conga line of suckholes!

conga line of suckholes!

Greetings to one and all of my readers. I hope this fine day here in Melbourne finds you in good form where ever it is that you may be. The picture that you see before you is roughly a few years old but shocks just as much. I saw and snapped this window display in Carlton not because I have a penchant for pigs arses but because it stood out. I imagine that many a vegan/vegosexual was distressed and upset by such a display and that many a carnivore eyed it with thoughts of crackling and pork leg sambos which would justify its inclusion in the window displays of Lygon st. The phrase ‘conga line of suckholes’ comes from the quote book that was left to us via a certain prematurely retired Mark Latham. For those not in the know, he was the shadow Labour leader here a couple of years ago and was very fond of the odd ‘bon mot’ and bit of biff too. If only he had beaten Johnny ‘cockhead’ Howard a few years back in the general election we might have had a whole new lexicon of political verse. Unfortunately his mental instability and fondness for bashing people ( he broke a cab driver’s arm once) led him to an early retirement. Much like the pigs on display. But, now we have Kevin Rudd so we better thank our lucky stars!

Our K. Rudd is out and about these days doing all sorts of things on our behalf in the name of diplomacy and democracy. Who knows where he’ll end up next? Will he make it home in time for dinner or is this Ruddyssey destined to end in years in the wilderness with our esteemed leader desperately trying to jump a Qantas flight for the long hop home. Ulysses spent ten years trying to get back to Ithaca, I reckon Ruddysses would be more than happy to miss out on all the Canberra bluster that is politics and sojourn on some tropical island until it was washed away with the rising tides that some idiots in our world still deny. Seriously, the world is round and when we are done with it it will look like a partially deflated beachball good for nothing apart from attracting remarks such as; ‘how beautiful it used to be’.

I was offered a cup of green tea this morning from a charming Chinese gentleman (I’m being presumptuous here or even racist) while I was attending to the leak that was ruining his business relationship with the tenant who rented the space below the alleged leak.

“Would you like some green tea?” he offered.

“It’s no problem, my wife will make it for you” he said.

“No thanks mate, I’ve already had my coffee this morning and just because I’m Irish doesn’t mean everything’s gotta be forty fuckin’ shades o’green, ok, mate!” I replied.

The rest of the conversation sadly did not reach these comic heights but my day was none the less ruined by this reference to my heritage and I strove on for the rest of the day happy in the knowledge that I am now an Australian. His name was Bill and he had a big desk in the office. The wife and other female relatives were in the kitchenette laughing at the Green Tea gag and making spring rolls for aunty Sing Ling Who.

I look forward to returning the job later on in the week to apply more waterproofing magic to his leaking deck and also to engage in racist laced beverage banter. I might add that the location was Malvern East, in the south east of Melbourne’s ‘burbs. There is no reason that I can think of, other than work, for anybody to venture to this edge of the map unless of course the road leads you to more convivial locales.

The racist abuse that I copped from Bill was nothing compared to the horror of my earlier trip to Cairnlea on the outskirts of the north western suburbs. I arrived at the job, a singularly shit new house in a shit estate, bright and early only to be greeted with a look of disdain from the home owner or more aptly ‘the home sitter’ for her arse was that big I despaired of ever seeing the sun again after following her up the stairs to the landing. I must have missed the news headlines about the imminent eclipse due that morning! Things got worse when I heard the Alsation in the backyard welcoming the end of the eclipse with fresh morning barks. The house sitter replied in her own cultured way; “Sheila! Shut up!”.

‘Oh my good God’ was my first thought after I had extracted the remnants of her Ozzie Strine accent from my middle ear. ‘The poor dog’ was my second thought. Thankfully I was left alone to do my work as there were more pressing engagements at hand for the behemoth to attend to, they being; emptying the fridge contents into a bowl and then slowly shoveling said contents in to her orifice while watching Oprah or New Idea TV. Sheila continued to voice her disapproval of the mornings astronomical happenings with reciprocal  squawks from the lard arse. You have no idea how fun my job is.

Although today I met a lovely art teacher in Upper Ferntree Gully who drove a new mini cooper! I think he is over paid because I saw is art work(shite) so he must be gay driving a car like that considering he was a bit large and disheveled.

fellow then leaves – or fruit (7)

I liked this clue which came from yesterday’s Age paper.

Fruit is the definition here.

fellow = man. This is trial and error as lad, bloke etc  don’t fit.

then leaves = various words meaning to depart but in this case is goes.

So, all you have to do is add them together and you get Mangoes.

Anyways, I’m off.