Red Wine

Oh, and I promise that this is my last post for tonight (wow it's hard to navigate the keys when you're drunk).

Trashy trashy slosh sister- I WANT MY BLOG AND I WANT IT NOW WOMAN!!!!!!

Capesh? You've run outta excuses girlie. Do it or I'll reveal to the blogosphere what you got up to with my 54 year old mum on this fine Spring night in a certain bar in Brighton.

Bahahahaha. That sounds seriously dirty.

Trash.

You.

Definition

Yeah...

Thank Family Guy (my god) that winter is over.
Bastard of a freakin' winter that sucked fat hairy black salty balls. (Not that I know what fat hairy black salty balls taste like...)

But I hear that you're rather talented at the ol' tambourine?

Trash.

I'll be back in a week and I'll be expecting a blog waiting for me. Capesh?

Capesh.

Yay.

Red wine.

*whispers* yay. *whispers* yay. *whispers* yay.

I really should go pack now and stop seeking attention from randoms on the interweb.

Wooooooo! TassieCuntMania!!!

Happy Birthday Mamma Goose

Oh yeah. And my mum just turned 54.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MUM!!!!!

Even though she doesn't actually read this type vomit.

Gonna stop drinking now...... and start packing.

Ahh.... who the heck am I kidding?

Frick........ where are my fishing rods? Hmm.....

Taking Testies

This isn't what I want.

This is complete bullshit.

I don't want it.





This:




Is NOT how things are supposed to be.



Why is everything so fucked up?
Despite the sacrifices, the hardship, the endurance? All I've got for it....
is this:

Fucking this.

Hell.

In all its fiery, godless completion.

What I want. What I have only EVER wanted is this:

What I need. What I'd kill for.

And I've had enough.

I'm ready to spill the blood of the fuckers who get in my way.

The fuckers who get in between me and this-

You understand me now you stupid chauvinist bogan arseholes? You got that? No more. From here-on-in shit is gonna be done the right way. You fuckers are gonna give me fair go and just completely forget the fact that I have a vagina.

I work harder than you. I'm stronger than you. I'm tougher than you. And you don't want to fuck with me anymore. Cause I've had enough. ENOUGH

If I don't get this lifelong dream, than I'm getting your testicles with a side of gravy. Fucking delicious.

On the god damn fucking edge bitches.

Yeahh.... that was totally the wine speaking.

WOOOOO!!! going to tassie tomorrow!!

Later bitches.

The Big Two-One

I've been going to a lot of 21sts this year and am gaining more and more of an education on what a 21st should be like.

The official guests begin to arrive around 7/8pm, while the close friends and family have been drinking/setting up since late in the afternoon.
Everybody screams when someone new arrives. People work out whose driving and who isn't. People ask each other what they got the special 21ster. They eat, drink, complain about the music, drink and gravitate towards a socially safe corner of the room before getting out their phones to text and look important and popular.

The more guests that arrive, the louder the music gets. The food starts to disappear and it becomes gradually harder to find your favourite beer or wine as the guests may take a step or two away from their own safe corners to attempt mingling with a larger proportion of the other guests.

People are standing up more by 10pm and maybe even one or two are attempting a-deranged-boot scoot, stepping from side to side and blushing when they miss a beat in the song.
Guests who were in the safe corners have suddenly realised how much they need to piss so wander off to find the toilets and end up in front of the collage of photos of the 21ster. "Ohh look at her/him there! Sooooo adorable!"

Then there's the endless "So how do you know [insert 21ster's name]?"
"Oh! I go to work/school/uni/cat-flinging competitions with him/her. What about you?"
"Oh! I used to live/play footy/masturbate with [insert 21ster's name]"
"Ahhh"
"Mmmm"
*both drink and look around*
"Oh there's Kate/Joel/fat tosser I hate but rather talk to him then endure this silence with you. Nice meeting you."
"Oh yes! You too"

Around 11pm a shout rings out and a thick murmur settles over the party as everyone seems to instinctively know that it's speech time.
Mum/Dad/brother/sister/perverted uncle stands up and raises their voice, kicking off the introduction to [insert 21ster's name]'s life.
The family tells the story about the time the 21ster ate a bug when he/she was a tot, ran away from home when all the ice cream ran out, shitted on the neighbour's cat, etc and everyone laughs.
The friends get up and tell the story about the time the 21ster got drunk and vomited in a taxi before taking a dump on Mr Lawson's front lawn, the time he/she lost their shoes on a night out, the time he/she got a flat tyre out near whoop whoop and was stranded for three hours, etc and everyone laughs.

