Arguing couples make me happy. This morning, as I got off the train there was a couple, one male, one female. One with a large suitcase, one with a small one. If I had to guess I’d say they were from somewhere in the top left of Europe.
The female of the couple lifted up her small, apparently light wheely bag and trotted on down the stairs. She moved with grace and an apparent desire to not become a pillar of salt.
Hubby, with his giant, visibly heavy suitcase, was stuck staring in disbelief as she disappeared into the bowels of the train station. He shrugged in defeat and turned to go and look for a lift. They’ll be having some rough sex tonight.
I wonder how people that don’t swear have sex.
I was walking down the street (a week ago), and a gentleman coming the other way turned to go into his house. I’m pretty sure it was this peachy number:
Anyhoo, the old chap wiggled his key in the lock and the barking of a pup emanated from within.
The elderly gent, still a-gigglin’, said “Is that you Daryl? Daddy’s home!”
I was about as close as I’ve ever come to talking to a stranger. The questions boiled within me like water, boiling. Why was he not certain it was Daryl? Did he expect Daryl to answer? Who the fuck names a dog Daryl — that’s a person’s name. Does Daryl tend to get about, is it rare for Daryl to be at home at this time of day? Are there several dogs and he knows them all by their voices?
And another thing! I think we’re at the stage now where “daddy” has been sexualised and should no longer be used in dignified discourse.
I was told today that I shouldn’t use the term ‘groomed’ because it has negative connotations. I asked “what if I’m talking about grooming a young boy to get him ready for church?”. I mimed the brushing of the hair. This is a true story and I was looked at as you may imagine.
Anyway, “Daddy’s home” in the Weinstein era (as I’m calling it) means someone’s about to be asked to do something without really being ‘asked’ in the traditional sense, or face the consequences. You know, get felt up or fired. Laid or laid off. Assaulted or catapulted. Molested or divested. Exposed or deposed. Boned or dethroned. Shafted (wink) or shafted (no wink).
And so on.
I will never know if it was Daryl yapping on the other side of that door. Perhaps the next words the man spoke were “you’re not Daryl!” Perhaps they were the last words he ever spoke. Perhaps everything was just fine and no one died.
I wonder if deaf people do dirty sex talk with sign language.
I live near a river. On this river people practice rowing, which is like riding but on water with your arms. Each boat has a person that has a megaphone that yells at the people that are rowing. One side effect of them yelling into a megaphone is that I can hear — as I walk along the foreshore — every damn word. The curiously named creatures vary in vocabulary, but these pep-talk people are mostly motivational.
Then, last week, a gaggle of these rowers went under a bridge that I was on the vertically opposite side of. The megaphone holder was silent. Then he was silent for a bit more. Then “KEEP ROWING”.
There was a woman with a pram within glance exchanging distance so I cast my laughing eyes her way. Nothing! How come no one else laughs at this shit?! A man with a megaphone just screamed “KEEP ROWING” at the poor people propelling his personal punt. What more do you want out of life?
I don’t know what’s wrong with the world.
A note to all the homeless people reading this: I would love to throw a few coins your way, I have a jar full of them and would feel great about dishing out a handful each day until it’s empty so I can use the jar to make jam.
Well, to store jam, I’ll make it in a pressure cooker.
But the problem is I don’t want to throw coins your way literally (I’m fine with the coins being literal, it’s the throwing that I want to be figurative). I’ve got a bad back so I’m not bending over, and my sports skills are not the best so I’m not going to throw a coin four feet to the ground just to have it miss the goal. Then I have to either not chase it down the street — like a dick — or chase it down the street — like a dick.
So, if you could kindly put your skanky upside down hat up on some sort of plinth and make sure the hat’s got some cushy lining so it doesn’t make a sound when I throw some coins in then you’ll be getting one handful of ten cent coins a day for months. Then you’ll get nothing for a little while. Then you’ll get a jar of jam.
Here’s a nice plinth that I think will fit in with your existing decor: