Avant garde, no?

We were somewhere around 100 kilometres above Vladivostok, when I realised I'd left the oven on.

Also, less pressingly, we were out of fuel.

THE VERY FUEL THAT OUR PLANE REQUIRED TO STAY AIRBORNE.

"What the fuck," I exclaimed raunchily to my gunner, Stan, "Didn't those ratfuckers back at base fill this motherfucker up?"

Very raunchily.

"They mustn't have," he surmised accurately.

Very accuaretaly.

"Ratfuckers! I've said it once, and I'll say it again: Motherfucking ratfuckers! Rottencrotch bastards the lot of them... you try and do something honourable for your country... for God and Country, and this is how they repay us? It's enough to make me choke!" I screamed into the cold night.

"True. But we *were* running guns to the Germans," Stan pointed out.

Gee. Stan is so wise.

Anyway, the point is, it's been a while, hasn't it, dear reader.

Quite the while... some days, in fact... 5 or so. So many.

And why such a wait... well, first Stan and I had to get out of our wacky situation as detailed above... what were we going to do?

Load up on red wine and shoot vegetables spinning into the darkness at high speed?

Why not?

It was decided on Saturday that Vegie, SteveSteve and I should go camping. There would be mugs of alcohol, and fire, and homemade firearms that are probably illegal. And the Ramones live on MAGNETIC TAPE, the finest of all the tapes.

HEY HO! LET'S GO!

SteveSteve, being an unreliable junkie however, piked.

So, it was up to Vegie and I to terrorize our fellow campers with screams and explosions.... GOD! THE SACRIFICES WE MAKE!

Unfortunately, this was something that was fun at the time, but doesn't translate well to the page. I mean... how do I get across to you, the reader, the feeling you get when you're about to pull the trigger on that motherfucker, and send another missile off into the distance? It's way too complex for these little squiggly lines.

First, you've got your basic fear...

1. Is this going to give me an electric shock?
2. This is going to hurt my ears, isn't it.

Then you have your basic joy...

1. Holy fuck, I'm about to blow some shit apart!
2. No, seriously!

I think Abraham Lincoln said it best when he said, "This must be what God feels like when he's holding a gun."

But what you're all wondering is... how *did* Stan and I escape our almost certain fiery deaths?

WITH SOME GOOD OLD FASHIONED AUSSIE INGENUITY, THAT'S HOW!

Peace. Out.

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