rude writing six{0}
as victor meldrew would say – “i don’t believe it”
i’ve had feedback asking for more of my silly novel idea. fantastic, i can only oblige, thank you.
cont … Comfortable pissing has taken on a new meaning to me now as I’m turning 50 soon and the horror that is prostate cancer maybe something I should be testing for, it sure feels like it at times. I did have a guy stick his tree trunk like finger up my arse many years ago, it was invited, but not in a dinner and drinks kind of way. He actually chatted throughout the whole procedure, probably trying to make me feel comfortable, but that was impossible. If there ever is a need for digital dildo mould model then this guy’s finger would have been rated solid gold or rubber latex, right down to the bumpy bits I felt on the way in, while swirling around inside and then on its return journey out. The popping sound it made when it was over and out is forever ingrained in my memory and although the test results from this impersonal probing were fine, it brings a blood stained tear to my eye whenever I think about it.
Gay men and virginal Greek women must have uniquely powered sphincter muscle, I cried like a sick hungry baby when this guy tickled the back of my throat from the inside. It bloody well hurt. In fact my walking back to the car would have been a sight to behold from behind; I was holding the bee in my behind on the inside. Well a successful pee finished, with no serious drips and it’s time to face the Police, senior management, Warren and whoever else wanted to be involved in this recent threat to my well being. That big fingered guy was well in touch and charged accordingly to pinpoint my well being.
While being avoided in the corridor, heading to face this interrogation, I remember my release from high school in year 11 and salubrious entry to the workforce. Why now I don’t know, but as I get older I have these reminiscing flashes of my past and I continue to realise that it’s not just getting closer to 50 that has turned me into a grumpy little shit; I’ve been one since I can remember. Flash back time, here comes the memory….. In order to get permission to leave school, an outcome I had to achieve rather desperately, I had to get a job first, so I walked the streets thinking of what I could do, or get. Butchery I hear you scream, what a bloody obvious choice. I think it was because there were so many butcher shops about and as they removed the spirit of keen individuals quicker than a coffee enema scouring out waste from a dubiously female member of the Jackson family, there were plenty of openings.
So here I was, like many of my age listening devoutly to Deep Purple in Rock, with my life having recently been turned upside down by Reg Livermore’s original Sydney version of the Rocky Picture Show, taking the most obvious step of entering the world of retail Butchery, What? I got a job with the prospect of an apprenticeship and boom; I was out of school and catching too many buses in my carefully chosen and realistically meat smelling butchers outfit. After suffering at the hands of a height challenged, as in he was an angry short prick, megalomaniac, I was offered a new position with a better company. Off I went, at sparrows fart in the bloody freezing cold on my pushbike to a leafy suburb on the north shore of Sydney, about half an hour’s ride. This is where I learnt how to whistle, count money, acquire a sense of my own sexuality while hiding my erection under my apron and develop the skills to interact with the public, as well as how to ride a pushbike through Sydney’s traffic without getting killed. This new position also included learning how to scare the living crap out of workmates and customers, when called upon.
If you’ve ever been standing in a traditional butcher shop with loads of ceramic tiles, metal benches and counter tops with glass and mirrors everywhere, concentrating on your purchase and probably joking with the butcher to score a better cut of meat or ensure they keep their thumb off the scales, you’ll know just how much echo there is in there. So when a stainless steel tray hurtles, like an albatross about to die on a fishing boat’s long line, sight unseen from the back area, crashes on to the tiled floor, you would have some sort of personal urinary or bowel reaction. This sudden stopping of the tray and resulting noise reverberating around the shop, used to scare the living shit out of everyone in the store, except me of course. It’s a miracle that I didn’t kill anyone.
The lucky female who owned the supermarket next door, liked practical jokes which made her a special target, she’d give as good as she got and was worthy of delicate, well planned retribution to her own brand of practical jokes. When a fresh pig head ended up in my hands, the obvious place for it to be was in the toilet bowl of her outside and more importantly, no lock on the door, lavatory. We and everyone in the leafy north shore suburb heard the screams, it nearly made the news, but the networks would not believe it. She had gone to conduct her business and when, as we all do, glanced backed to see her handy work, she was confronted by the glistening pig head that was staring right back at her. The pigs face had of course been covered with a certain deposit. The recipient although deeply scared by such a stunt, laughed it off after an excruciatingly long 6 weeks and we all called a truce, which was honoured. We were not cruel, after all.
Cruel would be to take anything the regularly confused Warren was saying to heart, or even hold it against him, YES!! He’s a nice guy OK, but he’s completely out of his depth and should remove his toes from the water immediately. I walked into his workspace cubicle area to find the Police sitting there trying to understand him, he was smiling and uttering something that even I, with my well ingrained Warren expertise could not fathom.
