Bacon and Babes

Now that I’ve got your attention…

I was fortunate to attend a delightful Burger Breakfast  yesterday and meet Quokka, Mayhem,  Greybeard and his charming wife and GirlClumsy. Much bacon was consumed by all, and the only exercise performed – other than chewing – was when one of our party walked outside slowly for a cigarette.

Mayhem filled us in on the Melbourne goss and produced photos of some the Melbourne contingent (Catty and Havsy, your secret identities are no longer secret from us! *insert evil cackle, echoing hollowly as though round an underground world domination bunker*).

Quokka gave us an update on the Irish problem – she’s an excellent accent mimic, anybody need an Irish voiceover artist? The drunken idiots sound even funnier than when you read about their exploits in phonetics.

Greybeard explained the finer points of medieval weaponry, but when asked about the welfare of Mayhem’s Mum he only gave a Mona Lisa smile and assured us that the oubliette is quite water tight.

GirlClumsy gave us behind-the-scenes insights into the upcoming premiere extravaganza “Tassie Babes in Outer Space”. We’re all looking forward to the day-glo body paint, I’m sure.

The only real problem was that we didn’t have time… or room… for dessert. Hopefully there’ll be an encore performance. Thanks, everyone!


53 Responses

  1. Ah, yes, the Evils of Mimicry.
    It comes with the DNA.
    My grandfather used to do the Irish accent growing up – his mother was an Irish immigrant so he’d grown up listening to it. Orange Irish, as I think I warned everyone, which explains my natural antipathy to the heathen green Bog Dwellers next door.

    I can also do a perfect imitation of my mother-in-law’s voice, which sends shudders and chills up The Bloke’s spine.

    Breakfast was indeed great fun, and I would love to do it again.

  2. And this is why (as Mayhem can verify) I always start with dessert.

    Quokka, my sister married an Irishman (a green one). When he came to Aus, he went to get a drivers’ licence. The tester asked him, “What does a white line on the road mean?”
    He answered, “It means you can’t cross it at all.”
    “And what about a double white line?”
    “It means you can’t cross at all, at all.”

  3. White lines.
    For years I had a picture of the ‘Winner: Not My job award’ up on my cork board. It was a photo of recent line markings on the road – the line markers had painted the white line over fresh road kill, rather than remove it.

    I wish I still had that image so I could post it here.
    Wish you could have been there with us, Catty.

  4. Yes, Catty. Next time ditch the Assignment-from-Hell, your husband and four children and come and join us. Then we could have started with dessert together, and all that sweet, luscious maple syrup wouldn’t have been…. mmm, syrup… melting into soft butter… sorry, where was I?

    I SAW the line-marked roadkill picture – and loved it. There was also a dead rat in the corner of a restaurant that had just been sealed over when they redid the floors. As you do. You’d be a fan of the Darwin Awards, Quokka?

  5. Yes indeed.
    However they do seem to be sadly under-represented by footballers.
    Although I see some of your north coast football type icons are doing their bit to try to change that.
    i.e. lets drink ourselves three times over the limit and go for a midnight spin.

    • It’s a spoooky old place in patches, the Sunshine Coast. Drink driving is endemic; there’s practically a culture of it, like Brisbane in the 60s or the Northern Territory, um, now.

      We’ve got a pub just a short stagger from us. Luckily we don’t get anything like your “Troubles”, but one evening a bloke drank so thoroughly that when he tried to drive himself home he careened down our street like a pinball. He wrote off our visitor’s car, which had been parked under a tree and then richocheted across the road to lodge himself in the neighbour’s fence. His front axle was twisted like a public servant’s paper clip, but he still ground the engine half a dozen times, attempting to drive away. When he tried to flee the scene on foot he was too pissed to walk.

      He was the father of one of the boys in Magic Man’s class. My Mother, although comprehensively insured, still hasn’t forgiven him. She had to pay the excess.

  6. Wish I’d been there too.

    What sort of breakfast desserts did they have? Chocolate croissants? Custard danish? Death by chocolate? Or my current favourite, Maple muffins:

    * Put 2 cups flour, 3 teaspoons baking powder, 1/2 teaspoon salt, and 2 tablespoons sugar into a bowl, and blend together.
    * In another bowl, mix 1/4 cup softened butter, 1 egg, 3/4 cup maple syrup, and 1/4 cup milk.
    * Make a well in the dry ingredients, and pour in the wet ingredients. Mix well.
    * Grease a 12 cup muffin pan, and half fill each muffin cup. Bake at 200C for 10 minutes.

