...chairwise, at least. The journo at the station grew tired of her FANTASTIC chair. Apparently it was too tall for her desk or something, and the arms were banging on it, and she couldn't sit up straight.
Actually... I wonder what chair she has now... Excuse me, while I go check. Everyone has gone home you see, so I'm very much free to DASH and PRANCE through the building and check on the seating arrangements of others.
Wow, she's got a horrible little generic office number now... not like my new chair.
I'm not ashamed to admit that I've lusted after this chair since the first day I saw it. Or maybe I just lusted after the old journo... she was pretty hot... and got very confused along the way.
Anyway, my new chair is black, fake-leather, and very classy. Also, it's FUCKING BIG. So I can fall asleep in it... Not that I'd... ever... fall asleep.
Talking about not falling asleep, I had an interesting encounter on the weekend, on Sunday morning at around 2 a.m. actually... that is, at a time WHEN I SHOULD HAVE BEEN ASLEEP.
SteveSteve's older brother had somehow managed to make it to 21 without dying of alcohol poisoning - more's the pity, some might say. Not me of course, I'm a kindhearted soul - and Vegie and I were attending his birthday party at a local tavern/gaming venue. Yeah, that's right. You're going to have to fucking wait to hear what happened at 2 a.m. Or.. you could just skip this bit, and go straight to the interesting encounter. Please don't do that. You'll be like, "The fuck? Who's this Sha cat?" That's right, motherfucker. New people.
Anyways, Jeffrey Maize, Vegie and I arrived at the local tavern/gaming venue at around 8, only to find we'd been left off the guestlist. As a result, we had to sign in. The doorbitch was anything but. I mean, when I say local tavern/gaming venue... I mean, local gaming venue/tavern - they'll let anyone in - it's simple fucking economics: When you stop letting people in, they stop giving you money. In fact, no drinking establishment in this fine town really has any entry requirements - although they'd rather you weren't actually in the process of vomiting.
ANYWAY. We signed in, and it's at around this point that I should probably tell you that Vegie is wearing a hat. A beanie, rather. No particular sporting denomination, just a standard beanie. The reason for this: It's pretty fucking cold on Saturday night in Warragul, as the icy claws of winter only now begin to relinquish their hold on etc.
The nice door lady says to Vegie, "I'm afraid you'll have to take off your hat to go through the gaming area. Sorry, but it's club rules. I know how you kids are about your hats."
The fuck? I know how you kids are about your facts. I know. How you kids are. About your hats.
I mean, really. Obviously somebody made a fuss about their hat one time.
Anyway, we went up to the party, and there was SteveSteve with his girlfriend of some months now, Sha. Anyway, the party happened, and then there was some air-guitaring in the street and then we (V, SS and I) decided to indulge in some chemicals. We had everything we needed... but... water. Hell, I had a bunch of king size rolling papers, but I'll be damned if I'm going to smoke a jay when I have a perfectly good bong right there. Be damned, I say!
So, it was 2 a.m. at this point, and we elected to go to United to buy a bottle of overpriced water, and when we arrived, there were already people in there. About five or so. Two guys, three girls.
Sha says (in the car): Oh, is this where everyone in Warragul hangs out, eh? Ahahaha.
We all laugh. It's a humourous notion.
One of the guys was wearing a (rather muddy) leather jacket, and was giving the poor clerk a fair bit of shit... And when I say he was giving him shit, I mean... his words were of a semi-humorous quality but with seriously intimidating overtones of impending doom and apocalypse. No, seriously, it had mud all over it.
Anyway, I get my water, and give it to the clerk, and pay for it, and the guy gets into a conversation with me when he sees my deputy sheriff's badge.
Guy: Hey, you're a sherriff, are ya? You should burn this motherfucking place down and arrest this motherfucker, man. (referring to the clerk)
Me: I'm a Deputy sheriff, actually.
Guy: Deputy sheriff... fuck, man. What a fucking failure. How are you ever going to get anywhere when you're only the fucking deputy sheriff.
Me: Hey, buddy, I've got plenty of drive and ambition. I'll be sheriff one day.
Guy: No you fucking won't, man. Fuck, you'll always be deputy sheriff. That's pretty fucking sad, don't you think.
By the way, he was drunk.
Then he says:
Fuck, man. I should be deputy sheriff. Look at how fucking muddy I am. How much for your badge.
Me: 60 cents (Three of the cost 60 cents together... hello profit.)
So, he gives me seventy cents. Anyway, then I get into a conversation with one of the girls about my "Kill Your Television" badge.
Chick: You don't like TV?
Me: No, I make it.
Chick: Oh god... I'm so sorry.
Anyway, there are now 9 people standing in the store talking, not buying anything... and then...
"Hey Cam!"
It's Rob Coupe. What the fuck is he doing here at this time of morning, I enquire.
The answer: Buying petrol.
And get this, he knows one of the guys that was already in the store. So... that's 10 people standing in the store talking, not buying anything.
V, SS, S and I leave, making it 6 or something, fuck man, I never did no Year 12 maths.
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