Thursday, February 27, 2014

Random Breath Test




“Evening, sir. We’re conducting random breath testing. We saw you approaching and decided to randomly stop you. Besides, I haven’t seen this new model Ford up close before and wanted to check it out. Nice car. Sir, have you had any drinks this evening?”

“No, I haven’t.

"Oh, well, can I offer you a refreshing beer, sir? I’ve got some in the patrol car.”

“Oh, that’s very kind of you! But I’m about to undergo a random breath test, so it’s probably not such a good idea.”

“They’re icy cold.”

“Mmm…I still shouldn’t. Tempting, though.”

“Fair enough, sir. Okay, I’m going to ask you to blow into this bag, and to keep blowing until I ask you stop. Do you understand?”

“I frequently understand – although some things are beyond my comprehension.”

… "Sir?”

“What?”

“The bag here.”

“You said you were going to ask me to blow into the bag. You haven’t actually done that yet.”

“Oh, yes. Silly of me! Okay, please blow into the bag and keep blowing until I ask you to stop.”

The driver places his lips over the tube and begins to blow into the bag.

“That’s it, keep going, sir…annnd stop. Okay, the light indicates you’re all clear. In fact I can see right through you.”

“Really? Most people say I’m difficult to read.”

“I wouldn’t say so, sir. Now, books. They’re hard to read. Alright, sir, thank you for being so cooperative. Please drive on.”

“It was my pleasure and I will.”

“Sir, can I ask you one last question?”

“Certainly.”

“That was it. That was my last question, I was just testing you and you were very accommodating. Oh, and, sir, I may need to call upon you as a witness. So, I’ll need your phone number, sir.

“Well, actually, you can’t have it – but what I can do is give you a copy. Let me write it down for you. Here you go.”

“Is this an original copy, sir? Although, I never quite understood this. How can a copy also be an original? And how can an original be a copy? Either you have the original, or you have a copy of the original. I don’t think the concept of copies should take on a hierarchal nature. It makes a mockery of originals and they were on the scene first. Where would it all end, you know? Like, ‘This is a copy of the original copy from the original’. See what I mean? Ludicrous”

“Well, what I gave you is a copy of my phone number. Anyway, what would I need to be a witness for?”

“Witness for the prosecution. I’m re-making a movie in my spare time. Policing just doesn’t pay well enough. Unless you accept bribes. You don’t want to offer me a bribe, do you, sir?”

“Well, I might’ve but without trying to sound petty, you did use up your one last question a number of lines ago.”

“Fair enough. Goodbye, sir.”

“Goodbye.”

Monday, November 18, 2013

The Shitter




Every workplace has one in residence. So I would think. We certainly have one and his name is Michael. He’s the Shitter in the office. Michael arrives at work his usual way – with a work car – and parks within our workplace premises, locks the four-wheeled modern transport unit, and then enters the door at ground level before ascending the stairs to the second floor. He settles at his desk.

I also work on the second floor. I like Michael. But I keep getting stung. He’s always shitting and I keep getting hit with it. It’s like innocently walking along before abruptly slamming into an unseen elephant. In I go to the bathroom to wee and POW! I breathe the gut wrenching stench into my soul. What ensues is a life-or-death situation where I try to hold my breath while having a wee, but to finish and exit the death chamber before sucking in my next breath. Not easy.

Michael’s always have a particularly bad signature smell. Like that of a long-undiscovered dead rodent invisibly lodged within a wall cavity in your house. Decomposition has already commenced. Hardly ever do we have many people on our floor, so I know Michael is the guy. Whenever I do the forensic piecing-together in my head from my wobbly office chair with no wheels, Michael’s absences invariably correlate with the timing of the event and subsequent lavatorial fallout.

Sometimes I would have already been to wee, as I do drink a lot of water during the day, and I’ll have noticed the bottom of the toilet was sans skiddies. I always urinate into the bowl, so I know this to be the case. You see, over the years I have calculated that standing over any bowl, anywhere, should lessen the chance of me standing in another male’s piss – their little drips and misses. This is because mostly when a male is using the bowl, it’s for a number two. When a male uses the actual urinal, he can’t help – or won’t care – splashing the floor in his immediate vicinity with sparkling gold. And I don’t want to stand in it. Anyway, the next time I’ve gone to wee, this time the bowl is avec skiddies – and of course I’ve already face-planted into the elephant come this moment.

My vision of each day is Michael undertaking daily tasks in front of a PC, participating in some telephone calls and getting up to take a shit, or that he is returning from the bathroom having just taken a shit.

Morning, Michael, how are you?

Good, how are you?

Good, thanks.

He sits down: Work work work. Discuss discuss. A bit more work.

He’s gotten up and gone to the bathroom: Shit Shit.

I get up some time later to use the bathroom myself: Oh, GOD!!! He got me again. That really STINKKKS…

Both of us: Work work work. Discuss discuss. The day passes.

See you tomorrow, Michael.

Yeah see ya, mate.

