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Monthly Archives: November 2012

Don’t stand on my dock Sir.

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(OK, so that previous project was a bit stupid and didn’t last long.  It was a little like closing down the sewerage works without making adequate provision to handle all the crap which never stops  flowing.)

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It doesn’t happen often in my life.  Fortunately.
Occasionally however I discover some upstart who is so totally devoid of affability and has such sullen disdain for conventions of sociability that they threaten my position of dominance in these fields.

I would like you to meet the Loading Dock Ogress at the Super B Mart furniture store where I went to collect the first new couch the GOF family has ever owned.

Having reversed my ute up to the dock, I then leaped up onto the dock to give The Ogress some lifting assistance, not noticing (or caring about) the yellow ‘no go’ line painted on the concrete around the perimeter of the dock.

“Don’t stand on my dock, Sir.  You must remain down there”
she snarled at me venomously whilst pointing to the lower level.

Normally I resolve confrontations like this by duelling.
Most commonly this involves adopting a stance of contempt at ten paces and hurling invectives until the challenger is either mortally wounded or terminally offended.

On this occasion the Ogress was saved from such ignominy by three technicalities;

1. She was half my age and it would have been unfair to challenge a child of such innocence.

2. She was female. Nominally. I retain vestiges of gallantry.

3. She was built like a brick shithouse, for strength and endurance rather than decoration, and would probably have thrown me headfirst into the nearest skip bin with all the other rubbish.

“Now, sign the delivery receipt on the bottom line before you go.”

Right.

My hands once again crossed the yellow line to sign the receipt which she had placed on the dock floor.  I returned her docket with my giant sized perforated ready-to-fall-out signature occupying most of the space on the page……except for the bottom line which I diligently ensured remained as virginal as the day it was printed.
I also handed back her now defective ball point pen which apparently was not properly designed for etching concrete.

Irascibility is contagious.

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My town used to be full of country friendliness and fraternity before the plague of  lawyers arrived with their avarice and litigation and divided it with yellow lines of exclusion.

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Closed for maintenance.

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I will be taking some time off to have The Bucket’s lid purified, it’s interior sanitised and it’s bottom polished.

A heartfelt thank you to everyone who has contributed to this blog during 2012 making it a fun and occasionally educational place to spend time.  ‘Comments’ have been disabled while I’m not around to respond to them.

Exactly one hour ago. at 6.38 am there was apparently a total eclipse of the sun here.  Sitting in the drizzle under our usual 5000′ thick deck of clouds made the event almost as memorable as the election of the last Pope.  Bugger!

A few last-minute smiles follow.    Please be kind to each other while I’m away.

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An erotic Aussie love story

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Language warning;   Contains adult themes, and I have used one really naughty “f” word twice, which of course Australians only ever do in situations of extreme adversity, plus two lesser swear words and one blasphemy all of which would have resulted in my mouth being washed out with Sunlight laundry soap 55 years ago.
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Many great romances have flourished in Australia’s sparsely populated outback west of the Great Dividing Range where the size of cattle stations is measured in square miles rather than acres.
Young people, chock-a-block with raging hormones, are attracted to these remote areas to work as jackaroos, jillaroos, stockmen, camp cooks, bore runners, bookkeepers and governesses.
The isolation and harsh climate can either destroy partnerships or act as a glue holding them together. Unfortunately some love affairs are doomed to failure before they even get off the ground.

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Keith was enjoying this special time of his life. He stood over six feet tall and his magnificent physique and closely cropped red hair never failed to attract female attention on Horny Downs Station.

Despite the long hours he spent with the cattle under the searing summer sun, he knew that on most nights he would be pampered and seduced by at least one of these admirers.  There were few things he enjoyed more in life than the hour or two of languid post-coital bliss which inevitably followed these encounters.

Keith never promised commitment. It was all about the sex and there was no way he ever intended to fall head over heels in love.
All of that changed on the day Wendy arrived at Horny Downs.  Keith could scarcely believe his eyes as he took in this vision of  feminine beauty.

Screened behind the copse of coolibah and she-oak trees near the homestead, he knew she could not see him hungrily assessing her potential as a future lover.  She was petite with blonde highlights in her hair but what really attracted his attention was the most perfectly formed body he had ever seen. Keith knew that he had to possess her. He also knew that he must move quickly for there was no shortage of potential suitors for Wendy on Horny Downs.

Keith decided that tonight had to be the night.

For the remainder of the afternoon he refused to go anywhere or allow Wendy to venture very far out of his sight. His entire being was consumed with fantasies of what he could do with her. He dreamed of staring into those huge brown eyes, touching her soft downy skin, and holding her taut body firmly against his own.

Keith’s opportunity came in the cool of the evening, when, like an angelic mirage, Wendy suddenly appeared with the golden glow of sunset illuminating her perfect face, and the remainder of what should soon to be his, silhouetted against the rising full moon.

He slowly approached her, then revealed his dreams and fantasies and declared his undying love. Overcome with emotion Wendy replied;  “Now listen here big ears. You’re the tenth red fucking kangaroo to proposition me today.  Are you a total ignofuckingramis or what!  Just look at me!  I’m a wallaroo for Christ’s sake you great big dopey dipstick numbskull, so piss off and go screw your own species.”

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Grandma and Grandpa sniffing out the welfare trough.

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There is currently a proposal circulating in Australia for taxpayers to fund a Childminding Allowance for grandparents who look after their grandchildren, including in circumstances where; “both parents of the child have to work.”

I now wish to give this idea both barrels.

Where the hell is this country heading?

Since when do both parents HAVE TO work full time?

