Well, you might have noticed that I haven't exactly gone into detail about the happenings of my weekend.
This is because I thought it was boring. And you know me, I don't like to go on and on about the boring details of things.
Okay, well, I do, but it's always for grand comedic suspense-building effect.
So, what _did_ I _do_ this weekend just past?
What didn't I do, you crazy cat!
It all started at around, oh say, 5:58am on Friday, when I was awoken by my alarm clock for the purposes of wishing Adam & Wil of the Js a fare-thee-well.
Then I worked for nine hours, and then I went home.
Or rather, I didn't, because my telephone rang.
Ring ring, it went. Oh, how it rang.
Okay, so it was Vegie.
"d00der," he typed with his tongue and vocal cordz, "want 2 come 2 cris'? party!"
"OMG!" I replied, in a deep scottish brogue, "that'd be gr8!"
So, instead of going home, I went to the home of the father of Chris Abery, who lives in Tasmania where he is often confused with a heroin dealer of the same name.
The reason that Chris Abery was at the home of his father was this: He has no digs in Victoria. And the reason that Chris Abery's father was not in his home was that he was on some long bike ride.
Only problem, where the fuck do you live, you crazy fucking heroin dealer?
I agreed to meet Chris and Vegie at the Foodway in Churchill.
"Do you know where the Foodway is?" asks Chris
"Dude, it's fucking Churchill," was my reply to that stupid question.
And I was right, it's fucking Churchill. Any given thing is within a few feet of the huge erect yellow penis. Uh, I mean... uh, cigar.
I then followed the lads back to Chris' abode, passing several fields and an animal research breeding facility.
Some time passed. Vegie and I ventured out into the Glendonald Housing Estate at one point in order to procure pizza, a trip that put me slightly on edge as the place was crawling with cops breaking up domestic disputes and my bag was chockablock with a small tupperware container that had some pot in it.
Some more time passed, and we made a trip to Morwell to collect SteveSteve from the trainstation.
Some more time passed, and Vegie and SteveSteve and I (though not Chris, because he's all straightedge) lit up and started reading Macbeth and laughing like loons about all sorts of stupid things, much to my horror.
"No!" I cried out at several points, "We must discuss intellectual things, things of art and beauty, lest Chris get the idea that this devil weed is damaging our feeble brains!"
I brought that up *a lot.*
Eventually, we went inside, leaving the bong and the pot and the lighter out in Chris' backyard... at around 5am, we fell asleep while debating the comparative merits of Mountain Dew and Diet Pepsi.
In the morning, I woke up. Lalalalala, that was the birds.
Tweet tweet tweet, that was more birds.
Knock knock knock, that was the old lady, and Chris' dad's girlfriend/gardener knocking on the door, here to do the gardening in the garden surrounding the area in which various evidences of drugs were just sitting there like nobody's business.
There's two things you can do at a time like this. You can freak out madstyles and worry and anxiet.
Or you can wake up Chris and let him deal with it.
I opted for the latter.
There was then much surreptiousness as I attempted to sneak the bong past the old lady and into my car. A difficult mission, but one well worth it. That bong was like a brother to me. A loving, plastic brother.
Anyway, enough of all that tripe, imagine for a minute that I am not a cheery alterna-youth. Imagine that I'm a melancholic non-alterna-youth.
Imagine that this is a LiveJournal.
Instead of the picture to your left of me looking alternative and great in my suave jacket and spanky hair, imagine that there's some anime... or a picture of Invader Zim. I think that melancholic non-alterna-youth me would have a picture of Invader Zim on his LiveJournal.
Hi! Welcome to my LJ! It's SUPER!
Mood: Pensive - nobody will go to the prom with me... I think I'll listen to Nick Cave and slit my wrists in the bathtub again.
Masturbating over: Playboy's Women of MOSSAD, June 1984
Listening to: Dead Kennedys.
"Punk ain't no religious cult
Punk means thinking for yourself
You ain't hardcore cos you spike your hair
When a jock still lives inside your head
Nazi Puuuuuuuunnnnnnkkkkkksss...... FUCK OOOOOOOOOOOFFFFFFF!"
But for why and wherefore amp't I listening to Dead Kennedys right now?
Because of a sexy little foreigner called Darp.
Despite his racial handicap, young Mr. Darp has hurtled into 3rd place in my The Man rankings.
This is because he is taking on his local Nazi Youth! Or Nazi Olds with the intention or raising Nazi Youth, at the very least. Read all about it over at Darpism.com, and then look me in the eye and tell me that you don't want to fondle those shoven balls of his until the cows come home. The cows, I say! (But not in a gay way!)
It seems the rot has set in a little more up in the big smoke, though... Down here we just have to spray over the occasional swastika at the skate park.
Good luck to him I say, for lack of anything better.
*Jesus Savilda, that is. He used to run a whorehouse in Brazil somewhere.