Avant garde, no?

Can you dig this shit, Agent Fare Evader, you fare evading fiend?

This is what we call a pre-emptive strike, so people will know the REAL story, before you can get to them with your lies and your acid tongue! That's right, I said it, ACID TONGUE!

It all started at around 9ish... I was around at SteveSteve's joint... we had two missions, get this shitty old TV that had been sitting out in the rain for god knows how long to work (for the purposes of hooking up to the generator and watching down the street) and to make a telephone out of tin cans and string.

This was cos when I was talking to my grandparents the other day, drinking tea, and munching on a Tim Tam, my grandmother mentioned she was reading a book about the One.Tel debacle.

My grandfather, an ideas man as always, suggested that he and I could start a company... by the time anyone realized we'd gone belly up, we'd be in sunny Mexico....

Me: Drinking Mezcal.
Grandfather: I'll have a Tequila Sunrise thanks.
Grandmother: But what will you sell? Or pretend to sell.
Me: Telephones.
Grandfather: Bit derivative, don't you think?
Me: Made out of tin cans and string.
Grandmother (whose hairing is for sucks): Won't your ears get chocolately?

Anyway, we got the TV to work eventually... this was a painful and emotionally charged activity that required me to stand around and make snappy and insightful observations inre: the World, while Steve fucked around with dials and rabbit ears and the like.

Well, when I say work... there was picture, but no volume. This meant we had to make up our own words for such programs as The Bill, which is great fun, and you can play at home with the mute button, I guess: EH, GUVNER? YOU'RE NICKED, WHATWHAT!

Anyway, onto the telephone thing... Despite my extensive Telstra training, SteveSteve insisted on doing all the hammering of nails through things, while I stood around and made insightful and witty comments about how he was holding stuff wrong and why no woman would ever accept him if he were to become a rodeo clown.

Cam: You look ridiculous in floppy shoes, you idiot! Listen to reason!
SteveSteve: Quit your playa-hating, you fucking hack! This is my life, and I'll live it like I want. Dammit.

After a few short minutes, we finally had a working telephonic prototype. We tried it out.

It kind of worked... but only if you were so close that you could hear what the other person was saying even if you were sans Tins.

Cam: The world is not ready for our invention, Dr. Steve.
Steve: Will they ever be, Dr. Cam?
Cam: Please put some pants on. You're making me uncomfortable.

Anyway, then Jelly arrived, and it was around a quarter past 10, and I was struck with the shocking realization that I was yet to have any dinner.

We had to make a trip to Safeway!

But when we arrived, while ex-Army Paul was to be found in his shiny ute (playing car chasey, apparently)... THERE WERE NO SAFEWAY EMPLOYEES TO BE FOUND, COS IT WAS GOOD MOTHERFUCKING FRIDAY!


We would have to go to Horizon to get food... Horizon is on the edge of town.

When we were finished at Horizon, we kind of started driving towards Neerim South.

I actually fully intended to turn around about halfway to Neerim South.

I really did.

But then we got halfway to Neerim South, and I thought, fuck it.

Let's go to Neerim South.

Let's visit our friend Cassie, who lives in said town.

Her bearded lover Luke might be present also.

We will visit them both.

It will be a beautiful thing.


Unfortunately, I was foiled by using her name a couple of times.

Curse you, Cam!

Also, doubly foiled by the fact that she was in Warragul.

Anyway, we could have turned around at this point... but when we came to the roundabout where we were going to turn around, I mentioned that I wasn't sure if I'd ever gone straight through the roundabout.

Then Steve told me to go right. Normally I don't trust Steve... The vast majority of the time he's scheming some evil plot to finish me off and harvest my delicious spinal fluids... but we do have one understanding: WHEN YOU ARE IN THE FRONT PASSENGER SEAT, YOU ARE THE WINGMAN. THE WINGMAN DOES NOT STEER THE PILOT WRONG.

So, I turned right.

This turned out to be a mistake, so we turned around in the driveway thing of Neerim South Primary School, and then went the way I didn't think I'd been before.

After about 20 minutes of this, I said (thinking out loud, really) that I couldn't drive back on any road I'd already been on.

This was a mistake. The other lads would hold me to this, and if I broke the rule, I would be labelled such horrendous things as "undedicated," "a piker," "fucking weak," or the worst insult of all: "a proponent of liberterianism/anarcho-capitalism."