    This recipe makes 12 smallish muffins. Don’t tell my family. They think it only makes 8.

    • Great recipe – I’m whipping up a batch of… erhm, eight… as soon as I can get my hands on some maple syrup. Thanks for sharing, Catty!

      We didn’t get to the dessert menu, but I did see a few plates of french toast with caramellised banana being delivered to the adjacent table. They all went silent except for the sound of frenzied chewing.

      Have you tried creme maple? It’s a relative of creme caramel, but instead of mucking around with making caramel syrup, you just whip up a sinfully rich custard, pour maple syrup on and bake. The syrup seperates out during the cooking to form a decadent mapely sauce.

      mmm… I might serve maple muffins followed by creme maple over easter. It’s from a tree, so it’s really good for you, right?

  7. I didn’t look, but now that we cheeseburgers have been there and showed them what we’re made of, they’ll have bacon cheesecake on the menu by next weekend for sure.

    • Bacon cheesecake? You’re a genius, Quokka. You could line the tin with bacon, blind bake until crispy and delicious, and then add the cheesecake.

  8. That’s how I do meatloaf – in a bar tin, and then you wrap the bacon over the top of it. Geoff Jantz recipe with chicken and pork mince. Mmmm.

    Catty you’ve made us all hungry. You’re bad.

  9. I can’t even smell at the moment and I still want to try that one… just the usual garlic, onion, herbs, seasoning and bound with egg and breadcrumbs?

    What CAN’T you do with bacon?

  10. You can’t eat it twice. Not the same rasher, anyway. Trust me on this.

  11. LMAO while cold shudders turn my spine into a luge track.

  12. Catty I’ve seen dogs disprove your theory on this.
    I wish I hadn’t, but its true.

  13. SO glad I had a BLT for lunch… might be skipping dinner, though.

  14. woof.

  15. Leaving recycled bacon FAR behind us… please, everyone, say we’re leaving recycled bacon far behind us…

    The other day I shaved my legs, but then noticed this morning that I’d only done one. The long dark hairs on pallid flesh really stood out, too.

    What do you reckon: Advanced Distraction, Senile Dementia or Incipient Menopause?

  16. The Stubble Faerie.

  17. I really must get my spare pair of glasses adjusted because when I read this I heard ‘The Stubbie Faerie’.

    Then I realized you’d missed the obvious answer – it is a mistake to bathe with beer.

  18. The important thing is, are you feeling any more off balance than usual for sporting all this extra growth?

    I don’t bother shaving toe hair these days.
    I figure what I can’t see can’t bother me.
    In defense of my hobbit hair, its hard to shower with glasses on, you know.

  19. Too right, Quokka. Especially when they’re beer glasses.

  20. *wiping away tears of laughter*

    Damn Faeries! What CAN’T they screw up? I pray that the Latex faeries will leave my birth control alone… I’m too old and tired for the existing spawn.

    Toe hair, Quokka? Could come in handy. You could plait it, or twist it into little ropes, and use it to secure your thongs. Or perhaps thread beads and sequins through it, for festive feet.This is going to be bigger than Vajazzling.

  21. Its in the DNA, I think I get it from my great uncle Frodo.

  22. Also explains the desire to migrate to the West. Hobbits love to roam.

  23. I still say it’s the stubble faerie. The little bastard gave me a mustache for my 40th birthday. I hate him.

    Next time he visits your toes, Quokka, kick him. Kick him HARD!

  24. My ‘stache is uneven, it’s blonder and you can twirl it on the left hand side but its darker and the hair grows thicker and shorter on the right hand side. I wonder if Allan Langer moonlights as the Stubbie Faerie? if so, I wonder what a photo is worth to the Curious Snail?

  25. Catty, is it some associate of the Stubble faerie that makes skin tags pop up all over you after 40? I’m getting skin tags and lumps round my neck – I feel like a barnacle-covered old Humpback Whale.

    Quokka, as usual I’ve got a theory. Two, actually:
    (1) Your facial outgrowth represents your essential duality. The blond, or “good” side is currently outpacing the “evil” brunette. In the interests of science, could you please be unremittingly really nasty and see if that makes the dark side grow longer?

    (2) Genetic mosaicism. Due to Hobbit interbreeding, you’ve ended up with two distinct genotypes, which meet in the middle of your face.

    Either way, I’d get onto the Snail and the other broadsheets and gossip rags. Photos and an exclusive interview should be worth a motza.