It's pretty much a night of showcasing your entire life at 21 to everyone whose opinion you give a shit about (or are meant to give a shit about).
I mean, what do people that have no piss/shit/vomit stories do?
Do they just wake up a week before their 21st and go "right, gonna get me some 21st speech fodder today"?
Before getting drunk and heading out to shit, piss and vomit till their heart's content/camera memory card is full?

It's just so much pressure. I'll be 21 in less than two years and I'm already thinking about the bloody thing and stressing. ehhkkk.
If everything went to plan it would go like this:

Guests rock up to farm whenever the fuck they want to already find already find me smashed and riding my favourite sheep around wearing cowboy boots and some spanking hot expensive dress with a long neck bottle of VB in my grubby hand.
The old man has fired up a bonfire or two and thrown a couple of dead sheep into the flames and assures everyone that the fire will clean out the taste of maggot.
Other guests on sheepback are playing polo cross with shovels, chasing the rats that had been living in the ashes of the fire pit for the past few months across the paddock, screaming "Come up on the wing! He's headed for the fence!"

My best mates are in the wool shed that's been decorated with empty beer cans and drawing up the tally for the farm-to-pub horse/sheep race and arguing over who the favourite is. It's naturally me, but a rumour floating around says that dirty Wagga has been feeding his pony steroids for a week. The jury is out until Wagga rides down the driveway on a big Angus bull and he's tipped $1.25. I try to argue this infringement of the rules but Bode and Rod have taken my farm-to-pub horse/sheep race rule book and used it for rollies. Fuckers.

I then ditch my sheep, Woolly and go get my pony from the back paddock. He's firing from all cylinders after the redbull I put in his feed and before I can yell "ready, set, go!" he's cleared the top rail of the front gate and half way down the road. The rest of my guests soon follow. Some have a sheep as their ride of choice, some have a horse while others decide on riding each other in the machinery shed and skip the race entirely.

And I figure I've still got another two years to create the rest. Have a feeling I'm going to be disappointed by the real thing though.

TassiMania Bound Bar-Maid

Well this Dirty Bar-Maid is shedding her greasy, stale skin for a week to embark upon that grand ocean trek to Australia's little own 'Landing Strip'.
No, I'm not getting my genitals waxed (though I probably should......)- I'm going to Tassimania!!! That sweet little island that is the butt of every mainlander's jokes.
The cousin-rootin', hootin', babba-bootin', disconnected little strip of cunt ain't going to know what hit it this time next week when the Dirty Bar-Maid and her flock of pot-drinking, bourbon-snorting, Cow-Punching associates tumble off the ship and into TassiMania.

I've never been out of Australia before so am seriously psyched about crossing that little strip of sea to see how people outside my own grand mass of turd live. So far I'm picturing things to be a little something like this:-















Meets............

Yeah!

Early Monday morning we tumble off the almighty Spirit of Tassimania amidst our shit-load shipment of empty whiskey, bundy and bourbon bottles with a backpacker or ten to be greeted by the natives of said TassieCuntMania.
Most of who will be the direct descendants of cannibal-convicts who were transported to Van Dieman's Land for napkin stealing or rooting a gutter rat or some trivial crime like that.
The small assortment of natives, after welcoming us with open limbs (hands, fingers and toes need not apply) will invite us through teeth-less gobs with green tounges to a delicious feast of TassieCuntMania's traditional delicacy of their father's/brother's/sister's eyeballs, to be washed down with a pint of fairy urine.

I and my fellow Cow-Punchers feeling rather seedy from this point from all the fairy urine will continue on to meet the native's leader- a giant Tassie Devil called Aaron with TassieMania natives suckling from his teats. We will pass on such an indulgent and insist that we really must be on our way. We had hoped to get in a spot of fishing and native-hunting before nightfall.

