mr. Snuggins. They were mortified; the evening was ruined.

She was on her way home via a bar deep in the CBD, where she intended to stop for a restorative nightcap. The bar was set up inside an abandoned garbage truck in an alley off a lane behind a derelict warehouse. The in crowd knew it as ‘The Truck’. The enter password changed every couple of weeks, and only thirty of the cities grooviest young hipsters knew it at any one time.

The door bitch gave Marieke an evil smile and opened a hatch at the rear of the truck. Marieke clambered inside and felt her rage fading, diluted by the ambience of entitlement and self-appreciation radiating within.

She spent an hour in the bar, chatting and consuming a cocktail, three oysters and a glass of champagne, all of which cost ninety-eight dollars fifty. Air kissing her way back to the hatch, she was soon in Collins Street smoking a cigarette, waiting for a cab.

Marieke entered her snazzy little two-bedroom apartment on the top floor of what used to be a milk bar in the heart of Fitzroy. It was decked out in a mixture of retro and contemporary styles. Paintings by deservedly unknown local artists hung on the walls and an eclectic array of knick-knacks filled the various nooks and crannies.

She was almost chilled now, a residual niggle of bitterness remained, but she knew how to fix that. Marieke opened her stash and made a small joint that she polished off in four large tokes.

This activated her throaty smokers’ cough, a rumbling, wheezing, phlegm-laden cacophony. Marieke was pleased; if she could manage a good spit before bed it would reduce by half the time she’d otherwise have to spend hacking over the hand basin in the morning.

Marieke entered her girly-girl bedroom, stripped off and cuddled up with one of her big, raggedy dolls. The ecstasy thing had almost fucked up the whole day, she thought, but it had all come good in the end, as things usually did when one was young and spunky and rich. She went to sleep, smirking placidly.

Unknown to Marieke, however, was the fact that one of the truck bar oysters had grown up a somewhat too close to a sewer pipe. E. Coli bugs were replicating exponentially
in her gut.

She awoke suddenly, aware that a number of things were amiss. It was four-thirty AM and she never rose before ten. And she was not clawing shakily at her tobacco pouch. Ordinarily she would have a cigarette rolled and lit before she was even fully awake. And the air around her seemed to shimmer with stink. Her body leaked gas like a K Mart barbeque, and although soaked in sweat, she was freezing.

But it was the last thing that was most disturbing. The entire mass of her abdomen seemed to be slowly oscillating. It felt as if she was being internally massaged. The truth hit with the first wave of nausea. She leapt out of bed and scampered, goblin-like, into the bathroom, pausing only to snatch a plastic bucket from the tiny laundry.

Her pert little arse was still letting down onto the toilet seat when the sphincter blew and a rope of molten shit erupted forth, smashing into the rear of the bowl with the force of a fire hose. It burned like acid, but Marieke felt no pain. She was too busy for that. Massive, involuntary belches escaped her, morphing into a retch so intense that the air was knocked from her lungs.

The retching continued, each heave more violent than the last but producing nothing more than a thin stream of dribble at the corner of her mouth, while at the other end what felt like every morsel she’d ever eaten in her life flowed into the toilet.

Marieke had never felt so ill. Her body twisted in arcs and parabolas as it tried to wind itself around each internal convulsion. A distant observer might’ve thought she was being electrocuted. Then came a retch of such brutal authority that she was lifted off the toilet seat, and the contents of her stomach cascaded into the bucket.

It went on and on. Eventually, there was nothing left to expel, but the retching, cramping and farting were relentless. Eight hours later she was still perched, naked, on the toilet.

In normal circumstances a pretty little thing, she now resembled a featherless budgie. The huge trademark ponytails hung off her like oily rags. Her belly was pregnant with gas.

All of Marieke’s friends were assembled in the lounge. They were quiet, fidgety, embarrassed; unable to decide what to do. Every sartorial cliché in the city was in evidence. The room resembled that of a support group for anxious clowns. A deep-bowel, bacterial stench hung in the air.

The barnyard noises from the bathroom had abated, and the apartment was silent, apart from the distant hum of whitegoods. Abruptly, the sound of an enormous fart, its intensity magnified by the toilet bowl, broke forth. Odour wafted through the apartment like ectoplasm, then a chain of bubbling, strangulated retches.

Edwina from Northcote, a study in op-shop chic, closed her eyes, Adams apple bobbing. A woman who might have stepped out of an Archie comic guiltily opened the balcony door. Foetid air reminiscent of melted duck fat blew into the room, bringing with it the sound of an alcoholic shrieking obscenities in the street outside.

One of the boys pulled an iPod from his black leather jacket, which creaked gently with the movement. Wordlessly, he handed it to Edwina from Northcote, who nodded and went into the bathroom. ‘Poor Marieke!’ She thought.

Edwina from Northcote gently inserted the plugs into Marieke’s ears, gingerly avoiding any actual physical contact. She placed the iPod on the toilet cistern, pressed the play button and eased noiselessly out of the bathroom. Marieke stared, panda-eyed, into the middle distance as Frank Sinatra crooned into her aching head:

‘…. The autumn wind, and the winter wind – have come and gone
And still the days, those lonely days – go on and on
And guess who sings his lullabies – through nights that never end
My fickle friend, the summer wind’

fin

I'm starting to tremble at the thought of never having to listen to that reactionary prick's admonishments ever again. The image of him sitting down with some bloviating radio demagogue and giving voice to petty suburban prejudices has been burnt into the national psyche for too long.

Hopefully, once he's gone, the assholes he has wedged into high places (vide Windschuttle) will be rapidly sent on their unmerry way. The thought of his ideologues continuing to silt up the veins of discourse beyond his tenure is very unnerving.

Here's to a new broom.

Good night, sweet princes...

"To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,
'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd."

mikeed1313 with the obvious stalker porker for fits. The insane desire is in the detail.

I know it's late but I loved Mikeed's post - absolute brilliance

Imagine typing that whole story one-handed!

Milkeed, why were all of her friends at her house?

Because she called them up on the mobile 'cause she's half dead from amoebic dysentry on the god damn shitter, ya fool!

Oh. See - you missed a detail!