Tag Archives: George

My rolling is better then your rolling. Get your hand off my shoulder.

The other day I was meeting George and I was running late because I had spent far too long in my little sister’s shop looking at pretty clothes that I couldn’t afford to buy but bought anyway.

So I’m walking briskly down Chapel St and I’m at the corner of Chaps and High, happily dragging on some sweet, sweet nicotine and waiting for the lights to change when a man approaches me and asks if he can roll himself a cigarette when we get to the other side.

Well no, I say, I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry.

He looks a bit taken aback at my refusal and says, come on man, it’ll only take 3 minutes.

At this point I think to myself, 3 minutes? are you serious? You suck at rolling cigarettes you stupid wannabe roller wanker, I can roll a cigarette in under 20 seconds while walking and a strong wind is blowing and it’s raining and I’m toting an inside out umbrella and I know this because I’ve been TIMED and that’s not even my PB and you’re telling me to hover on the other side of the street while I wait as you dip your grubby who knows where they’ve been fingers in my tobacco for three whole minutes?


But I smile politely, and say, no, look, I’m really sorry, but indeed I am in a big hurry and really have to bolt down this street as soon as the lights change.

He then puts his hand on my shoulder. I barely repress a shudder. In fact I don’t repress it at all and shudder quite obviously. He says, with what I think he believes to be a winning smile, that he would really appreciate it.

I remove his hand and tell him, again politely, that I’m afraid I can’t oblige.

The lights are still red.

It’s at this point I realise how hard it is to look like you’re in a hurry when you’re standing still. So I try to overcompensate with lots of heavy sighing, obsessive pedestrian light button pushing, clicking of my tongue, and shifting my weight from leg to leg and looking, no doubt, like someone who really, really needed to wee and this whole time this man is staring at me with a sulky look on his face.

I’ve realised that if I was a non-smoker, scabby people bothering me would be cut down by half. I would still be accosted by junkies asking for 50c so they can get back to their kids in Frankston though.

Meet me in the ring Political Correctness, I’ll take you down biatch

A little old lady used to live in my house. I know this because the bathroom and toilet are absolutely riddled with disability aids. You know those metal bars that are in the disabled toilets to hang on to. Well there’s one in my bath, my toilet, and my shower. This is need to know information. Because the other day I was in a Super Hurry to meet George and I had about 17 seconds to have a shower and catch a train.

As everyone knows you should never hurry in the shower because that means either a) you murder a member of the animal kingdom, or b) you drop the soap. It’s like a rule that you drop the soap in the shower when you’re in a hurry.

So I drop the soap and I’m like fuck, only 13 seconds to catch the train now and I bend down to pick it up and on my way back up from bending down, I manage to straighten up into the disability bar and my head and the disability bar join as one in a real fuck-oh-fuck-you-mother-fucking-cunt-of-a-disability-bar-i-fucking-hate-you kinda way. I hit it so hard that it clanged and the noise reverberated around my bathroom in a somewhat satisfying way because it justified the pain that was shooting through my brain and making me feel like I had a bar shaped dent in my head.

Now here is my query: Who the fuck disables themselves on a disability bar? That’s like falling over a wheelchair and breaking both your legs. Fuck you Alanis Morissette. I take your stupid song and raise you a bar shaped dent in my head.

These examples look suspiciously plastic to me. Well my ones are made from good old fashioned mined metal materials.


I have since Googled ‘disability aid’ and apparently I’m supposed to say ‘mobility aid’. Well that’s stupid. The whole point is to aid non-mobile people, not shove it in their faces. “Would you like a mobility aid? Yes, that’s right, it’s designed specifically for people like you who aren’t mobile, we just put the word ‘mobile’ in the name to make you feel like shit because no one uses the word ‘disability’ anymore. Want me to say it again? Moooobiiiilleeee. Sounds good don’t it? JEALOUS?” Yeah, thanks asshole. That’s like the retards who put an ‘s’ in the word ‘lisp’. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? “I have a lithp.” That’s just MEAN. And did I just say ‘retard’? BITE ME.

How Murders Happen—My Story (nb: did not get murdered, or murder anyone)


I was on a train destined for Thornbury. What happened in the first five minutes of finding my seat can best be illustrated by the three texts below that I sent to George in quick succession, in response to his text asking where I was:

I’m on the stupid train waiting for it to leave the station at flinders! And trying to avoid eye contact with the creepy man sitting opposite me!



Then this happened:

Omg omg omg he just came over!!! Ew ew ew he’s talking to meeeee!!! Epping train wants to kill me!!! He’s asking me if I’m texting my friend and wants to pass on a message. I don’t know what it is yet.

At that point, two young guys, maybe late teens, got on the train. They took in my desperate situation at a glance and promptly started smirking. This set off the worst case of giggling hysteria I’ve ever had.

I will never know what message Crazy Man wanted to pass on to George because at that point I was shaking with laughter with tears streaming down my face and gasping, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I. Can’t. Talk!’ while he looked at me with crazy eyes asking for the forth time where I’m heading to. Then he says:

Don’t laugh at me.

O.M.G. I’m dead. I’M DEAD. My youthful protectors vanish at Clifton Hill. I start mumbling apologies interspersed with hiccups.

Then he offered to drive me to Thornbury if I alighted with him at the next station.


This is how dead bodies in ditches happen my friends.

Bitch please, you’re from Ohio.

George and I went out to dinner last night and were served by an American waitress from Ohio.

When asked if she liked living in Australia she said, ‘yeeeeah, but fashion in Melbourne is totally weird. I can’t shop.’ And so I start getting all diplomatic about it, and start saying shit like, yes, well, Melbourne is quite proud of their fashion you know, we don’t really do the whole chain store thing.’ and she’s all ‘I know, I can see that, I can’t handle not having a GAP around and you guys wear the weirdest things, it’s like, omg.’ And I could see that as she said ‘oh my god’, she actually spelled it in her head as ‘omg.’

So she starts rattling off the weird aspects of Melbourne fashion, like boots and layers and broaches and accessories and pretty much describing exactly what I was wearing down to the two different earrings in each ear.

And I was almost offended.

But just in time I realised: You shop at GAP, and you’re from Ohio.

It’s very hard to take offence from someone you feel so sorry for.