So... Um... this is how we ended up in North Melbourne, outside the house of Agent Fare Evader aka Adam McTrentington III.

I knocked on the door. He opened it.

"Dr. Cam!" he exclaimed, his eyes opened wide with excitement... and was that a hint of sexual longing?

"Adam!" I replied, in a deep scottish brogue, so as to throw him off the scent, "Could we come in for a drink of water?"

"Sorry," he apologized, "everyone's asleep. I don't want to wake them up, you know."

"Who's at the door, Adam?" called someone female from inside the house.

"Mind your own fucking business and get back to those dishes, you harlot!" Adam screamed at whoever it was. "Bloody women," he said to us, "They're all the same. I blame the feminazis for putting these motherfucking ideas in their heads... If they had their way, we'd all be in male death camps."

Jelly, Steve and I looked at each other uneasily. Had we bitten off more than we could chew with this insane crude sexist fiend?

I was considering just bailing then and there, when I noticed a fucking .44 tucked into the waistband of his ill-fitting hiphop jeans... If we tried to run now, he'd pop a fucking slug in each of our skulls... I started to sweat a little.

"What's the matter, Doctor?" asked Adam, "You seem a little nervous about something."

"Oh... it's nothing... you know... meeting internet people for the fir -

I interrupted myself midsentence by punching Adam in the nose and grabbing the gun with some deft ninja reflexes I picked up during my brief yet intense affair with Otake Shinobu.

"What the fuck?" he shouted, blood dripping from his face like someone whose nose has been bloodied by a deft ninja move.

"Now the goose is on the other foot, you sexist bastard. Now, what's that CD?"

He started to whimper at this point, tears welling up in his eyes.

"Pull yourself together, you fucking sissy!" I screamed, "HAND THE FUCKING CD OVER!"

He did... It was called "The Sexenheimer Session."

On it were written such words as, "Boutzos," "Malaka," "Kreas," "Hico," "Bkrotem."

Also, the CD was a 90 minute CD-R. The description applied to it by the CD people was, "Extra Long."

Adam had amended this to read, "Extra Long Cocks."

"You made me a CD? Oh, that's so sweet... Sorry about punching you."

"That's okay... let's just put this whole ugly incident behind us."

I then shot him in the left foot. "Don't sass back, motherfucker," I said in an East German accent.

This is all lies, of course. I shot him in the fleshy part of his right leg... I didn't want to cripple the fucker... just make a point.

Anyway, then we jumped into my pimpmobile, and took off.

Now, I may have bended the truth a little bit so far... purely for awesome dramatic purposes, but everything I say after this colon thing is absolutely true:

As we entered St. Kilda, we stopped at one of Melbourne's many traffic lights.

The reason for this was, the traffic lights were red.

From an early age, the children of Australia are indoctrinated to believe that red lights mean, "Stop!" (Green Lights mean Go. Yellow Lights mean climb out of a side window - while the car is still moving - and pull yourself onto the top of your car... then jump onto the bonnet of the car travelling behind you. Hang on... their driving will probably become quite erratic once you do this. You should then smash through their windscreen with your fist, and pull the motherfucker out. Then jump into the driver's seat. You now have a new car. Thanks, Playschool!)

So, we were stopped at this Red Light. In St. Kilda.

And Adam says, and this is the honest-to-god truth... "Well, they say St. Kilda is a 'RED LIGHT DISTRICT.'"

I think you will agree that this is a terrible joke, and he immediately tried to distract me from remembering it and writing it down and outing him as being a horrible wingman akin to that guy in Good Morning Vietnam who thinks he is funny and can do a radio show of quality not only equal to that of Robin Williams', but superior.

He tried to distract my by suggesting we pick up a male prostitute.

I felt this was a ridiculous suggestion... It was Friday night, and we were heterosexual men in a hip, urbane city... what use would we have of a male prostitute?

Anyway, his name was Gank, and he was awesome.

I can honestly say that a road trip is not a road trip without a prostitute of some sort... GET YOUR MINDS OUT OF THE GUTTERS. He had a deep knowledge of the history of his city, and other such things.

Anyway, at around 3ish, Adam decided he was feeling somewhat weak from all the blood loss, and asked that we dump him on his front porch to bleed out and die.

This was a service we could certainly provide.

It then took us three hours to get home, due to us busting plenty of east, but not nearly enough south. This was intentional and scenic.

And oh look... the sun is coming up.

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