Somehow I consistently fail to remember Michael’s foul-bowel activities. So I forget that I could be making use of the downstairs bathroom. Although, I do congratulate and thank myself for at least taking some preventative measures. You see, another scary truth revealed to me during my office years is that so many men don’t wash their hands with soap and water after a number two. Accordingly, I now automatically make contact with any door handles, taps, toilet flush buttons, soap dispensers, or anything else, behind the safety barrier of a folded paper towel. This is mandatory. I also mandatorily wash my hands if circumstances force me to shake hands with any male. While this is action taken after the event, I can’t exactly ask the person to wait while I slip on a latex glove before gripping their potentially bio-hazardous appendage. Pleased to meet you…

Where was I? Oh, yes. Concerning Michael, I’d make good use of a gas mask, you know, like the ones issued to civilians after some madman has unleashed the power inherent in biological weaponry. Only that would be all too obvious. Besides, I still like Michael despite his eau de rotting rodent.


Thursday, October 24, 2013

Phone Call on a Bus between Him and Her



Ring ring…Ring ring…Ring ring… 
She fidgets in order to locate the phone from her bone-coloured handbag, which overflows with all manner of things, including a practicing circus, a spare car and Doctor Who’s original TARDIS –  I think I just spotted a kitchen sink. She answers the call in a big loud voice. The big loud voice continues. It’s a public broadcast on the bus. It’s a public broadcast about her private life. No one else on the bus is talking – and evidently she’s fine with spilling a general broadcast in front of everyone, who, I might add, have zero options for any escape from what ensues. I’d welcome the Daleks, instead, at this point… 
Her: Hi, you okay? 
Christ, here we go. 
(Him) 
Her: Yeah, good. I’m just on the bus now – going over the Harbour Bridge. 
(Him) 
Her: It was good. Busy. How was your day? 
(Him) 
Her: Oh, good. Cool! 
(Him) 
Her: I missed you, too. 
(Him) 
Her: Okay. We could. 
(Him) 
Her: I dunno, I like the one with mushroom better, you know? 
(Him) 
Her: Oh, yeah. Yeah. 
(Him) 
Her: Well, I can just give her a call tonight…I know, she has to realize it’ll take some time. 
(Him) 
Her: And Auntie wants to know if this Friday is okay. 
No, it won’t be okay because I’m going to kill you. Right here on the bus. 
(Him) 
Her: Hello, are you there? ...Can you hear me? Hello, oh…how ‘bout now? 
(Him) 
Her: Yeah, sorry, the Bridge is always a bit weird at the end. 
(Him) 
Her: Anyway, is Friday okay? 
(Him) 
Her: Well, we could take two cars. Yep. 
(Him) 
Her: Alright, we’ll see. No worries. 
(Him) 
Her: I know I can’t wait to see them! So cute – yeah, Flopsy is the cutest. How’s her ear look today? 
(Him) 
Her: Okay. Oh, well. Yeah, I can give them a call if you like when I get home. 
(Him) 
Her: I don’t think it really matters, they’re all good. And Cameron is also good with smaller animals. 
I bet he could surgically remove your voice box, too. That’d shut you up. 
(Him) 
Her: Alright. 
(Him) 
Her: Tomorrow night? Um, yeah, we could meet them at dad’s first if that suits them. 
(Him) 
Her: No, I think I’ll be alright. I thought I was going to be so sore! Oh, yeah, and then don’t forget tonight I’ll have to leave by 6.30pm! Do you think my pants will be dry? 
(Him) 
Her: No, the other ones. 
(Him) 
Her: Blue? Oh, you mean the light blue ones? 
(Him) 
Her: Yeah, I suppose so. Okay, sure. I don’t think they’ll clash. 
(Him) 
Her: Something like that. 
(Him) 
Her: I thought we were having that tonight as well? Alright, well just put it in the freezer for now. 
(Him) 
Her: No, I don’t mind. 
(Him) 
Her: Thanks. 
(Him) 
Her: I know. He’s got no savings of his own and expects Auntie to lend him the whole lot.
(Him) 
Her: It is a lot of money, I know! And he’s living the high life, too! He goes to that restaurant in the city every weekend. 
(Him) 
Her: No, not that one with the long pony tail, the other guy who spits all over the food when he talks. 
(Him) 
Her: Yeah, on TV. British chef. 
(Him) 
Her: …yeah, and now he also wants to go on that European trip. That’s not right. 
(Him) 
Her: Yeah, so, and now he’s looking at places worth a million. 
(Him) 
Her: Well, where he was looking it was around 600 thousand. Now he thinks he can go higher and get a bigger mortgage because auntie’s helping him. Poor Auntie. 
(Him) 
Her: And he keeps living the high life. 
(Him) 
Her: Exactly, at least we had some savings. We weren’t trying to live the high life. 
(Him) 
Her: Auntie has been so generous with all of them. 
(Him) 
Her: Exactly, at least she’s trying. 
(Him) 
Her: I know. 
(Him) 
Her: And he’s living the high life. 
So you keep saying. Anyway, it’s Auntie’s choice. 
(Him) 
Her: Yeah, those restaurants aren’t cheap! 
(Him) 
Her: Okay, sweetie. Better go. See you in about 10 minutes. 
(Him) 
Her: No, I said I’d better go. Hello…sweetie? Hang on…okay… 
(Him) 
Her: I said I’d better go now. Yeah, we just went through that other bad patch. So, I’ll be home in a few minutes.
(Him) 
Her: Okay, we’ll catch up on what’s been happening when I’m home. 
(Him) 
Her: Love you, too. Bye. 
Exterminate! Exterminate! ...