Now I'm not 100% sure on this theory, so decided I'd Google image cannibal-tassie-cunt-mania-convicts-incest-bestiality-hairy just to round of the final perfections to this insightful understanding of other cultures. And this is what I found-

Your search - cannibal tassie cunt bestiality incest hairy convicts mania - did not match any documents. Suggestions:
Make sure all words are spelled correctly.
Try different keywords.
Try more general keywords.
Try fewer keywords.

Ahhh I see. Second time is the charm then.

Google image search number #2 with 'cunt incest landing strip hairy' unearthed me this:-

Hmmm.... yehh that's kind of close to what I had in mind. The eyes so close together along with the dunny-brush tail are definite give-aways of inbreeding and cannibalism since 1788, but I've gotta say- the white fur really throws me. I can't seem to put that down to any logical explanation connected to the Tassie-Cunt native's lifestyle. Bathing in cum since 1788 maybe?

The Spirit of Tasmania should make that their motto. If the ads showed cum-bathing as the cultural highlight of this grand island instead of clearly homosexual husbands dancing with their wives on the ship's deck in the sunset I would've booked myself a ticket to Cunt-Mania the day before i was born. Or even worse, Poxy the fat Coxy telling us how the 'sea view is amazing'. Is it? Cause we can't see it with your fat arse, gut the size of Uluru and even bigger head in the way Poxy Coxy.
The marketing fuckers behind this advertisement and Poxy Coxy's humungo gut need to go back to MAWDTM University (Manipulate and Achieve World Domination Through the Media).

But any who, back to my Dirty Bar-Maid holiday to TassieMania.

I think I may have a serious problem. Did I mention that? Because after weeks upon weeks of listening to Kid Rock's sexual assault of 'Sweet Home Alabama' all I want to do is sit by the campfire, drink whiskey out the bottle (even though I don't even like whiskey- make that shizzle Bundy the bloke's best mate Polar Bear), 'smoke funny things, trying different things and sing Sweet Home Alabama all summer long'.

True talent right there- rhyming 'things' with 'things'. I was about to say that if the incest rumours about Kid Rock are true then he must be TassieMania's poster child...... woooahhh.. was that too far? I mean Tassie is still part of Australia after all, well kind of anyway.

[Rusted Gumption is not responsible for any politically incorrect statements and by viewing this blog you understand the terms and conditions of things being all fun and games till someone (i.e- a Tassie native) looses their self-esteem.]

So I Google imaged 'whiskey bottle campfire things things' to once again try and carve out some sort of image of what to expect on my grand expedition and this came up:-

So now I'm scared and am thinking that either the said Tassie Natives are terrorists, Kid Rock is a terrorist or *gulp* I am a terrorist. Which according to Bush means I can't trust myself and should go out and buy lots of guns and locks and be terrified of my own shadow because any minute my own shadow could rise up from the pavement wearing a turban, speaking Farsi and telling me to go get a Qantas plane. So I think it's just easier to decide on Kid Rock being a terrorist and being the Western World's enemy number #67864356 so must be set on fire- not because he's some how responsible for that note, but because he sexually abused Sweet Home Alabama. Fucker.

*takes medication now*

I'll try to bring back all my blogger friends tassie souvenirs. A Tassie Native's tail for the girls and and a Tassie Devil's turd for the boys. Don't say I don't think about you.

Killed ma phone cunt shit crap

Well I guess that settles it.

I'll get a new phone next year.

The live wire is the only thing holding the entire thing together still so I think I could earn a bit of extra cash by running bets on how long I can hold out without electrocuting myself.
But I hear the whole Afro/electrocuted look is in right now.

And I just want to be as cool as the black kids. They're so cool. Damn my white-girlness.

This happened last night, and actually wasn't my fault. Fungy Toe wanted to play hacky sack. But unfortunately forgot the hacky sack, so just grabbed the next best thing.

But the fun didn't end there. Oh no my children.

