The World is My Urinal

' I had once intended to write an entire novel while having to urinate very badly. I wanted to see how that need affected the style and tempo of my work. I had found, for instance, that when I'm writing about a character who's in a Ph.D. program and I don't have to urinate very badly, I'll have him do a regular three- or four-year program. But if I'm writing a novel and I have to urinate very very badly, than I'll push the character through an accelerated Ph.D. program in perhaps only two years, maybe even a year.'
Mark Leyner, Et tu Babe

When your bladder is calling the shots you are the co-pilot of the sack of fluids that is your body. (As I jot down these thoughts I have a creeping suspicion that one of the comedians was talking about this during the recent Melbourne Comedy Festival. I apologise for any plagiarism herein but I saw not one of the shows and besides it's a topic that stretches back to early civilisations and get off my back and oh-yeah?-your-horse-ugly. So there.) The pressure builds in the lower "rude bits" of your body and no matter if you spend your life donating to charity and doing other Good Samaritan-y things you WILL push old ladies into oncoming traffic, destroy life long relationships, kill relatives, etc. for that sweet sweet release. All other commitments evaporate from your alcohol-decayed mind as you hunt down for someplace to whizz. However, once finished, you revert back to your normal, neurotic self and apologise to the horrified onlookers/ relatives/ ambulance guys of that tragic 'pushing old lady into the traffic'-thing.

It takes a very special kind of prick to not acknowledge the lend of the facilities of a bar. (Yes, this is a long winded gripe about 'idiot customers' and will affect most of you not one bit.) Like Mr.Personality who slithered wordlessly into the Amethyst and tried to walk wordlessly out.

Me:(shouts) You're welcome!
D-ckhead: (turns around) Excuse me?
Me: I said "You're welcome). You used the toilet without saying anything.
D-ckhead: So?
Me: It's polite to ask.
D-ckhead: You actually expect me to ask you permission to use your toilet?
Me: Yup. It's called courtesy.

And so on and so forth. The scenario ended in a lot of shouting and hand gestures and this angry bastard making monkey gestures (Honest Injun!) before he left.

Peeved,
Fatman

'Pope' goes the Weasel

There is very little that needs to be said about the inauguration of Pope "Eggs" Benedict. Suffice it to say that having a sprightly 78-year-old, arch-conservative German as the pontiff is the last thing the Catholic church needs. Anyway I'll blow the dust off this old and pointless joke as an adieu to the last guy who wore the silly hat. Those who have already heard it..delete away.

The Priest and The Fish (a Joke told to me many years ago by "Rockin'" Rob McManus)

So, there's this priest who, as far as priests go, is a pretty cool dude. Sure he wears a collar and worships God (an "imaginary friend for grown-ups" as Elmore Leonard says) but his heart is in the right place. He doesn't touch up choir boys. He drinks with the lads. Whatever. And he actually does a bit of listening. He tries a different activity with members of his congregation every week. One week he's sky diving, another week he's playing paint ball or cooking, knitting. As you can imagine the towns folk love him. News of the priest eventually gets back to the Vatican. The P.R. guys say: Let's have the Pope visit this town on his sell-out tour of (wherever this story is set).

The priest gets the letter in the mail and is stoked. The Pope? Here? And the guy being a generally humble lad is mightily nervous. He is, like, the Pope's biggest fan. Posters of the Pontifex Maximus everywhere. This nervous, humble but cool priest is counting down the days still belting out sermons, going out rock climbing or whatnot.

So the Big Day comes. Pope's arrival is in a few hours. The nervous priest looks at his activities for the day: fishing. Cool. That'll help distract him. He goes fishing with a couple of the lads from the congregation, his mind clearly elsewhere, not really thinking of fish when his fishing rod jerks.
Quick father! Reel it in!
Go father! You can Do it!

Priest reels in this massive fish. The fishermen are impressed. Look at the size of that Fucka- says one. It's a mighty big Fucka- agrees the other. The priest blushes and coughs. Boys, he says, mind your language now there's a priest on board. The two lads look at each other and grin. No, no Father, they say, it's the name of the fish.
? says the priest.
They pull out the A-to-Z of fishes. Sure enough, it's a "Fucka fish". Oh, says the priest, well it seems I've caught myself a...Fucka. Cheers.

Priest goes back to his digs. Says to Mother Superior: Mother Superior, Mother Superior! Look at this Fucka!....which earns him a slap from a shocked Mother Superior. Father! she yells, Have You Lost Your Mind?
Ha ha, he says-picking himself up from the ground spitting blood and loose teeth, it's the name of the fish! Now could you help me clean and prepare the Fucka?

Mother Superior then takes the clean and prepared Fucka to Sister Mary-Jo. Sister Mary Jo, could you please cook the Fucka? Sister Mary-Jo crosses herself in horror. It's the name of the fish for Heaven's sake, chides Mother Superior.

Crunch time. Pope comes into town in his Pope mobile- jumps out, kisses the ground, blesses some babies. Such a fine welcome, he wheezes, but let us eat food for I am fatigued and wearied from travelling around french kissing gravel- or words to that effect.

Big, kick arse feast. All the beloved town folk are there. The Pope says grace (naturally) and tucks in. Chew chew, munch munch. Oh, my son! says the Pope, this is beautiful seafood!
The Priest, beaming with pride declares: Well Most Holy, I caught the Fucka. Mother Superior cleaned and prepared the Fucka and Sister Mary-Jo cooked the Fucka!

Dead Silence.

Some of the townsfolk faint.

A pin drops.

Pope staring unblinking for several minutes saying nought.

The Pope then kicks up his feet on the table, lights up a cigar and says; You know what? You cunts are alright!


God is unavailable, may I be of assistance?
Fatman