  26. Alan Langer a faerie? Of course! I knew I’d seen those undies somewhere before – they went missing from the Boss’ drawer a few months back. I’d assumed he lost them in Bendigo, (don’t ask. Just, don’t ask.) but this makes much more sense.

    Alan, we’re on to you, you underwear stealing/stubble inducing bastard. And we know damned well you got drunk with the change you filched out of our purses at the checkout, too. GIVE US BACK OUR SOCKS! AND STOP PEEING ON GRANDMA’S HANDKERCHIEF!

  27. Catty, once again you’re a genius! All of the footy ballers are probably fae. That’s why they run that odd-looking tape around their heads – to hide their pointy ears.

    Now you’re onto them, I’m pretty sure they have to give you a pot o’ gold. Or at least promise to quit with the sock-stealing, stubble, barnacles and toe hair.

    Speaking of supes, have you tried removing the elf pee stains on Grandma’s hanky with holy water?

  28. Of course. It just dissolves the fabric, leaving curiously shaped holes that spell out rude words.

    Speaking of dissolving, isn’t that what faerie gold does at sunrise? If so, those puddles on my doorstep every morning might actually be faerie gifts, and not the neighbour’s cat’s vomit as previously assumed.

    Fae or not, I still like watching league. Oh, those legs! Oh, the bottoms above those legs! * sigh * The Boss has got legs like that, but he’s a Victorian and will only wear AFL shorts, which the faeries tend to leave alone. More proof that faeries are bastards.

  29. You must live in a lovely refined part of town. In my village, any puddles of vomit on the doorstep are causally linked to the pub up the road serving “two for one” rum and cokes well past midnight. And cats don’t leave empty bottles and used condoms strewn down the footpath, either.

    So you like manly thighs like hairy treetrunks, and a big meaty arse, then, Catty? I always thought AFL players were sort of lithe with proud, firm young bottoms. Then again, I’ve never been able to watch more than a brief flash of footy cut into, e.g. the news, so I’m probably wrong.

    The Cramp faerie has come to visit me. No amount of Nurofen will make her leave. At least it’s chocolate season…

  30. Naprogesic works well for cramps. The worst part for me is the hormonal migraines. If they ever make a tablet with ibuprofen, codeine and paracetamol combined, then coat it with chocolate, they will make a fortune. Once a month, anyway.

    If we want to avoid pills, my best suggestion is bananas. Or any other food high in magnesium. The only down side is that mozzies love magnesium. They hate vitamin B, though, so you can easily deter the little blood suckers by eating your banana on a vegemite sandwich. This combination is also useful if you want to induce vomiting.

    Not that either of us need any more vomit.

    Yep, I love league. The Penrith Leagues Club was my favourite place in the world when I was a little tacker. The Alexander brothers were my heroes (this was a long time ago!) and I lost my voice for a month when the Panthers flogged Canberra in the grand final. (I did say, this was a loooooong time ago.) And Townsville is pretty full on about league, so the decades I spent up there involved a lot of after-match parties. Off season parties were usually held by musos, so we had the whole year covered. From what little I remember of those years, I could have done with a few of those chocolate coated pills most mornings.

    As for AFL, I have two words that explain my distaste. Warwick Capper.

  31. ****
    This is an automated response.
    Quokka is outside with an axe hunting Irish Tradesmen.
    She is very, very busy.
    Another village of them has appeared two blocks up the street. We know they are Irish because there’s a 3m long Guinness flag flying on the balcony.

    MM, try the chocolate coated mercyndol.

    • Mmm… opiates and chocolate. Reminds me of my twenties. You can keep the para-placebo-cetamol, though. The only thing that’s good for is rotting your liver.

      Speaking of vomit, I cleaned out my pantry yesterday. The Pantry faerie can apparantly synthesise a kind of emetic adhesive from soy sauce spills and stale milo. I’ve got pantry elbow from all the scrubbing.

      Re: WC. Too right. No amount of litheness can make up for THAT man.

      Perhaps he can carry Pauline Hanson’s luggage for her when she emigrates?

      Quokka: I believe the meat is more tender if you hang it for three days after slaughter. That should also allow most of the residual alcohol to denature. Happy hunting!

  32. I’m not sure Pauline could afford Warwick’s $1500 per hour fee. I’m not sure Pauline can afford luggage, either.

    Quokka, you could convert the newly vacated premises into a smokehouse. It preserves the meat rather well. Then you can flog it to Abe for Irish sausages.

