Fissed as a part!

Forgive the ramblings that may follow shortly, it is 2am and I am utterly and completely Rat Arsed. Pished. Fook Drunk. As a skunk, who drank alot. Although upon further reflection, where did that saying come from? I mean honestly, has anyone out there ever seen a skunk who was drunk? I would sell my left nipple to the person who did. See a drunk skunk, that is.

Speaking of “Left”, my birds (who were finally named last week by my buddy Chris) Left & Right, have become really tame of late. So I reward them with a fucking feast every day (consisting of those ugly little brown sprouts that no one I know actually enjoys (the ones that look like sperm. I am thinking they may be called lentils) and green peppers with chopped up apple & topped with little chillies) served to them on top of the cage while I cook dinner and feed my new puppy Susie. The birds are so cute, I have really gotten to notice the difference in characters. Right is always affectionate and never flies off his cage, Left is a bloody wayward fucker. And he eats alot, and then shits all over my floors. This afternoon Neighbour Jeremy’s daughter came running up to my house to play with Susie and gave the birds the fright of their life, so Left took flight (from the fright) and flew right out the front door. Sadly it was quite windy and he managed to lose himself to all those who love him. I searched and searched for him, I even put Right outside in the cage who called and screeched for his gay lover (I have decided they are homosexual birds. They clean eachother, come ON, that’s gay) but there was no answer so I have to assume that he either went straight and met a cute girl bird to make little birdies with or that he decided the old lady down the road would feed him better tasting sperm sprouts and sweeter apples. Either way, Left has left.

So my brother leaves for Mozambique tomorrow for a few months. He has been posted to the border for the SAPS. For the foreignors, thats our South African Police Service. He’s a cop. Or as we call him (we, being myself and the six other siblings and me) Brand is a Oraficer of the Law. In true fashion to our family (we are much like the Irish, any excuse for a piss up will do) we had to do a farewell. At a dodgey dive of a place called Schoeners. It was once a decent seafood shirt (I mean restuarant, fok I am swizzed proper!) but has now transformed into a pool table and coctail bar type thingy for all young folk.

We sat around Talking Jokes (inside family humour that, not bad grammer or punctuality, honest) and I met up with Cauliflower (aka Colin) who’m I haven’t seen in ages. We caught up, he reminded me (verbally) how big his willy is. We discussed the pros and cons of deepheat and tiger-balm on ones nutsack, a recount of Colins encounter with a mole near his penis which had to be surgically removed by a hot doctor which was apparently very embarrassing as she had to get on her knees and use a magnifying glass to take a look at it (the mole, not his penis) just as a nurse walked in, and also about how Mills and Boon novels always say ‘and he glided his rock hard ‘member’ up her tight and widely spread lady thigh”.

At one point we had an entire conversation in Clutchplate (aka Afrikaans and I received a lovely little red rose bought by Cauliflower from one of those annoying Canser chicks. The chicks don’t have cancer themselves, nor do I doubt they even know anyone with cancer, yet they all have perky boobs and fake smiles as they punt the ‘good deed’ and ‘support’ for the cancer association you will be giving if you buy just one fucked up and wilted rose for ‘the lady’ (in this case, Me). The canser chick’s eyes (over-discreetly, the kind you can’t help noticing how indiscreet they are being) look over at the guy, perky boobs a jiggling, eyelashes a flutter, silently begging the dude to just buy one goddamn rose so they can earn their commission and go home to give their boyfriend a bj. Or make a cup of tea for their canser-ridden gran. Whatever floats your boat, I’m not one to assume…

Susie was loved by the gay barman, the waitress kept hitting on my brother which made him grin alot, I got hit on twice (yeah baby, make my day), managed to knock over only two drinks, scored a hot Sharks* jersey from Chris for the evening as I was cold, only had to wee once, shook my bum on the dance floor (which isn’t a dancefloor, it is just a more open area than the rest of the place crammed with tables) with a few of my really fine looking friends, all male, got home safely and sent AriveAlone Man a drunken message on facebook.

All in all, a good evening was had by everyone. And I came home with a red rose! Yay!

*Only THE best rugby team in SA. Ryan Kankowski is the 8th man. Duh! Plus the players are all hot.

One comment

Comments are closed.