Petty

Our next-door neighbours are a couple of unpleasant and verbally aggressive twats who, thankfully, mostly keep to themselves ... since we called the police. I just realised, though, that whenever they seem to be not sullen or scowly or shouty, like maybe they're actually enjoying themselves, it irritates me.

People I dislike are not allowed to be normal, happy people with families and friends. They are supposed to behave like villains all the time and be clearly miserable.

I think I actually start experiencing a slightly anxious cognitive dissonance when they don't. How can I be better than them if they're as happy as me? What if they're happier?

Pretty sure I'm remembering accurately

Guest post: Dead rat

Hello. I am a large bush rat that wandered into Martina's backyard today to die. I was feeling a bit drowsy and took a nap on the mat first, just as they were leaving to visit family. I don't know why I picked a household with two kids to do this but I think I had just escaped another household with two kids and—I don't know, a change is as good as a holiday, or something? Look, don't ask me too many questions, I'm a dead rat. Anyway, while they were gone I rallied and managed to move myself about a metre housewards, whereupon I died. On the lawn. Clinging to a single blade of grass with my foot. Because if Rat Death is coming for me, I'm taking this motherflipping overgrown buffalo grass with me, bitches!

They haven't done anything about me yet, though the flies are aleady starting to take an interest in my dead-rat-ness because this is Australia and that's how shit works here.

Boy, am I feeling a bit stupid for choosing the day AFTER garbage collection day to die in a suburban back yard, because wtf are they going to do with my inconvenient, hairy corpse for the next week now?

The distant future

ZORG: You know how it's the year 3000 now and all sorts of fashions have come and gone over the millennia?

KRAAK: Yeah.

ZORG: Why are all our clothes made of foil?

KRAAK: What?

ZORG: It occurs to me that cotton might be more comfortable.

KRAAK: Nonsense. Foil is ... versatile and ... shiny.

ZORG'S LEFT EYEBROW: (Rears up sceptically.)

KRAAK: It's very now.

ZORG: I understand that. But it chafes.

KRAAK: The economy demands it.

ZORG: What, foil-fresh scrotes?

KRAAK: Foil in general. After the health campaigns of the early 21st century, nobody was drinking soft drink any more.

ZORG: Rrrrrright ...

KRAAK: And after those environmental awareness campaigns—

ZORG: Oh! Right. When everyone was recycling cans.

KRAAK: Yeah. But with no soft drinks, there was nothing to recycle them into. So they just made foil.

ZORG: I still don't see why I'm wearing it as pants.

ZORG'S TROUSERS: (Soft crinkle.)

KRAAK: Hey—and stylish asymmetrical shoulder pads!

ZORG: Gaaah! They're constantly bumping against our inexplicably trapezoidal doorframes!

KRAAK: Well, water scarcity forced governments to place heavy restrictions on water-intensive industries like cotton. Cotton clothing became completely unaffordable. So, they started making clothes out of the surplus foil and voilà—everyone in the world was clothed and had clean drinking water.

And scratchy privates.

ZORG: I'd take the poop-water.

KRAAK: You don't mean that. Since we all started wearing foil hats, when's the last time you heard any weirdos claiming that aliens are reading their thoughts?

ZORG: Exactly! Now you can't tell who the crazy ones are! They're walking among us, designing trapezoidal doorframes!

KRAAK: It's better than that 'post-apocalyptic' look everyone was going for back in the 25th century.

ZORG: Ugh. Yeah. Arseless leather trousers are never OK.

KRAAK: Parliament Question Time must have been horrible.

ZORG: ARGH. (Vomits a little in his mouth, then coughs.) I hope I'm not getting sick. If the government hadn't channelled so much funding into massively fuel-inefficient hovercar infrastructure, maybe our public healthcare system wouldn't be crumbling so badly.

KRAAK: Good thing we all undergo Renewal when we turn 30.

ZORG: At least they got that right.

Delicious fajitas

As I don't really have an outlet for my sketches, I thought I'd try converting one to a written piece. It turned out longer and less sketchy than planned. Now I have a thing that isn't really a sketch and also isn't a very good story.

Er, enjoy.

* * * * *
There's bugger all on TV this evening and Fenella has made plans – with herself – to go out for Mexican. It's easier than cooking at home and she might even be able to get very drunk while wearing an amusing hat.