After being refused entry to Fungy Toe's toilet cubicle to take photos for facebook I began kicking the door. Which prompted a couple of rich skanks to snort and tell me I was all class, to which I replied that I certainly was and they were up themselves. I had decided by this Jager-and-redbull-fueled moment that this shit was on and that me and my half phone could take them but they bolted from the dunnies. When Fungy Toe emerged from said cubicle we went on rich skank search and found them snorting Shiraz through their plastic noses near the 'ethnic male' corner. We set up camp within the shoe-flinging, poo-hurling perimeter and were on the edge of our trench on the point of attack before we got distracted by free drinks from random losers. Yay. Who needs pride?

So my phone and a couple of brain cells were the only casualties of this onslaught. Reckon I'm fine though. fbhgibkdosdfjmsdjs,ld fuckers. shit crap.cunt.tassie cousin rooters. blahh.

Peace out my tiggers (cause niggers is a dirty word).

1.30am- Instead of Studying

I watch the beaten brown toes of my boots pick their way through the swirling red dust of the track. The afternoon sun still manages to glare through the thick curtain of dust and sting my eyes so I keep them lowered, my face obscured from the invisible gawkers by my hat.
I glance up at the distant growl of a diesel engine and spot a large truck trundling down the track straights towards me and the weatherboard pub.
This outsider's movement makes my skin prickle despite the pounding heat as I suck in my breath. Eyes down again I continue on my bee-line for the pub, trying to shake off the anxiety that tightens my cracked lips.

My feet baulk slightly as they leave the red dust of the track and step onto the hot rutted concrete of the pub's verandah. The shade slices through the glare and I look upwards, my eyes locking onto the darkened green window of the pub's heavy door-making explicit to my sticky flesh the coolness that lay on the other side. A long desired oasis.

Dogs in the Graveyard

Working every Saturday night/Sunday morning till 5am in an over 28s' night club on the outskirts of Melbourne's industrial area you come to learn a couple of valuable things about this proportion of the 'human race' (a term I stretch to almost breaking point here):

(1) Charles Darwin was right- only the strong survive. While the weak mightn't necessarily perish in today's modern urban society where any disease-riddled, quarter-brained excuse for a life form can still technically exist, that's all they really do- exist.

(2) Dogs generally have more class, intelligence and are better looking than the people at over 28s' nights. Ohh...... and actually have some imitation of etiquette. (i.e- dogs may sniff every other dog in the park's arse but they don't end up paying for a lick from the dog having 'gender issues').

So it doesn't seem to matter how privileged, wealthy or sheltered a person has been, if your core is weak you're gonna fall. And if you show your weakness to others they will most often than not take advantage to assume a higher place in the pack than you.

The only defence for this seems to be is to fake it. If you're scared, act like you're brave. If you're nervous, act like you're confident. If you feel uncertain, say everything aloud with conviction.
Because the strong really do like using the weak as stepping stones.
And stepping stones despite earning a shit load of money (which they love showing off to bar-maids half their age) can grow out of their youth, but not their weaknesses, not their insecurities with people's perceptions of them not changing. And when the people around you develop an assumption, it can eventually spill over to completely engulf your own self-perception.

So throughout your life you have to maintain that iron inner strength and become nobody's doormat. Face the humiliation, the rumours, the cruelty with the inner strength of knowing. Knowledge is more powerful than any doughy pay packet.

Otherwise you just become another old balding stepping stone at the over 28s night flashing the Mercedes car keys to make the Vietnamese prostitutes flock around and eat greasy 5 cent spring rolls out your palm. A bit of social lubricant here, a grope from a Vietnamese professional's hand there and the stepping stone has cast off the darkness from his lonely, empty weak of being the doormat. As he winks slyly at the barmaid and takes his Gordon's gin and tonics with the beer soaked lemon, telling her to keep the change.

While I watch these weak stepping stones I doubt and fear for the human race. Then I remember that the stepping stone that just grabbed my arm, winked at me, stuck out their tongue was someone's father, someone's mother, someone's uncle, brother, daughter, aunt, sister or even someone's grandparent and I feel sick.

And just when I think I'm going to scream because I can't take these stepping stones anymore! I can't take their weakness! The stench of the life long fear that has rotted them to their flimsy cores is making me gag. They are all victims. Shuffling in. Shuffling out, not fighting, not questioing, folding folding folding. Accepting their circumstances, their fates, their place at the bottom of the steps, the dregs of the dog pack hierarchy. They come every week and sing 'Jessie's Girl' and 'Run to Paradise' all night long, screaming everytime the songs begin as though they have never heard them before.

