Dial-a-moron

Being a complete idiot is sometimes an exhilirating
and unpredictable way of living a life. Incidents find
you and keep things interesting. You wake up in cold
sweat expecting some yahoo yelling into a bullhorn "We
have the building surrounded! Come out with your hands
above your head."


Of all the specifically bad choices I have made in my
life, not changing the phone out of my name in my old
house would have to be my most recent. It actually
started as a pretty simple excercise of leaving the
phones working so that my previous housemates, Stacia
and Katie, could call up other people so they could
move out. Simple. Now, problems occured when the new
lot of tenants moved in, the old ones moved out. A few
weeks went by where there was several friendly
attempts at contacting the group at Queensberry street
was unsuccesful. The few weeks became a few months...


On the day I got the letter from Dun & Bradstreet
Collection Services I had just come back from lunch
with Dad, leaving me in a fairly patricidal mood, the
heat was intense enough to cause cars in South
Australia to burst into flames and the last thing
needed in the whole scheme of things was a karmic
wedgie.
It's an ugly letter.
It stares at me as I type this.
It has words and phrases like; 'commence debt
recovery action','72 hours','legal action','adversley
affect your credit rating (my WHAT rating?)',
'$1,614.95' as well as 'and the horse you rode in on'.

Meanwhile... at the Telstra head office: Beings of Pure Misery were looking to ruin someone else's day

I will be, if not now then in the near future, what
bail bondsmen, modern day bounty hunters, call a 'bad
flight risk'. Hunted down by the militant arm of the
inescapable Telstra corporation. Dang.


(To be continued..)


Frequently outsmarted by farm animals,
A.k.a. Fatman

The Mare of that Town

If I could give any advice to the young people of today it would be; 'If you're going to p_ss in the sink, move the goddamn dishes' and ' don't bet on a horse that's a 193-to-1'.It's a hideous feeling to watch the horse you bet on move sluggishly...in the wrong direction...and without a jockey, the pieces of paper you put good money on steadily losing it's value, but that's what most of us did on Tuesday in our humble town for a little thing called the Melbourne Cup. Excuse me, the TOOHEYS NEW Melbourne Cup (The capital letters are there for two reasons, one: to show my childish contempt for Lion Nathan and two: to keep people from dozing off. After my 'Big in Japan- the Travel Diaries' I realised that some of you out there needed several pots of strong coffee and amphetamines to get through my aimless RAMBLINGS)

The Melbourne Cup. In our see sawing weather patterns it was good to see that for once we received sunshine instead of clouds that usually dominate, giving us the Gotham City feel (I say screw punctuation!) Obviously this meant that it was like an attack of the lobster people scenario where floppy hats with feathers was the only thing that managed to keep people pale and pasty- parts of them lestwise.

There were still a whole bunch of Irish people who had materialised like a Halloween nightmare a week ago. Melbourne, god bless her, gave them another reason to mope. The air was thick with Irish Brogue 'Fourty dollars fer a ticket! That's ballacks!' But enough of kicking people when the're down.

I'm three paragraphs in and I still haven't said anything so here goes, Helen- happy 30th birthday- It was great to see you in Lorne. And even though my travelling companion infuriated the only cab driver down there and my stomach was doing mano-a-mano with itself on the entire journey back I had a ball. And speaking of ball, I look forwards to the bucks night bowling this Saturday for Pollard who is doing the extremely stupid thing of getting married, but with an extremely cool chick, so that should balance things out, karmic-ally speaking.

I was just born this way,
Fatman