Sorry it’s takin’ me ages to write, but I’ve been off in me ute and just heard the news.
Kim, the Big Wanger is that way…
I can’t believe you punted me for that Carn Yay bloke.
At first I thought it was that Gotyay fella, at least he’s Aussie.
I heard youse and Carn Yay are gettin’ hitched ‘n have a kid named after a compass.
Fair dinkum. So this Carn Yay is ‘sposed to be some creative genius singer? Bullshit.
Yeah no, I reckon I have a pretty good crack at the Oils on Karaoke Night down at the RSL.
I nail Beds Are Burning… that was our song, remember? Not any more it ain’t. Therefore, men discount viagra usa have to protect their testicles. Nocturnal emissions: It is an involuntary discharge of semen. levitra 40 mg respitecaresa.org Being a generic version of viagra cheap usa, it follows the same mechanism to improve the blood circulation and offers effective cure for fatigue and weakness. This function in return increases the sugar levels in the body, which leads to cialis soft canada increase the blood density. I ‘spose now he sings you one of his crap songs or his sister Beyonsay.
Jeez, I had it all planned Kim.
You could have still done your TV show from out here in Wangarrabee. One of me mates bought one of them flash new Sony Betamax cameras at Cash Converters.
Was it the Aussie food? You know you can get your American food here, Barry at the local truckstop is famous for his Big Wanger.
I heard about Carn Yay’s proposal in that big stadium. He deadset ripped off my idea. I was gunna pop the question at the local footy oval, all me mates would’ve had their utes with the roo spotlights on full bore. Would’ve been lit up like a Christmas tree, real romantic n’that.
Anyhow Kim, I gotta go, they’re about to call the winner of the chook raffle.
Like that song by Carn Yay’s mother, I will always keep up with you.
You meet a lot of interesting people on holidays. Well when I say “meet”, I mean observing people from a safe distance and mercilessly taking the piss if warranted.
I would have smirked if he fell
I stayed at a rather nice beach resort in Malaysia over Christmas and it was simultaneously a pleasurable and fascinating experience. I think the five stars were awarded for the characters that were staying there.
It really was a microcosm of humanity, mixed with sand and the odd Pina Colada. In no particular order we had the delightful Poms from Bogan-On-Trent who thought the dress code in the restaurant where breakfast was served was footwear optional. I love the look of tinea in the morning.
As well as not being able to afford shoes, their pantry must be a bit light on, because each morning they would they would knock off the teabags and sugar sachets from the table.
They must prescribe to the hotel buffet school of thought that “I’ve paid for it, so I can have it”. Similar to the family I saw at a hotel seafood buffet in Singapore stuffing prawns and oysters into Tupperware containers they coincidentally had on them. As you do.
I was wondering how to get the dining chairs into my suitcase.
I also have a bit to learn from the people (stereotypically Germans, though I’ve never actually seen a Teutonic type do this) who bags a sun lounge by the pool at about 3.24am, and then turn up to use them at 3.25pm.
Speaking of sun lounges, the Natasha twins with their “uncle” Boris (I suggest the ladies were on an hourly rate, and yes, I admit my range of Russian names is garnered from watching “Rocky and Bullwinkle”), weren’t content with their three sun lounges, they thought they’d take over the adjoining ones as well.
Their $4,000 Louis Vuitton handbags and over-sized sunglasses obviously needed a tan.
Also providing a bit of cheek, literally at the resort was “Arse Boy”. We encountered this middle-aged bandanna and budgie smuggler wearing “dude” by the pool, who pulled said budgies halfway up his date to get some sun on his bum and proceeded to strike poses like a cross between a Bondi lifesaver and the centerfold for Playgirl magazine’s special Wedgie edition.
Thanks for that mate, talk about New Moon. Another highlight was the bloke who pranked his son with the hilarious game called “Let’s Pretend Daddy’s Dead”. He would float, face down, legs and arms akimbo in the classic drowned position in the kids pool. His seven-ish year old son, obviously concerned, started anxiously poking him, saying the word “Daddy” in ever increasing degrees of concern.
Only when he thought his son had reached the right level of hysteria, the guy stood up, pissing himself laughing. What a strange man. He must have great fun at home lying in a bath filled with red food dye clutching a razor blade.
There were plenty of other characters, “Blue Leg Boy”, “Buns of Steel”, and the wannabe bikini supermodel with her wannabe bikini supermodel photographer, as well as the usual pasty white bodies basting themselves in baby oil, so they can return to their -14 degrees European snow-bound homes boasting the trophy tan (and third degree burns).
My pick are the people who feel it necessary to take those Hindenburg size inflatable pool toys on holiday with them. I saw someone being crushed in the pool by a life-size blowup killer whale, but then again it could have been another round of “Let’s Pretend Daddy’s Dead”.
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*This piece was published in the sadly now defunct The Punch by news.com.au