Then at closing time they won't leave.
"The bar's closed" we repeat over and over again to their deaf/drunk ears as they give us heart breaking looks as we tell them to go home. The lights turn on, silence consumes the club and the bouncers move in, but they still won't leave. I clean the bar, pick up after them and don't look at them as they stumble and fall as they are mustered out like sheep while their notes and coins nestle curled up in my pocket.

The stepping stones crumble out onto the cold wet street and later I drive home to my warm bed and dreams of the life ahead of me that won't settle for any bottom step.

The graveyard shift is getting to me.

3am

What I should be thinking about at the present time:

And......

What I am thinking about:

Totally gonna ace my exams.



Blind folded.

With hands tied behind my back.

While Drunk.

And Stoned.

With Jensen Ackle's tongue in my ear.

While Miley Cryus songs blare to Japanese Karaoke.



Doing it without the above stimulation could prove a challenge though.



Well I am doing my year 12 at two shitty tafes so I'm sure the weekly bomb threat evacuation will rescue me. Yay yay yay to Government schooling.





Oh and one more 3am final thought-



Mmmmm........weapons of mass destruction found.





tehehe. yummy.





Fucking insomnia.

Driving Wheels

I love days when all you need is a strong cup of coffee and Jimmy Barnes playing in The Uterus to get you somewhat motivated.

Today he told me about driving wheels.

How I can be like a shooting star across a desert sky if I so choose. That all I need is a wheel in front of me and four beneath me to venture on out in that unknown beyond and follow the broken miles, live on borrowed time and leave only hotel rooms and broken hearts in my wake.

That there is nothing wrong with going up and down the same road many times, that there's nothing wrong with searching for something you're not really sure you will ever find (or even what that something is).

The highway is your friend. It won't desert you, it won't break your heart or let you down. It will always be there; right over the suburban highway, behind that old roadhouse or calling to you through the window of your house while you lie in bed not prepared to sleep when that highway is calling to you.

The searching will always keep you moving, because that highway stretches forever, linking the bright lights of the city to the emptiness of the outback where only the bravest tread. Patience is a virtue in such a life, but the dreams and adrenaline of not knowing what's coming up on the next 50 km of black bitumen will propel your wheels ever onwards.
Because only the road can tame the rebel within your soul, and it knows that, your wheels know that so they keep driving.

For it's the rhythm of the highway as it rolls on by, city lights as they fade from sight with nothing but blackness ahead and that open road. And however cliched that may be; only you understand how it makes your heart pump and reminds you how you are not going to just be another brick in the big ol' wall, because you belong to the highway. Your highway.

Jimmy tells me about the rodeo, about riding hard and never letting go and I see the flash of the coat of some crazed bronco bucking in the heavy swirl of dust of some outback corral and I can almost smell the danger but am thirsty for it.
Dust so thick it grows like scabs all over the sweaty skin of the people's bodies, they squint out from beneath the shades of bloody, beaten and almost shredded hats, have little materialism to their name, but the smile on their faces is to be envied. Exhibiting their iron courage in literally a heartbeat in the pounding haze of that dusty madness; never to be questioned again with the grave lurking only a heartbeat away in such a blood-fueled moment.

The toddler amongst them is more connected to this grit, this earth, this truth than the businessman in Collins Street has ever been his whole life. He fills his void with long hours, money, superfluous possessions and still has to boast for your validation.
With the testament to a life stewing in ignorance being the satin pillow in his coffin, nursing the head that won't even be truly connected to the earth till it lies beneath it.

That is something I'm prepared to wander through the twilight of my life for. Gamble safety, security, money, friends for. I'd have a home, out on the blue horizon because the rebel will always pound in my soul.

Chasing southern stars in the distant sky, roaming the open plains with mountains high, following the road that goes forever.

In this world of push and shove, I'm terrified of loosing the freedom in my blood.

This is the rhythm of my highway.

Thanks to Barnsie for the fuel......... and the lyrics.