It's not even a proper Mexican restaurant. It's 'modern Australian fusion', which as far as anyone can tell just means it also offers the kinds of dishes that are served with 'heirloom asparagus spears' and 'chat potatoes' and 'cutlery', with a side of 'jus' and 'ma'am, could you please put some pants on'.

The restaurant's grimy sign hangs apologetically over the door, suspended like a lingering fart: 'something-something-Sol', in large red and yellow letters. After three years she still doesn't know the name of the place. She pushes the door open without bothering to find out.

'Hi', says a young waitress brightly, 'welcome to [WHITE NOISE]; table for one?'

Good God. It's like my brain just blanks the name out.

'Yes, please.'

'Just this way.'

Fenella is given a seat next to the window and opposite a glaringly empty chair that practically screams 'insert human companionship here'. Excellent. Fenella has just become a living public service warning to passers-by.

A young waiter with a rag tucked into his black half-apron appears out of nowhere. He's a hipster, all beard and big glasses and self-esteem (why don't they seem to hate themselves like normal people do?).

'Hi, there. Ready to order?'

Hell yes! I'd like something that burns my tongue off but is also absorbent enough to soak up the tequila when I try to dull my senses later.

'Yes, could I have the —'

'The chef’s special today is fa-JYE-tas.'

Vagitas?

'I’m sorry?' Fenella asks, not sure whether to be offended but finding herself looking for the opportunity.

The waiter repeats, 'We’ve got a special on fa-JYE-tas', and looks at her expectantly.

'Are you trying to be smart?'

'No, ma’am. I’m offering you cheap faJYEtas.'

'FaHEEta! It’s pronounced faheeta.'

'I don’t think it is.'

'It is.'

'There’s a J in it.'

'It’s Mexican!' Oh yes. Fenella is now not only That Customer with No Friends, but also, officially, That Dick.

The waiter is clearly not about to drop it. 'Yes, but in Australia it’s pronounced "J"', he tells her matter-of-factly, and then adds: 'When in Rome.'

'We’re in Sydney.'

'When in Sydney.'

'When in Sydney what?'

'When in Sydney you eat faJYEta.'

Nope. I'm not ordering anything on the Mexican menu. God only knows what the kitchen staff would put on my plate if he tells them I want a vagita for dinner.

She says instead, 'I’ll just have the spatchcock, thanks', and immediately regrets it. The waiter looks at her reprovingly.

'That’s a bit inappropriate.'

'A SALAD, THEN. Just get me a Caesar salad.' She remembers her manners grudgingly. 'Please.'

'No entrée, ma’am?' he asks, stylus hovering over the screen of his handheld electronic order-taking device thingy.

'Nope.'

'Not even a gourmett pumpkin soup shot?'

'No!' Fenella snaps.

'I’m sorry', the waiter says with buttery smoothness, 'I meant "gourmay". I just thought you might enjoy a little amuse-bouche.' The words dribble out sickeningly.

'It’s pronounced—' Fenella frowns for a second. 'OK, you’re saying it right, but now it just sounds dirty.'

Unruffled, the waiter nods and starts jotting. 'So, one [WHITE NOISE] Sol Creamy Caesar Salad.'

'Yes.'

The waiter says the word 'creamy' a bit too slowly as he writes it. Creeeeeeamy.

'And for drinks?' he asks as he finishes jotting. He looks back up at Fenella, politely expressionless. 'I've got a semi-on.'

'What?'

'What?'

'That’s disgusting!'

'Would you prefer a chardonnay?'

'Oh', Fenella says, embarrassed, 'you meant a semillon with an "l".'

'There’s no pleasing you, is there?'

'Well, if you’d pronounced it semiyong instead of "semi-on"—' Fenella stops herself. 'Yes, I will have the semi ... the white. Thanks.'

'Excellent choice. Also, just to let you know, our head chef will be giving a live demonstration of his world-renowned filletting skills at 9 pm in the open kitchen to your right. He can de-bone and fillett a mackerel in less than 15 seconds and will be signing copies of his book ‘My Filletting Life’ after the fillett show.'

Graaaarggghh! 'It’s pronounced fil-LAY! It's a fil-LAY show!'

'Fellatio?' asks the waiter, genuinely surprised. 'OK then. Our head chef will be performing his public fellatio at nine.'

Fenella's eye twitches. 'That’s it. I’m out.'

The waiter shrugs and heads back to the kitchen to tell the others what he's just heard the chef will be doing to a fish tonight.

Buffer zone

And yet my idea for chilled toilet seats never took off.