Checking the Children

I like to drop the C bomb quite early. So does R. It's our way of thinning out the herd in new social situations.

If someone can't use cunt with pride -- or at least a degree of skill -- they're on probation. Not that I'm exactly judge and jury in these sitautions, or even Judge Judy, but I got me standards.

I first met Cuntastic a couple of months ago. It was actually a couple of hours before I threw R's helmet off the bridge in a fit of Valium-fuelled pique. I'm not sure which was the bigger highlight.

R had tested the C bomb on her within minutes of meeting and she laughed - cackled, even - as she repeated back what he said with glee. Turns out she's quite cunt friendly so we christened her Cuntastic and have used it ever since. She thinks it's a great name. So do we. So childish.

The next time I ran into C she got my name wrong and introduced me to one of her friends as Jonathan. Years of alcohol abuse may have eroded the efficacy of C's memory, but that's probably not it. Give most people a couple of weeks and they forget not only my name, but having ever met me.

It's a themes. I don't know what it is. Could be the face. Maybe the personality. (Please, not the shoes, anything but the shoes!) Needless to say I took on Jonathan quite readily. It's better than nothing.

Whether I'm happy or not is irrelevant. She happily answers to Cuntastic so one could hardly object. I even think I look even like a Jonathan. I'm trying to comb my hair like a Jonathan.

Cuntastic lives around the corner from me and I catch up with her from time to time. It always involves alcohol and she's sometimes sporting a pet. Her last pet was a teacher from her school who we christened"JBF" after she came back from a trip to the bathroom with her hair tousled and teased. It was messy. Really messy. So I explained that her name would henceforth be based on her current messy hair - ie that she looked like she'd Just Been Fucked.

The other day R was going through his phone and said to me "JBF? Who is JBF? Do you know a JBF?" before I reminded him. But JBF it is ... kt's too late to revert because we've forgotten her real name. Could be Michelle.

Cuntastic works as an English teacher in a new, sham school which feigns world-class accreditations in order to con rich Vietnamese parents out of their dough. Her students are fat Vietnamese children (a sign of wealth) whose parents have declined the nutrition route, instead feeding them a "best of the west" diet. Red Bull is served in the canteen.

I called Cuntastic last Friday night:

C: "Hello?"

A: "Hi Cuntastic - how's your week been?"

C: "It's been fucked, Jonathan. I've been coughing like a cunt. I need some alcohol to kill it once and for all. See you in 20."

My kinda girl.

So we met up with R for a few drinks, which turned into a few more and a few more still. Finally we all decided to get some more wine and hang out on my balcony so that Cuntastic and R could roll some joints.

Yes. That's right. Joints. So now I'm harbouring drug users. This means that I probably won't be sent to gaol but I could always visit. In fact I've already picked out what I'll be bringing them: Tally Ho papers for Cuntastic and a jar of Vaseline for R.

As they were puffing and boozing away I went in side and fell asleep on the couch. Classy host that I am. I woke up at about 2am and everyone was gone.

The next morning I got up at about 8am. I was a bit dusty but by about 8.30 I had motivated myself out to go out and grab breakfast. The occasion demanded air conditioning and wifi.

At about 9.30am I sent Cuntastic a brief sms which said "Thanks for not stealing anything while I was asleep. I know how tempting it must be for drug addicts like you and R."

15 minutes later I got a response "The only thing I stole is your spare room. I'm still trying to peel my head off the pillow."

She was in my apartment. She was still in my apartment! The call was coming from inside the house! Clearly I had locked her inside, and left.

Later I pieced together what had happened. When I threw out an old milk carton (never opened) into the bin it started spurting out milk. This was because it landed on a broken wine glass stem, sitting upright in the bin. The broken stem from where?. I looked out on the balcony and there were still pieces of glass everywhere. This could only mean 2 things:

1. A wine glass had been broken

2. It was R who had dunnit. (No one else could have cleaned it up so badly.)

Turns out that during this time, C was having a "moment" in the bathroom where it all got to much. Toxic shock, as it were. She started to have a lie down on the tiles for a nap and thought better of it.

After a solid 15 seconds cleaning effort, R had moved onto C. He turfed her into my spare room, went down the stairs, jumped onto his bike (pissed and stoned) and rode home.

Bad R.

Bad everyone.

Aerobics, Oz Style

I've been watching Oz for a few weeks now and I'm up to season 3.

It's set in the Oswald State Penitentiary and it's a lovely show.

Firstly, there is an Aryan group, They hate dark skin. And Jews. And they hate dark-skinned Jews the most. (I mean ... who doesn't?)

The other whiteys still constantly use the word Nigger. As for the Niggers ... well ... they hate the Micks. The Micks hate the Spics. The Spics hate the Fags. The Fags hate the Muslims (and vice versa). The Muslims hate the Garlic Munchers and also the Aryans but seem surprisingly OK with the Jews. Except for the one they tortured for laughs.

There's a Hispanic—sorry, an Hispanic—sorry, a Spic—who poked out someone's eyes with a knife. Trannies sew pretty dresses in between poisoning people for money. Those with swastikas tattooed on their biceps typically require their bitches to get one tattooed (lovingly, if somewhat forcefully) onto an arse cheek.

In the gym, the occasional barbells winds up crushing someone's face. Or leg. The avuncular long-termer knows how to hit a neck artery with a screwdriver on his first attempt. Some people pour acid in other people's faces. ("Didn't your mother ever tell you not to—oh never mind.")

Sometimes they push each other down the stairs. Or hold a victim down while others defacate on his face. There is often a knife in the kidney in the lunch room. I'm not talking about dividing up a steak and kidney pie. Although you do hear them say "you cut, I'll pick".

Oral rape victims seek revenge by biting off the end of the perpetrator's penis. One guy was fed crushed glass in his meals until his digestive tract bled him to death. One guy was cruxified by being nailed to the wooden basketball court floor. One time they killed a Russian and carved J E W into his stomach before stringing him up from a hook in the ceiling.

I've decided to look beyond all this. Because these prisoners are in very, very good nick.

There was a stabbing in the kitchen?I was too busy scanning the background scenes for diet tips and examples of portion control. (That can't be mashed potato.)

A skull being smashed open by the end of a barbell in the gym? I'm scanning the periphery for examples of effective exercise routines. (It's chin-ups.)

A prolonged riot in the library ? I'm wondering how many calories that would burn. (More than a treadmill.)

Oz is my new motivation to eat well and exercise. These unrepentant impenitent pond scumbags are my new role models.

I figure if a prisoner on death row can look so good, then why can't I?

The prisoners of Oz are going to make me a better person.

Hopefully not out of leftovers.