For readers who live in other countries where Governments expect their citizens to be self-reliant and responsible for the welfare of the children which spring from their loins, I offer the following information relevant to Australia where legislated and generous minimum wage conditions apply;

Barrel 1.   Both parents HAVE TO work full time only when they’ve made the personal choice early in life to buy on credit all the material possessions which previous generations saved entire lifetimes for.

Barrel 2.   Both parents HAVE TO work full time only when they’ve decided that the process of generating more personal wealth should not be unnecessarily inconvenienced by having to nurture and love the previously mentioned loin fruit which they have produced.

All the pampered non-deserving welfare recipients in Australia are presently gathered around the trough of unreality snorting up all manner of unsustainable allowances.

$5000 for every newborn baby. (Otherwise known as the plasma-screen allowance.)

An extensive raft of subsidies payable until the child reaches the age of 16.

People with sore shoulders being paid lifetime Total Disability Pensions.**

Partners whose ‘other half’ suffers occasional headaches being granted a full time Carer’s Pension, the proceeds of which are used to fund overseas holidays. **

‘Totally Disabled’ pension recipients  for 35 years who nevertheless manage to single-handedly build their own four-bedroom home during that time. **

No wonder all the new grandparents in 2012 can smell the party going on around the trough and want to be a part of it.

Grandparenting should a privilege for both the grandparent and the child, and not a moneymaking project funded by those who work and pay taxes.

Or perhaps I’m just a really Grumpy Old Fart.

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** Actual examples from the GOF files.

Sermon on The Sign

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And the Lord didst descend from heaven and alight upon the crossbar of the “H” closely followed by His detachment of divine handmaidens.
He then preached a parable through his megaphone unto the distant horde of tourists milling behind the security gates with their Nikons and Canons pointing toward the HOLLYWOOD sign upon which He was standing.

He forthrightly denounced Tom Hanks as being a false prophet and spake unto the people thus;  “Life is NOT like a box of chocolates.”

“Thou shalt think of life as being like an automobile.  It begins with the coming together of a nut and a bolt in the sanctity of holy design, and from this sacred union of nut and bolt the automobile grows with every passing hour. It’s heart beats, valves open and close, and the vital fluids of it’s existence flow to every extremity, and when the time is come to full term the factory doors open wide and another brand new little bundle of consumptive joy issues forth into the world.”

“And from that very day onwards, it gets older, it deteriorates, and it falls apart until one day the entire creation dies and crumbles back into the earth from whence it came.”

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Despite the almighty amplification this message was not heard by anyone at all because it was carried away on an unpredicted forty knot crosswind.
God was not amused and declared  “Lo and behold, today’s weather forecasters will, on the Day of Judgment, pay dearly for this ineptitude.”

After reading God’s subsequent press release, the President of the American Meteorologists Association, Michael Hector-Pascal angrily responded;  “This is horseshit!  After all, the wind shear was simply the result of an Act of Himself.  If He and His flock of aerodynamically challenged angels had not plummeted from the heavens with such celestial terminal velocity as to cause a localised area of low atmospheric pressure, then these strong winds would not have eventuated.”

Meanwhile, in Cleveland, Ohio, Joy Scroggs  (here on the left)  was curled up watching the television coverage. During the commercial break she unfurled her long shapely middle-aged legs, admired them, then gently ran an appreciative hand down her thigh, secretly wishing that GOF could be there to do it for her.
The news story of the moment interrupted this delicious erotic reverie, so Joy turned to her housemates and commented;
“It just goes to prove that passing wind and public speaking should be kept as two separate events.”

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Kebba aka Vacuum

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Kebba at 4 months showing no signs of wanting to return to the animal shelter.

Choosing a new family dog is a more risky process than finding a human partner in life.  At least with the latter you can tell him/her that he/she is the fattest, laziest, most useless, obnoxious, farting and belching life form in the known universe, and chances are that sooner or later they will pack their bags and find another person upon which to endow their special gift of insufferability.

Dogs, however, just don’t take the hint.  One hour later they’ll be back with tail wagging, and licking you until you’re shiny all over, then asking how long it will be before dinner is served.

Accordingly, Mrs GOF and I put all the responsibility back on the dog. If anyone needs to feel guilty for making a poor selection then it might as well be the dog. Pets have to choose us. Not vice versa.

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Two weeks before faithful old dog Nelson departed for doggie heaven last June, we picked up 4-month old Kebba from the same animal shelter that Nelson came from 12 years earlier. The hope was that Kebs would acquire some of ailing Nelsons good character traits.

Mrs GOF had her heart set on a rather pretty and regal-looking little terrier imprisoned in one of the shelter’s cells, but at the selection audition in the bonding yard Mrs GOF got rejected by “the unappreciative little aristocratic mongrel”.   Kebba, on the other hand, held onto both of us with a four-legged rugby tackle around the ankles and wouldn’t let go. Then she looked forlornly at us through the wire mesh fence when we eventually broke up the scrum and left to attend to the paperwork.

Kebba is a Bull Arab cross. Basically a nose and mouth on legs.
Very big legs and very big mouth.  All the better to hold onto you with my dear. Bull Arabs are specially bred for tracking and holding onto feral pigs, but because she’s such a good-natured dog I half expect her to invite pigs into the yard to share a midnight plate of dog food.

We could have named her Vacuum.  She’ll suck up anything at all off the kitchen floor. To date she has not rejected a single item of  food.  Apples, oranges, salad, teabags, plus other slightly less acceptable items like well-buried cat shit in the garden beds.

Kebba brings great happiness and entertainment into our lives, along with the stench of dead animal at least once a week.

After five months we are a very happy family.

Kebba chose well.

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Kebs at 8 months.

Trainee coconut dehusker

Too big to fit through the cat window.