As regular readers and thin-skinned defamation launchers with an inability to cop a sledge know I don’t have any assets. Not a single bloody one. I’m as skint as St John the Baptist, although I prefer medium rare steak and spuds with my honey, not locusts.
However her indoors, who I affectionately call the Bead Twirler and who paints pretty pictures and designs flash gardens rather than writing controversial tales of untoward behaviour has assets. Two of them – a perfect pair in casino parlance – cost
me her a fortune, although is was money very well spent and don’t you worry about that.
Another of her assets is her car, an aged and wrinkled but much loved family member which – given my propensity for falling off cycles and cracking bones, my inherent distaste for obeying sign-written directions from strangers and wasting my precious dwindling hours stationary at traffic lights, coupled with the anxiety condition that is exacerbated by being confined and in crowds – is our only mode of travel other than than the Adelaide Street on the end of our ankles, when they are not broken as a result of flying six feet in the air from the saddle of a Malvern Star.
The Twirler uses her four-wheeled pride and joy for such mundane tasks as transporting her cancer-stricken father-in-law (me old Da) to chemotherapy sessions and doctors and hospitals and the like, and transporting The Captain (formerly known as the Sprog until her appointment as head girl at the swish institution to which we pay exorbitant sums each quarter in five and ten cent pieces) to school so that she might get an edumacation and be smarterer than her Dad, and to drive our other daughter the one-time Tattooed Teen, who is no longer a teen and now pregnant with our first grandchild (that hot bird with the bump’s not my kid – I’m way too young!) to do all the things that chicks up the duff need to do in order to ensure that the little tummy-kicker’s brought out into the big wide world safe, well and smiling like a sportsfan who’s landed the First 4 in The Cup.
Yesterday the twirler drove the fat-gutted father’s cash guzzler to a couple of those bun in the oven type appointments – an ultrasound and a blood test – and then the pair decided to use a wad of the assets that aren’t Dad’s and meander down to Racecourse Road at Ascot for a skinny-milked coffee or two and a swish as feed.
Pickle me grandma was my first thought when I heard the news. Racecourse bloody road! Millionaires row. Yuppieville. Twenty-two dollar hamburgers with beetroot an extra 3 bucks. Five dollar cans of Golden Pash. What the hell were the pair of them thinking? That Dad had left his wallet full of Mum’s fifties on the coffee table while he lay snoring on the couch, that’s what. I can only pray to the punting Gods that Kevvie and the boys from the Bunger weren’t down at headquarters watching Strike the Stars go through her afternoon track work paces (she’s too slow to keep up with the other gees gees in the morning gallops) or I’ll never bloody live it down.
But fortunately my hysteria was misplaced, for miss bun in the oven had simply developed one of those cuckoo expectant mother’s cravings and become obsessed and possessed with a yearning for donuts, and so the missus and young preggers trundled along Brisbane’s streets in the wobbly four-wheeled chariot until they arrived at 160 Racecourse Road, home of their favourite cocoa bean and iced sugar-soaked sweet-tooth’s delights Eatataliano, where they pulled into the parking lot provided both for circular artery- blocking frisbees with holes in the middle and for more calorie conscious customers of one or more of the donut-free establishments in the small corner block of stores.
Lo and behold though the minute they arrived the boob feeder to be became overcome with nausea – serves her right for hanging out in Ascot with the hoi polloi I say; the donuts are far better at Rays Bakery in Geebung and half the price at that – and with nary a signposted dunny in sight at 16o Racecourse Road the Twirler had no option but to whip her across the road to a septic spew parlor so that the eldest offspring could hurl up her guts, much as her mother used to do with regular monotony all those one score and one years ago when she looked like a 21 year old Jenny From the Block rather than the 42 old Ms Jennifer Lopez she does today, albeit with bigger bonza bra-fillers.
Well the kid with the kid inside was technicolour yawning for about twenty minutes and what’s a loving Mum to do other than either pinch her wallet and run, or stand outside the dunny waiting, and being a soft sort of sexpot the Twirler of course did the latter. Silly cow, we could plonked the pups cash on Winx in the Cox Plate and escaped old age by catching a plane to Paris with the winnings, but she’s a sucker for love, Archie and her kids is the Twirler, and so there outside the door of the porcelain throne she patiently stood until the fruit of her loins who had forgotten to take her daily dose of no-nappies-needed meds a few months ago and then engaged in the pleasures of the flesh with the fine fella fascinated by her frangipani scent finally emerged.
Without any further delay, but I am sure with much ado, the molten-hot sorts promptly popped back over the road and purchased a pair of donuts, both touching the wood on Eataliana’s counter as they simultaneously said ‘don’t tell dad’. They took a couple of bites on the run – the poor dears were famished and the budding breast-feeder’s insides empty after her marathon morning sickness spew session – but before they could sit down to finish the job of putting on an extra pound or two the pink icing on the hollow ring sparked a sudden yearning in the Twirler to go ga-ga, goo-goo over the ultrasound images of the little angel inside and like mother like daughter the glowing youth agreed, and so off to the car they skipped to grab the scanned baby selfies.
But much to their surprise the car wasn’t there.
Some tanked-up wanker had winched it up and towed it while the banged up young beauty was yawning in the bowl.
After a million tears, and a world full of wailing, and the person at the end of the number on the sign that promised that donut-chomping sportfans were welcome to park their Peugots in the lot opposite the track had hung up on them without revealing the current whereabouts of their car, my two lovelies came to their senses and did what any clued up wench would do in similar circumstances.
They dialed a butterfly.
And now those responsible for leaving them pregnant, crying and absolutely abandoned in the wastelands of Ascot are about find out what happens to a bunch of callous uncaring c*nts when they do the wrong thing by a Bunger boy and leave his much-loved lasses and his forthcoming grandchild stranded in the street. Hell hath no fury like an Archie scorned, don’t you worry about that, and if you need confirmation just give The Lawyer Who Couldn’t Cut It In Private Practice or the Child Molester Cover-Up Merchants from the Anglican Church a call and I’m sure that they’ll set you straight.
To date no punter has ever run and won a case against the con merchants operating the ‘tow an unsuspecting sportsfan’s car from a shopping centre car park’, but that’s simply because most people are cowered by the crooks craven refusal to release their cars from their far-away locked up and dog guarded yards and, more importantly, because Archie Butterfly has never taken one before.
But as of the opening of the courtroom registry doors in the morn that’s all about to change, and if the bandits holding the Bead Twirler’s vehicle to ransom are bemused about the big-boobed breath-taker’s refusal to accede to their extortionate demands to hand over a brick of notes in exchange for the auto they’ve illegally appropriated, well let me tell you tomorrow they will be wondering no more.
The tow-truck racket’s about to be blown wide open and the criminal racket’s going down.
So buckle up and enjoy the ride.
And if you see an old bloke who looks like George Clooney trudging along the road to town make sure you stop and give us a lift hey?