The Dark Side of the Orange

Greetings fellow inhabitants of the universe. Or not, depending on when you're reading this (I'm looking at you Quasi-Slug from the 16th dimension. Call me).

I feel obliged to leave an update, as I do so often!

Simply put, the juice has been calling me. Strongly. Vehement shouting, one might say. No matter how many times you mentally scream 'SILENCE IN THE PEANUT GALLERY', the siren's call of the juice remains.

So I had no choice. I had to go on a quest. A pilgrimage, if you will. But you probably won't. So, a quest. A quest of epic proportions to find and ingest the most unfathomably delicious OJ this side of existence. Your pick was pretty good, Quasi-Slug, but disqualification, I'm sorry, I mean, dude, you have the capacity for inter-dimensional time travel. Your juice may be good, but you're a cheater, and mine's better anyway. Dick.

I so happened upon a small pocket of humanity that I consider to be perfection embodied; the orange juice monks of Altona Beach. Invisible to all but those who seek them. And I certainly was. Like the juice itself, the monk's shamanistic powers vibed-out to me, and man, it was pretty sw33t.

They spoke only in 1337. Which was quite difficult at first, but with some background knowledge, I was proficient in no time.

So, I left my post with the junkies. I bid tearful goodbye to Willem, and forgave him for the scotch fingers incident, now known as Biscuitgate by the indigenous population in that locale.

This was the beginning of my spiritual orange juice awakening, however this is not the end of my woeful story of sordid consumerism and flavourless citrus based temptations. Oh no, it was all to catch up with me.

The Rage in Gerald PG.

When I awoke yesterday morning, I felt an alien sensation passing through my bones. Deep, unmolested rage. For no apparent reason, other than maybe this Junkie I live with called Willem stole my stockpile of scotch fingers the other night. The only food left in the house.

Through the day, as I went about my tasks, this rage built and built. I ran errands frantically, with a sinister passion unmatched by any other patron at the local Wandering Bob's.

It was a quiet rage, building up behind my eyes. Throbbing and pulsating like the beat of a timpani. This was followed by the explosion of a cluster headache, erupting through my skull, confining me to bed for the remainder of the day. One of the kinder Junkies brought me a strange beverage. The strange concoction seemed to be cheery in appearance, however viscus in consistency and slightly acidic in odour, I remained tantalised by its unusual sunset-like complexion.

As I drank it down, i felt a soothing calm and a surge of pure joy. It felt as though I was being dipped slowly, head-first in a bucket filled with concentrated euphoria. I had a sensation of absolute peace, as though everything was right with the world. As though I had found love, fulfillment, and satisfaction in one mouthful of absolute wonder. Whilst I savored the biblical flavour, I came to a simple yet life-changing realisation. Via route of a modest glass of 2 dollar orange juice, I had reached Nirvana.

This Week's Episode: 'Gerald and the Junkies'

The time between this post and my last is near inexcusable. It has been rather difficult as I have been engaged in changing my lodgings. I now am livin' in a rather small, run down, ramshackle of a miner's cottage in east brunswick. I live with six or seven (the number fluctuates) meth-headz. 'lemmie just tell you right now that I am rather frightened by their skin.
The general hygiene of the place is quite below sub-standard. For one thing, weekly cockroach races are held in the bathtub. The junkie who loses has to score the smack for the week, and the winner is exempt from rent for the following fortnight. I too have become engaged in this despicable betting circuit. My money for tomorrow is on Jose Frerenandez The Destroyer of Gingerbread (the smallest cockroach - I always love an underdog. I do end up supplying a lot of smack. Which I don't even partake in. Quite a dollar-suck).
We have no television, so evening entertainment consists of observing these degenerates shoot up. Their semi-concious songs and rambling fill the cold night air, wafting through the breeze like the rustling of 1000 trees that have been cut down and replaced by upright fans that have a bit of toast stuck in the blades. Crunchy and repetitive is the best way to describe this.
So as you can see, I've become accustom to this daily malaise. Im used to the smell now...well, most of the time. Except Tuesdays. Curry night. I'll leave the rest to your wonderfully sharp imaginations.

Anyway I must be off now. It's my turn to prepare the bathtub/racecourse for the big night.

Centrelink Caperz

I'm sorry for the short gap between this post and my last, I had promised at least one update a week, however this has been unable to eventuate as I've been waiting in the same damn centerlink queue since then.

I built myself a small fashionable 3-piece suit out of unemployment forms and now I have nothing to do, so I downloaded an 8 dollar internet pack for my little cellular telephone so that I may update this log whenever I please.

It's a hard life.

I've begun drinking again, there's more alcohol available in a centerlink queue than you would imagine. Despite the fact that I swore I'd never drink again after the little submarine incident, it's hard to stay sober when everything is illuminated by 15 year old fluorescent lightbulbs. So if I don't update this blog for the next 8 weeks, blame it on the Smirnoff Ice.