    MM, dissolve some Lectric Soda in boiling water, and when it’s cooled enough to not actually burn you, put it in a spray bottle and spray it on the congealed faerie spew. Wait 20 minutes to half an hour, then wipe it off with a chux cloth. Rinse the cloth and wipe again. My mother in law put me on to this when she saw what the faeries had done to the inside of my oven. It actually works, and costs bugger all. It doesn’t, however, stop the faeries coming back on lasagne night.

    I don’t know why, but combining different drugs is the only way I can rid myself of hormone migraines. Neither Panadeine or Nurofen works on their own, but if I take both together, I can get out of bed without vomiting and/or screaming. Which is good, as the chocolate is stored at the other end of the house, and if I couldn’t get out of bed the kids would eat all my Cadbury Bubbly, and I would have to kill them which isn’t easy when you’re in a dark room with your head in a bucket.

    I’m picturing a Wile-E-Coyote style ambush, Quokka, with a trail of shamrocks leading to a bucket with “Free Guinness!” painted on the side and an Acme anvil suspended above it. The advantage would be that your meat will be pre-tenderised before you hang it in the smokehouse. Irish Jerky. Mmmmmmmmm. Goes well with Guinness.

    • I’ve never heard of Lectric Soda, but that sounds like an awesome tip. My oven is like something salvaged from Pompeii, with the archeological layers of charred splatters. I’ll give it a burl.

      You poor thing. Take any drug that works, I say… and bugger moderation (up to the point of liver toxicity, but not beyond. They’re getting stingy with the liver transplants, these days). But have you thought of storing the chocolate in your bedroom? Failing that, if you leave the children alone long enough, you may find that sibling rivalry does the dirty work for you and they dispatch one another. Or, get too busy fighting to raid the Bubbly.

      LOL to Quokka and the anvil. I don’t think there’s enough pay-off for her there, though. I’m pretty sure she’d much rather kill them with her bare hands.

  33. I’m thinking of using this as bait.
    Its blonde, its naked and they won’t know WTF it is after they’ve had enough guinness.

    We drove out to the burbs earlier on so that I could have some retail therapy (lorna jane) and the bloke could have some cocktail therapy at some snazzy wine bar in Oxford Street. On the way there we observed that the Irish Infestation two blocks up has added an Outdoor Fridge.

    Seriously, its outside the garage, under god’s open sky – meaning that you can’t drive a car into the garage but you can get a cold stubbie if you’re passing by and you’re feeling thirsty. And you don’t mind risking your life traversing three metres of broken glass and cartons on the driveway tracks.

    I’m off to do a rain dance.

  34. No, dear Godess no! I just clicked on that link on a full stomach. At least now there’s more room for choccy eggs, and I haven’t wasted calories on Weetbix.

    An outdoor fridge is just the ticket, Quokka. It’s like they WANT you to exterminate them! Not only, as you point out, are they liable to electric shock, but next time they pass out you can:

    (1) Poison their bevvies. Not neccessarily strychnine, although I think you’d find the pre-terminal spasming more than satisfying. Get creative – spike the beer with Antabuse, so a few sips make them hurl for days. Or the oral contraceptive pill, so they get limp, hormaonal and weepy (and their blood might clot, as an added extra)

    (2) Plant evidence, then phone the cops: Dismember one of the next-door Leprauchauns, trundle the parts up to the fridge, conceal; the essentials of this scheme would also work with amphetamine precursors or explosives.

    (3) Superglue the door shut, ideally when it’s full of fresh grog. They’ll stroke out or severely injure themselves trying to get at the nectar within.

    If you need a hand with any of the above, I’m in town next week. Also happy to provide an alibi or character reference, as required.

  35. Gosh you’re creative.
    After another night of sleep deprivation, all I could think of was getting a real estate agent friend to track down the owner and providing them with some happy snaps of the boozehound festival at their property this weekend.

    The idea of stuffing their 4x full of the cat’s laxatives is not without appeal but Eviction or Idiot Induced infernos are my preferred options here. One of the Green Goons next door fell asleep on the patio couch yesterday shortly after they staggered in at dawn, but sadly he neglected to do so with a lit cigarette between his fingers.

    Maybe next time.

  36. Poor Quokka. If you run out of earplugs, Blutac is a workable substitute.

    We’ll see if Catty can evoke the Eviction Faery. He’s the one who kicks holes in plasterboard, stuffs the plumbing full of Libra surfboards and lures small furry creatures into your wall cavities to die and release a vile stench.

