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Showing posts from April, 2017

Best in Show

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There’s a fine line between a hobby and a mental illness. Some hobbies are fine. Stamp collecting’s fairly harmless, as is having a pet rabbit. At the other end of the scale are the wealth and sanity destroying hobbies; equestrian, ocean yacht racing, owning racehorses. Then you’ve got showing dogs, which attracts people who are, let’s just say different. Go to any dog show across the country and you’ll be treated the full autism rainbow in all its glory. That’s not to say dog breeders aren’t nice people. They are. Strange, but nice. For treacherous, even dangerous traits, you need to attend a chicken show. Poultry fanciers are just plain evil. Even at a chicken show in a small town, you’ll hear of poisonings, abductions and death threats. These people take their birds seriously. In contrast, dog owners, like the objects of their affection, are mostly harmless. I know everybody’s entitled to a hobby. But I’ve never understood why people would pack

Sub-Tropical Wife Swap

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She had what appeared to be hog bristles sprouting from her nostrils. He smelled of Old Spice, with faint undertones of old chops. “Would you like to move the conversation back to our house for a private party?” asked Mrs Hog Bristles. I was in some bar in Hervey Bay. I always knew there was something wrong with the place, but I never imagined it would be my ground zero; the place I’d be invited to share bodily fluids with a retired couple from Wangaratta. Also, I didn’t have a wife with me, and I was shit-scared they were planning to do a Rockefeller on me. So I made my excuses and sprinted up the street to a bistro full of young, attractive people, where I knew I’d be safe from molestation. Hervey Bay is a strange place. Sure, it’s got all the conveniences a modern city should have. A couple of Bunnings. Aldi. KFC. Like most Queensland cities, there’s a sex shop on every corner, with a Thai massage joint next door. But at first (and second, and