- This is me, fanning my balls like some kind of proboscis monkey.
Is it hot in here? It may well be, because my balls are requiring some serious fanning right now. I am, I must admit, more than a little disillusioned. The weather is terrible, the work is generally terrible, and the Dutch are making me shit bricks into toilets with viewing platforms. More on that phenomenon later. The french buzzard in my office is, as I write, chewing gum in an offensive manner and swearing egregiously under her breath. I am pleased to be associated with such a friendly, ladylike creature of Francophonic grace.
My bike is falling apart in spectacular style. It is a Trade Practices Act liability nightmare! After some investigative digging, I discovered that the bike, despite sporting the words ”Made in Holland” in enormous lettering, is actually “Made in India” and “Assembled in Holland”.
I now know that “Made in Holland” is actually the brand, similar to the way McDonalds started a burger-packaging company called “100% All-Australian Beef”.
What does this mean? It means, essentially, that a bunch of Indian dudes finish their 14 hour call centre shifts around 6pm and head into the metal shop to weld bike frames for 8 hours before going home for a good night’s rest. The bikes are then smuggled (most likely loaded with Afghani opium) into the Netherlands, where they are ‘assembled’ by an extremely lazy, negligent, and definitely stoned 16 year old Dutch wastoid. They are then ridden by kleptomanic Turkish immigrants from the assembly point to the shop, who remove vital components en route. They are then flogged off to idiots like myself for the outrageously attractive price of €130 brand new. Vivre la mondialisation!!!
I destroyed the wheel on tramtracks a while back, and got it fixed by a shady guy that kindly undercharged me. A week later, the chain snapped as a result of mild acceleration through a red light. Because the bike has a back-pedal brake only (no chain= no brakes), I had an interesting encounter with a passing tram and liberated several millimetres of rubber from the soles of my shoes. Ever the thrifty, handy individual, I fixed the chain with a pair of cheap pliers and some elbow grease. Unfortunately, the noise the thing now makes when I pedal is similar to the anal molestation of a rhinocerous with a scimitar. A little olive oil should fix this.
The little dynamo that powers the light is also broken as a result of being rained on. Without a light, I may get stopped and fined more than my bike is worth. I would be surprised if olive oil is a suitable remedy for this, but I can give it a go. Having reviewed the law on this, any kind of light source is suitable, as long as it is visible. As a highly visible option, I could potentially set the wheels on fire and pass out mid-ride from the sulphurous fumes.
At least, barring a bit of benign rust, the paint job is still okay. Following a good dose of olive oil, all that really matters on a bike is the paint job. If I am unable to sell it to some sucker for an outrageously high price in December, I may donate it to the nearby canal.
I apologise that the monkey in the picture is not of the proboscis kind. The balls on this one were just too prominent, too languid, too well-fanned.
Marvellous.
In better news, Mel is now in the mix, and we are going to France in December. Gold. The T Chapman Rancid Roadtrain is pulling into town in a couple of weeks. I’d better stock up on capsicums, pedicure kits and airfreshener.
Love,
Wombat
WTF is up with Europeans and their shit viewing platforms? Worst shitter design ever – perma-skidmark like whoa.
Big fan of the shelf. Gives you a marvelous opportunity to survey and admire your creation before watching it majestically cascade over the falls!
I have an image of you doing your Shehadie impersonation and poking your turd with your car keys.
“Mmmm….mmmmmmmmmmmmmm…..Ah well.”
Gold.
*look around nervously, pokes turd*
*sips beer*
mmmmmmmmmm mmmmm