“It doesn’t get much more personal than I play bass like a busted vagina. I can’t work like this.”

Ryan. Wilfred.

Kid ‘n Play - Ain’t gonna hurt nobody

I popped into my local optometrist a while ago to stock up on some contact lenses. I’m always rewarded for my loyalty with the dumbest twit who works there.

She never reads my prescription correctly and always pulls the wrong lenses down off the shelf. There are three numbers, lady. You match the numbers in the prescription to the box. Think of it as a game of bingo, but instead of a frozen chicken you get a slap in the face from me as a prize.

I visited the competitor around the corner soon after for a change of scenery. However, it soon became clear that hiring a minimum of one twit is a prerequisite to opening an optometrist business, because I had the exact same experience.

A junkie took up the spare seat next to me on the train recently and started knocking out a text message on his phone. Ten minutes later, he was still going.

The carriage was filled with deafening intermittent key tones, followed by silence as his head nodded forward in a heroin induced stupor in between writing sessions. I snuck a peek at his screen, he had only tapped out 6 words.

I had to make my way upstairs to avoid the temptation of grabbing his phone to finish his damn message so we could all get some peace and quiet. 

“Now Andre, do you see yourself more as like a rapist who does magic or a magician who also likes to rape?”

Ruxin. The League.

I haven’t had a good photo taken of me since 2006. 

After every shot I try to sneak a peek straight off the camera. This may appear vain to others, but my hope one day is to not see the creature from the black lagoon staring back at me. 

I always look somewhere in between “mildly depressed” and “alien who is wearing my body as a second skin and is trying to understand how it works”. You would never know that a millisecond before that piece of shit camera showed it’s face I was a happy soul laughing and enjoying my night with youthful abandon.  

I’ve been told there is no such thing as an unphotogenic person. That the success of the photograph is a reflection of the photographers skills. If this is the case, there are alot of people who need to keep their grubby unqualified paws in their pockets. 

A beastly tracksuit clad ‘woman’ confronted me in a local shopping centre car park two weeks ago. When she pulled out of her parking spot without looking, an instinctive brake slam saved me a smashed bonnet and the cost it would have incurred. Neither was on my wish list for Christmas.

She took her sweet time to turn and be on her merry way, probably because she couldn’t operate the steering wheel with her giant cloven hooves. I tried to pass only to be immediately blocked. She took a full minute and a half to lever herself out of the driver’s seat, intent on hauling me over the coals for my insolence.

She bellowed obscenities at me like a wounded bison, and finished it off with an intense livid stare. Satisfied with herself, she undertook the challenge of cramming herself back into her car in a manner that was most unbecoming of a woman.

“What if she were to put a jelly bean on a chair, sit down, and when she stands back up the jelly bean is gone…”

Jon Hamm. Saturday Night Live.

When I rang my doctor to schedule an appointment recently, the surly receptionist made like she was doing me a favour by slotting me in. They were all booked out, I was lucky to get a spot. Allegedly.

On the ride over to the doctors office a week later, I hit the school finish rush. A quick trip disintegrated into a car park, I was sweating bullets, I wasn’t going to make it. My slot would be taken and I would have to spend the rest of my afternoon in the waiting room catching up on the Bold and the Beautiful hoping for a cancellation.

But when I got there, the place was empty. I stood at the counter for a few seconds while the same surly receptionist informed a caller over the phone that she was doing them a favour by slotting them in.

This ain’t a nightclub, lady. Just get me in.

Leaving work to catch my train home, a proud grandmother led her grandson around the corner and down the stairwell. She didn’t think to let me pass and I wasn’t going to earn points knocking over an infant, so I waited politely.

I waited politely on all 29 steps as we worked our pain staking way down to the bottom. 

A headache I’d been nursing was shoved into migraine territory as the wild yells of grandmotherly encouragement and high pitched squeals of a child were magnified as they bounced off the walls.

I wanted to push them both down the stairs.

“I think I am also a donkey. I do not know what happened when I left the bar, but I am seriously in love with the donkey.”

Man claims prostitute turned into a donkey