#167: Kanga-Roo

The world needs more National Emblems who can stand bolt upright and give the universal signal for 'fuck off'.  I found this rude roo on the weekend, God love the fuzzy little bastard, sitting in the yard of a dis-used gaol somewhere out in the docks of the boon.  And yes, I gave it right back at him, but only after he'd given it to me several times over.

Stupid bloody thing that he is.  I looked deep into his rough, black eyes and thought, "Hmmmm, I wonder if I drove another 300kms would I find a relative of his who'd tripped on a fence and was still juicy?"

Bugger me if I didn't find the very same thing.  "That'll teach him," I thought, "cheeky bastard."  Still, did I wish ill on the rude roo?

Of course not.  "Perhaps," I thought, "I'll lie down in this fine town and have a rest?  Surely nothing bad could happen?  After all they know how to deal with their errant Skippys."

Wrong again.  As can be seen from this headstone if you fall asleep in certain areas then the odds are great that you'll simply be crated up and shipped off to the great reward, wherever and whatever that reward might be.

You have to wonder though, are those holes in the ground where the undead has been trying to dig their way out, or is it someone trying to dig their way in?

Either way I don't think I really want to know.  Bloody rabbits.

Still, it could be worse.  Caught out ironing your smalls is never a good thing, but really, it could be far worse.  The jocks might have shreddies.  Still, it's good to see some traditional values are fully intact.  Get to work and iron your best undies.  Surely the shame would be in not ironing your worst undies?  Is there shame in being hygenic?

But I do have to ask, does anyone iron their undies anymore?  And did they ever?  C'mon, fess up.  What was the preferred method of post-washing preperation for the under-crackers?  Or do more and more people freeball these days?

Questions without answers.

And, in closing, get a fucking job, you hippy!  I don't care how you do it, just pull your finger out and do it.  At least this way you can either eat the left-over product, or mix it in with some soup, strain the results and get whacked right off your tits.

Can life be better than that?

I think not.

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