Floor Bhaji & the Fail Cleaner

2 events occurred in my life over the last few days that I feel compelled to share with ya'll. If you have the mental stamina please read on.

The first event that I feel needs talking about, happened on Thursday night after my weekly weight watchers 'weigh the ass' session. Blake & I went to the local mall for a look around the shops & a nutritious food court meal.

I got myself a curry, which you would think after last post curry ass explosion I would've steered well clear of. Not so. In some sick twisted part of my conscious mind I like to torture my bowels it seems. Getting on in life, I think it's vital for one to know just how far the poo storage vesicles of ones body can be stressed/abused/blatantly fucked with. Because I have no plans to stop eating curry ever. Especially not for a sensitive sissy bitch colon.

So I dug in to my lamb rogan josh & in the excitement (and there was excitement a plenty), I accidentally knocked my last onion bhaji on to the mall food court floor. Blake ate the other one because his tofu sushi was so shithouse, he wanted in on my bhaji party. Now because I hadn't eaten all day, I seriously nearly cried like that one time when I was 7 & got my fingers slammed in the car door. I was pretty hungry ay.

I looked at Blake through my tears, we looked at the bhaji laying there on the floor, I looked at Blake again & said out loud, 'fuck it, I'm gona eat that'. So I picked it up, & without a second thought I jammed it in my pie hole in front of the heaving mass of food court diners. In my defence, the floor was shiny & polished looking & the bhaji only made contact for approximately 7 seconds.

I get home an hour later, my guts goes apeshit. Literally. I once again make it to the toilet just in time only to spend another 40 minutes with violent ring of fire bum lava. Was this the universes way of punishing me for being a filthy whore & eating food off the floor? Husband, in all his 'I'm a healthy motherfucking vegan' wisdom, thought yes, yes it was because I was a dirty ass whore.

I am that guy who never learns his lesson. I have come to accept that throughout the remainder of my time on this planet, there will be many more occasions where I am bent over in agony with the screaming shits from eating something that clearly gives me the screaming shits. Thank you for taking this journey with me.

Next on the agenda....... In the early hours of this Saturday morning (FYI 5:30am), I was awoken by the Rock FM radio station playing I Am Giant's - Neon Sunrise at approximately 2000 decibels from somewhere outside my bedroom window.

Now for those that aren't already up with the play on my current habitation situation, Blake & live in a motel, at the marina of my beautiful city. He works there during day, & one of us always has to be on the premises after 8pm every night in case someone sets their room on fire, poos in the shower & blocks their drain (this happens people) or some drunk knobend locks himself out of his room. In exchange, we get to live in one of the most beautiful parts of the city for FREE. That's right bitches, we have got it good.

We are basically the live in caretakers. The German owners rule. The other staff that work at the motel rule. The whole situation is a big bunch of kick ass awesome.

Down where the motel is located is pretty quiet apart from the odd seagull fight club event. The only people around are the alternative lifestyle boat dwellers & I barely see them.

Located within 20 metres from our apartment is a very popular Nelson restaurant. This dribble is all relevant i promise.

Anyway back to the story. Blake says to me, 'what the fuck is that noise?'. I get out of bed & open up the bedroom window to discover that some loud ass freakin music is blaring from somewhere. Blake says 'maybe I forgot to switch the alarm off in room 6 when I cleaned it yesterday?'.

I nodded in agreement then thought to myself, that is one fucking loud alarm clock. A 100 year old corpse couldn't sleep through that racket. But before I could say anything he was off out the door to investigate.

He came back. Not the alarm he says. The song had now changed to Killing in the Name Of by Rage Against the Machine. In normal circumstances I love this song more than my own mother (ok that right there is a lie. i don't love it more than my mum, but I do love it a lot), but not at 530 in the morning.
I hang my head out the window & suggest to Private Investigator Blake D that maybe it's coming from the restaurant which happened to strangely have all it's lights on early in the morning.

Off he goes out the door in his beanie, jacket & pyjama's to the restaurant next door. I hang out the window beaming with pride at my dangerballs hubs on his little mission to stop the pre-dawn rave so we can adjourn to our Saturday morning sleep in.

He comes back, & informs me that apparently it's coming from the outside speakers in the beer garden at the restaurant but there's doesn't seem to be anyone around.

Me, in my infinite my-brain-fucking-rules-at-this-time-of-the-morning wisdom, decide that some drunken munters (Munter aka a retarded fuckwit) have broken into the restaurant & are having a bit of a knees up/orgy/let's do some smack session. I ponder calling the po po's, but decide against it. Instead I ring the restaurant thinking that maybe the burglars might answer the phone if I call it. Stranger things have happened.

The phone rings & rings, but because I don't give up that easy I let it keep ringing. Then just as I'm about to throw in the towel & admit defeat to a morning of loud rock music, a man answers. The phone conversation goes a little something like this.

Man: Hello, ****** Bar

Me: I can see you motherfucker

Man: What?

Me: I can see you through the window

Man: Why are you looking at me through the window

Me: Because you are having orgies & dealing smack.

Man: No I'm not?

Me: Yes you are, I can hear the dirty drug party music

Man: What the fuck are you talking about? There's no drug party music?

Me: Don't lie to me Don Corleone

Man: I think you've got the wrong number. HANGS UP

I ring back.........

Man: Good Morning, ****** Bar

Me: Turn your fucking music off or I will come over there & cap all you's suckers

Man: Look lady who the fuck are you?

Me: No, the question is Johnny Fontane (Godfather character names are spewing forth from my gob & I don't even know how!!?), who ARE YOU?!

Man: I am the cleaner.

Me: Oh. Ok. Well turn the music off please.

Man: THERE IS NO MUSIC!!

Me: YES THERE IS. GO THE FUCK OUTSIDE.

Man: HANGS UP.

I watch through the curtains as the strange cleaner Don Corleone burgler drug dealer man walks outside & hastily runs back inside again. The music stops.

It seems he had tried to turn the radio on to listen to while he cleaned the bar. But the radio didn't seem to be working inside the bar so he turned the volume up as high as it would go. More than likely cussing & muttering to himself about how the bar stereo is a stupid piece of shit. That was because the radio was coming out of the speakers OUTSIDE, IN THE GARDEN BAR you dumb ass.

Cleaner man failed at life this morning.

Kinda like these winners playing headless goat polo with a rigor mortis goat carcass. Such thing exists, I shit you not.

To all the Papa Bears out there, HAPPY FATHERS DAY!!!!

Any weird shit happen to you guys this weekend you feel like sharing?

Peace!

P.S The pre dawn phone convo with the bar cleaner dude may have been altered slightly for the purpose of your entertainment. But I did say fuck. Twice.