So, it's around 9 am centerlink time, and it's time for breakfast on this 11.6 degree morning. There's not much to eat around here, I had a few Minties in my pocket (as this certainly appears to be an adequate Minties Moment), however I devoured them within the first few days. So, I mainly eat dust mites that have the lack of good-thought to poke their heads up from the coat belonging to the man standing in front of me. I fashioned a small spear-like object out of more forms (I've become a master at the refined art of origami). This spear glints as I aim it at my tasty opponents, as it's made entirely of golden-rod sheets designed for unemployed rappers, pimps, whores and douchebags.

I will skip the unecessaries as they're rather distasteful, and simply say that breakfast was a wondrously delicious buffet of dustmitey goodness.

Anyway I've gotten tired of predictive text as it's most counter-intuitive, so hopefully this post will be enough to satisfy the rampaging, drunken readers of this blog. If it's not, please send your letters to Bexhill on sea, care of Thomas Grunge. If you're poor with your hands, as I suspect many of you are, too bad. Be satisfied with this post.

My place of employment

With my life finally back on track I ventured out into the world of employment. The first job opportunity that arose, was that of the world's oldest profession. All I can say is, I turned it down. Wandering the streets I happened across a small, family owned supermarket, called Wandering Bob's Emporium. They offered me the title of "Checkout Gentleman" in which I would have a fetching hat, of brilliant hues of purple and green. In total I worked about three hours at Wandering Bob's, the purchases made there were... Disturbing, to say the least. Orange juice was a popular choice among the young working families that frequented the establishment and I can safely say that I will never understand Orange Juice, it is a foreign concept to me. Eventually I snapped, when young boy, of about six, attempted to buy a large box of sponges. The sponge, that dastardly contraption, used in all sorts of nefarious capacities. Like, absorbing... liquids... like... orange juice and the blood of innocents. I ran around the store, throwing my enigmatic arms into the air, screaming: "You whores! YOU WHORES! You need not these things of which you buy! I can't take any more of this shit! I'm 'onna go get some coffee and a doughnut. Then I'm gonna skip town for a couple weeks. Maybe smoke strange substances." Then I ran out of the store, into the wild sunset.

Party Barnacles.

Sorry, bout this guys, but I've been partying rather hard since late September up till new years, this is the first time I've been able to crawl out of my bed, breaking my way through half rotten T-shirts and empty vodka bottles. On my way out I was accosted by some spiders who wanted some money to get out of Nigeria and across the border into Japan. I am now broke, the only things I have to cling to are my fuchsia sunglasses and my bright orange fedora.
Updating the blog occurred to me the moment I arose from my alcohol fueled stupor. So there's not much to say really, I went to the beach in late September and, to my amazement, out of the water emerged a HUGE yellow submarine. The top opened, revealing several disheveled looking party barnacles. They offered me a place in their party submarine and I had to accept, after all, they had crisps. How could I refuse?
Thus began my stay in the "PARTY SUB" as I began to call it, on the third or fourth day. I was welcomed by the party barnacles, and eventually I a permanent feature at the constant party. Others came and went, yet I remained, sampling the delicious crisps on offer and drinking all of their booze.
Enclosed is a picture of some of my hosts, who I wish to thank for my time with them. However, their hangover remedy (sucking on a boot made of penicillin, which I happen to be allergic to) proved to to be entirely ineffective, and made the matter worse for a good three months.

Explanations for my absence from the bloggosphere.

It all began some months ago, when I was at the drive in, watching "The Colour Purple". Just as the climax of the movie arrived, I heard a knock. *Tappity tap tap.* It went, * Tappity tappity tap tap tappity too.* Looking out of the green tinted window of my oversized puce Citroen, I recognized the distinct shape of a smartly dressed peacock duo. They wore tailored suits with enormous gold clocks hanging around their necks, the weight of which seemed to be causing them some trouble. Setting aside my fried duck, hoping they had not noticed I had been eating one of their poultry pals, I asked them how I could be of service. They replied by presenting me with a briefcase full of blunt, slightly copper coloured knives, and clucked in my direction. For some time they incessantly clucked at me, looking earnest, occasionally stopping to nodd, or just for dramatic effect.They continued to cluck for a while, until they became so tired and enraged by my constant confusion they had to sit down. After a short tea break, (no tea was offered to me, I might add.) They ushered my to their vehicle, a rather substantial looking black bus, sat me down, and can't really remember much, except for more clucking, and the words: "Frying-pan" and "Business card".
Then I woke up. Three hours ago. In a local ditch. I'm wearing a sombrero, my left foot is on fire and I reek of cheap vodka.
So, in my inebriated state, I stumbled over to a conveniently placed 24 hr internet cafe on the opposite side of the ditch, and here we are...
I am not looking forward to this possibly decade-long hangover.
End captain's log.