Friday, October 18, 2013

Fish

Somehow I seem to have gotten myself into a bit of a fish theme lately. Not sure why but there you have it. 

What I wanted to say cryptically about fish this week was, that no matter its depicted size or relative position any fish is always to scale. That's it.

By the way, ever notice how it’s called fishing and not catching fish? Simply because we don’t always catch anything. Often, in fact.


Hey!

Monday, October 07, 2013

Fishing Day!





A very short play about the time I caught something.

The Setting
Here I stand on a long, wind-swept jetty holding a fishing rod over the choppy ocean. Patches of frothy foam meander with the sea’s whimsical movements – occasionally slapping up against the jetty’s steadfast poles. Some jellyfish bob along trying to find their niche in life – or perhaps looking for somewhere to just sit and rest and untangle their tentacles for a change. Squashed, sun-dried green prawns lie scattered around my feet. The rest of the jetty is a giant join-the-dots marked out by the splatterings of seagulls. Two kids run up and down the length of the jetty, yelling out to each other and plotting simple games. A couple strolls by.  

To my right, closer towards the elusive horizon stands an eastern European man with a concentrated look and grey scraggly hair, probably in his late 60s or a little older. He assiduously fishes while a half-smoked cigarette dangles precariously from his thin lips. He’s bow-legged with light brown baggy shorts hanging from his waist. The sun beats down on his bare upper torso, but his skin is not burnt one bit. It is tough and olive. Before when I was establishing my fishing spot, our eyes had met. He had looked at me with a squinting eye and reviewed my presence through a slightly frowning forehead.

Act 1, Scene 1

Nothing happens.

Act 1, Scene 2

Nothing happens.

Act 1, Scene 3

I scratch my balls. Nothing else happens.

Act 2, Scene 1

Nothing happens.

Act 2, Scene 2

Nothing happens.

Act 2, Scene 3

I wriggle a bit as the itch returns. Nothing else happens.

Final Act, Scene 1

I re-scratch my balls. Nothing else happens. But my face is displaying a degree of relief.

Final Act, Scene 2

Nothing happens.

Final Act, Scene 3

As the itch persists I reel my line in. I prepare to head off home. Uh-oh. Seems I’ve caught crabs and can’t stop scratching.



Sunday, September 22, 2013

What do you think?





I need your opinion. Or, condemnation as you see fit.

I'm working on a memoir about me and my wife. It covers from when we first met, and continues recounting how our first seven years together were actually spent living apart in separate countries. Crazy, I know - SEVEN years. But, true. Anyway, so far I've given this story the title Together 7 Years Apart. It's possible I might also go with 2555 Days Is Up (i.e. 365 days a year multiplied by 7 years) or 364 Weeks (you guessed it - 52 weeks a year multiplied by 7 years. 2555 Days Is Up could be too lengthy as a title).

Your mission - should you be arsed thinking about it - is to report back to me with your valuable opinion of the above titles. You could just leave me a comment at the end of this post. You could broadcast your thoughts via any of Rupert Murdoch's reliable media outlets (sorry about that noise, a bunch of people suddenly burst out laughing - some are actually sobbing). So, thanks if you do! And, of course, no worries if you don't (I'll simply ignore you at the book signing).

Here's a little snippet of the story...

Saturday, September 21, 2013

Russian Caravan tea





Some weeks ago I explained that I would stop posting snippets of my own work - fearing it counted against any efforts of mine to become seriously published anywhere. Well, things do change don't they? And we change our minds. At the moment I don't exactly find myself with  a huge following. So, to hell with it - I'm posting a snippet here. This one is taken from the memoir Together 7 Years Apart, a story about me and my wife. Do you have any similar stories as this one below?:

Erin and I did not get on like a house on fire. No. We got on like a whole row of houses up in flames. The fire burnt for a good two or so hours, abundantly fueled with relaxed conversation. I told Erin some boring story about how Russian Caravan tea had traditionally been taken with the addition of strawberry jam mixed in for sweetness. I shouldn’t have bothered but the words had irrevocably sprung forward from inside of me, and it would have appeared even lamer to have stopped myself mid-way. I was drinking Russian Caravan tea at the time and, with the jam, so at least I had the aid of distracting props. Some nights later Erin told me that she had actually found the little story quite endearing. She was putting me at ease so early in our relationship. Either that or I had a remarkable talent for utilizing table-sized props.