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Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Hit and Run and Hit and Run and…

Firstly, the filthy, soap gargling Ches & Custard of Bellakanoose have moved to their own page. They’re feeling a little lonely that side so if you think they’re schweet, please visit them and say howsit. Little drawings are sensitive things you know? Thanks. They’ll be updating themselves every Wednesday because Wednesdays are boring as fuck. So follow the link on the sidebar...only if you want to...no pressure.

Lastly, I just sneezed like 15 times.

Lets talk hangovers.
It’s one of my best mate’s farewells tonight. Shit I haven’t had a school day hangover in ages…listen to me moan…how bad can it be?

Well, you wake-up about an hour before you fell asleep – depending on the time you arrived home, this constant can be variable – and discover you’re completely naked, with Austrian and Mexican Ompa bands duelling it out in your stomach.

You let them carry on, until the trombonist arrives, and you make a break for the lavatory. Hazy thoughts are running through your head, and you’re not quite sure - yet - if you regret having those 9 jagermeisters and 7 tequilas.
You heave and cough. Car alarms start sounding and dogs begin to bark and howl. Your final retch is accompanied by a loud and bone wrenching cry, as if all the happiness was just removed from the world.

You raise your crimpled body from the cold tiles and rest the side of your head on the basin. You reach out and catch a few drops of lifeless water on your tongue, slurping at nothing like when a kreepy krawly pool cleaner breaches the surface.

You crawl to your bed, moaning and clawing at bits of carpet. You pass-out. The world, it would seem, has left you now, and the drunkenness you feel drifts off into a distant galaxy…

…you wake, 4 hours later.

The Ompa band in your stomach has been replaced with a West African Drummer Band in your head. A herd of Wildebeest have been dusting themselves inside your mouth, every joint and muscle ache, and your body smells like rancid vegetable porridge.

You cling lifelessly to every breath you take, and realising that your only chance for survival lies 5 metres from your bed, you lift your head slowly, slowly off the pillow. You open your eyes. It burns and your vision is blurred.
Then you notice them, the Chinese family cowering in the corner. They take one look at you, and scream. The blood curdling shrill hits you like iced potatoes to the face, you run. You run with every last bit of energy you’ve got, you run.

You slam the bathroom door, grab the nearest vessel and begin hauling. Water…WATer…WATER!!!

After a few moments curled up on the bathmat, you make your last and final move for the fridge. You begin rummaging around for scraps of food. Anything. Anything that will help take the pain away. A left over spaghetti, milk tart…yogi sip. You mix them all up into something that resembles nuclear fallout.

After a brief session of phantom heaving, you slot a few myprodal and shuffle off onto the couch. Your phones rings, you answer. The proximity of the mobile to your head causes a swelling of the ‘remember-everything’ part of your brain. Your mate laughs at you and offers no sympathy…

…the losers complex sets in. Oh hell! Oh.Hell!

So, not that bad hey? Kind of like a hit and run?

Um!

5 comments:

Tay said...

Hit the nail on the head there Ches! Torture...

Tamara said...

Wow. Sounds like fun, Ches.

Or not.

Ches said...

Depends which way you look at it...

po said...

Nooo, Ches my worst are the stomach gurgles you get that feel and sound horrendous, right before you... um. Eeeuw.

Ches said...

EEeeeeeuuuuuw. :)

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