  37. All faeries are bastards. Including leprechauns. I think they invited their friends to Quokka’s street because they could see how much they were pissing her off.

    Quokka, I’ve thought of three more possible options:
    One involves surreptitiously finding the local eccy distributors, and inadvertently mentioning that the Irishmen on your street are undercutting them to steal their customers. Once the dealers know the street, they won’t be too discerning about which Irishmen they “put out of business”.
    Two involves stalking the crap out of the leprechauns until they can stand no more, and move. It’s just a matter of being invasively friendly. Like the weird little man who presides over the shredder at government offices. (Every CPS office has one).
    Three involves randomly ringing the fire brigade twice a day from public phones, telling them that there is smoke pouring out of the Irish lodgings. Do this until the fire brigade stops coming. Then set fire to the place.

    And now I have a question for you ladies. I am writing my final assignment. It is an article about things that men should never, ever say to women. There are the obvious ones, like “It’s not as good as my mother’s”, and “Is it that time of the month?”, but I was wondering what you all thought? (I’m hoping for some perspective from the men as well as the women). What should a man never say to a woman?

  38. We’re assuming this is a man and woman who are in – and wish to STAY in – a relationship?

    Anything weight related, obviously: “Your arse DOES look big in that.”; “Haven’t you been stacking on the pounds, lately?”; “You’re not pregnant, are you?”; “Hey look, there’s a new raw cabbage diet in No Idea – you should try it. And get me another beer and packet of chips while you’re up, darl.”

    Anything about, especially involving comparisons with, ex-lovers: “*Sigh* I remember when Sharlene and I went to Bali. She gave me the best head ever, on Kuta Beach.” This one would be especially ill-advised just after sex with the current partner. But it needn’t be sexual: “Yeah, Juanita was up for anything. She used to come mountain biking with me and the guys, then we’d wrap up the day with free-fall skydiving and tequila shots. She was really… fun, you know?”

    Comments on the family. This one is double-edged. If the woman is close to her family, the man must avoid statements like: “Is your whole family bat-shit crazy, or is it just your Mum and four sisters?”. Alternatively, the woman may be estranged from her family. In which case, avoid: “Your sister Rachel is so gorgeous, and I can’t get over Tamara’s genius. You’re obviously not the sporty one, so what are YOU good at?”

    Best of luck on the article, Catty. Feel free to send a draft if you’d like feed-back. (Not that I’m a journo, but I’ve got an opinion on most things!)

  39. Thanks for the sympathy, guys. After much consideration on the best form of vengeance, we are off to Bunnings to buy a leaf blower, as soon as it opens at 9am. I think I’ll need to use it regularly the Morning After one of their big nights. Not as soon as they’ve got to sleep at 7am, I think I’ll leave it till 10am, just to make sure they don’t make it to a REM cycle.

    I was inspired by the Cuzzy Bro Tree loppers that cruised into the street yesterday and went door to door saying they’d do anything for cash. I should’ve asked them how much to do a Cohen Brothers on the Green Menace.

    We suspect they had the chipper from Logan shire in tow but what the hell. They parked it outside BOTH sets of Irish Villages to do their chipping so I suspect the Greeks up the road gave them a tenner each way for that.

    Now…things men should never say to women.
    1. ‘You’re wrong.’
    2. ‘That’s not the exit, turn left here’ (when you are in the right hand lane and its NOT your FKN exit at all.
    3. ‘I know what I’m doing’ (although this is usually great cause for mirth, in my books).

    Mine doesn’t give me much cause for grief so sadly I cannot help you further.

    I can’t share your sentiments on Do Not Comment on Family.
    A few years ago, when it finally twigged that Dad had lied when he said he had no family, and I wanted to cautiously alert The Bloke that they might be ..well, er…every bit as crazy as Dad, (dead before I met the Bloke so he only ever had 2nd had accounts of it) he replied ‘Don’t worry. After what I’ve seen of your family over the last twenty years, it wouldn’t surprise me to find out that you were related to reptiles.’

    Its the most validating thing anyone has ever said to me.
    And shh…don’t say anything but I suspect Lobes and I are first cousins. They are all just like that.

  40. Leafblower. Hehehe. Make sure you get one with a mulching attachment.

    If you ARE more closely related to reptiles than the rest of us, Quokka, it would go a long way to explaining your scaly skin. Maybe you’ve got a venom sac! That would be awesome. Although I doubt egg-laying is any less painful than the mammalian monthly cycle.

  41. I know what you mean about families, Quokka. My early years were spent in Penrith, and during those years there were a number of high profile child abductions of toddler girls. As I reached my teens, I used to stare at the Missing Persons features in the weekend papers, hoping against all hope that I was one of those little girls, and that my family weren’t really my family at all.

    It was my favourite childhood fantasy, sadly and cruelly crushed by the genetics module in grade 10 science. There was too much evidence that I was “one of them”.

    Which reminds me – “You’re just like your mother” should most definitely be on my Never Say To A Woman list.

    And Quokka? “Lobes and I are first cousins” is something that NOBODY should ever say to ANYONE. If you really do have reptilian genes, I’d advise you to go and wash your forked blue tongue off for saying such a thing. Although I do like the idea of henceforth referring to Lobes as “Lizard Man”. I think I will.

    Madam, my siblings and I used to refer to our packed school lunches as poison sacks. You know your mother’s a crap cook when she can’t even manage an edible vegemite sandwich. Maybe she should have left the bananas separate.

  42. When I first met my MIL I discovered vegemite in the pantry that was 7 years past its Use By Date.
    She insisted it was still good.

    If you want fillers for a Poison Sac I can vouch for her meat loaf.

    I was on a chat group some years ago and one of the contributors had a tag that came up below all of her comments that read ‘We have nothing to fear except our mothers’.

    There is no better way to nix yourself from my Xmas card list than to say ‘You look/sound just like your mother.’

    Thankfully when I did find Dad’s family there were some good ones in their midst who supplied photographic evidence as proof that I don’t….I look like my great-great grandmother on Dad’s side. Praise the lord for that.

  43. Spooky, Catty. I used to dream that I was the product of a secret affair between my Mum and anyone-other-than-Dad. A childish fantasy fuelled by the fact that I had blondish hair and everyone else in my family was dark.

    Ahh, school lunches. Whose Mum made the vegemite and banana sangers in bulk, a month’s worth at a time, then froze them? That gives a sandwich a fascinating texture: dried out to buggery around the edge, with a refreshing frozen centre.

    Quokka – an attractive and charming great-great-grandparent, no doubt?

  44. Well I don’t get it from the Easter Bunny. Or bilby, I should say. The Bloke got one of them from Darrell Lea and it tasted like plaistowe cooking chocolate. Only fit to be melted down with copha and used as a topping on a slice.

    Banana and vegemite sandwiches? Did child services know about this?

  45. Apparently the family behind Darrell Lea were nearly as full of intrigue and back-stabbing as the Borgias. Perhaps their personal failings have tainted their very cocoa butter. Or, like every other bloody allegedly Australian manufacturer, they’re outsourcing production to mainland China, where the chocolate is now made from petroleum byproducts, by kidnapped Tibetan children.

    To be fair, vegemite and banana is high in B vitamins, and the potassium in the bananas helps balance the sodium load from the spread. Triatheletes should give it a run.

  46. I was majorly excited when I found bags of mini white Lindt eggs. Until a friend told me she found bags of mini peanut butter Lindt eggs at BigW. She didn’t share. Cow.

    Next year, instead of hand crafted coconut ice easter eggs, I’m sending her a banana and a jar of vegemite. And maybe some caramel cashew fudge, because I really do like her.

    No, not just because she has a management position at Darrell Lea.

    Quokka, you should go for the white Pink Lady bilby. It tastes like milky bar chocolate – which was conspicuously absent from our easter displays this year. I couldn’t work out why, as the milky bar eggs were so popular last year, they sold out two weeks before easter. Then I figured Cadbury must have sent someone around to break the milky bar kid’s knees. Pity they didn’t get KRuddy by mistake.

    Madam, don’t you mean, “It will give Triathletes the runs”? It sure as hell gave me the runs.

  47. I vote we test it on Tony Abbott.
    My washing machine blew up.

    I might have to go out and buy more clothes…

    • No Milky Bars? They’ve been bumped out by those damn Kinder people, I bet. Who wants creamy delicious white chocolate tainted with hazelnut paste and wafer *shudder*

      I think the gruelling punishment that calls itself “Triathalon” probably already loosens the bowels, as well as melting skeletal muscle and converting the cerebrum to meat. Surely they’ve suffered enough?

      Your washing machine and my dryer, Quokka. I suppose beating your soiled garments against a rock on the banks of the river would flare up your CTs?

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