3 August, 1991 12.17am
Hi-de-ho to you Sis,
How goes it Ms S? You’re darned lucky to be hearing from me, you know. I am a busy man. An EMPLOYED man. A corporate assassin, climbing the treacherous ladder to success, crushing, the dreams and spirits of my underlings underfoot as I claw my way to the zenith of the publishing world, where I will bask in the radiant glory of my omniscience, omnipotence and omni-everything else, I actually have a pseudonym under which I operate when gobbling up media empires. They call me …….. the…… ATHP!! (it’s actually “the asp” with a lisp – to confuse mein enemies).
Allow me to feist upon thee my daily routine, strictly adhered to with fanatical zeal.
4am – specially primed and positioned coconut falls from above bed and strikes head from height of approx. 7 feet. I awake.
4:02 – strip naked and beat myself with thorny bushes to promote new skin cell growth and keep my body complexion fresh and on the pink side.
4:11 – staple strips of skin back on body.
4:15 – eat breakfast of garden soil and metal shavings.
4:45 – commence exercise regime; 1,000,000,000 sit-ups, 1,000,000,000 push-ups, jog 10km’s to farmland, kill a cow by strangling it with its own tongue. Hurl cow 50 metres 100 times, pluck 10 nose hairs to teach self-control and learn not to cry under pressure.
6am – bathe naked in river singing “Norsca Freshness” at top of lungs.
7am – fight off screaming hordes of bimbos trying to snatch at my nubile young body, fresh and rosy in its virginal (born again virgin I am!) innocence.
8am – catch train into city, err, I mean, jog along beside city-bound train in bare feet with 3 inch metal spikes stuck in my thighs to aid circulation.
9am – arrive at work, stark naked having forgotten to dress between 7 & 8am
Well, what do I actually do? I’m told my primary function is to sate the carnal passions raging uncontrollably among the female staff. Alas, but that it were the truth! I’m really in mail and despatch in a publishing firm. You see, there are about 150 different titles there, and I get a computer printout about 10-15 pages long full of orders from people.
I have to collect the books and put them in a box, tape it up and send it. Also the books aren’t alphabetically arranged and sometimes aren’t even in stock, I just have to hunt my way through to make sure we get new stock in and people get their books. I also do the mail in the mornings and at night. BUT, I DON’T do the bins! Certainly not. I mean, someone as earth-shatteringly important as moi reduced to the menial, scabby job of putting out and bring in bins! The mere thought of it! So, like, even if you, like you know, see PHOTOS of me doing the bins, you’ll know they’re doctored, deliberately concocted to soil my reputation.
So how’s life in the hurtling, uncontrollably fast to glorious oblivion lane? Thank-you Petal for the Viz, it was great, especially Millie Tant and her radical conscience and absolutely everything in it. Everybody asked where it was from so I said “Why England of course, you ignorami” and they ask “Oh, did your sister send it ?” and I reply proudly, head held high, chest swelling to burst with pride, “What sister?” (maniacal laughter as the tears of sorrow cut two damp lines down your face all the way across the ocean).
Oh, I got paid today $238 clear, which isn’t so great but it’s a hell of a lot better than the dole. I’m going out tomorrow (or today actually because I’m up past midnight!) and I’m gonna blow all 238 bucks on chewy and footy cards man! No actually I’m rather interested in the inflatable sheep advertised in Viz. Purely for décor reasons you understand, I think it would be a nice corner piece. I mean, you’d never catch me sneaking into my room with an inflatable sheep, a bottle of baby oil and a bicycle pump. No Sir!! Alas, life is so lonely in the Antipodes. I s’pose in England they have real sheep for things like that. No such luxuries out here in the colonies. Of course with your foot-loose and fancy-free bohemian life-style, Jack probably has goats as well for variety you know.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck what am I saying? God, this nine to five grinding toil has turned my brain to mush! You could stick my brains in one of Mum’s casseroles and you’d never know the difference. Anyway, I’ve been whiling away the idle hours on the train inventing some insults for you, to remind you of your roots in Australia and not allow you to become engulfed by the gentility of the British.
- Scabby rectum
- Rancid bucket of pus
- Rectum faced bucket of sex slop
As you can see, I’ve gone for a body fluid motif and speaking of pus, guess what’s happened? You must keep this absolutely secret though because I don’t want it getting back to the person concerned you see. Remember Jade Hamilton? The one who got a nose job for her 18th Birthday? Well, a fat lot of good it’ll do her now, she was bitten by a white tailed spider 2 nights ago in bed and her legs come up in a big pus filled blister and all her skin’s coming off around it, and as you know it only gets worse. I mean it’s really quite awful really, and I feel very sorry for her. So don’t mention in your letters to anyone O.K? She mightn’t want people to know. I found out through her sister on the train. Is this the sort of shit you want to hear from the home front? I don’t know.
I’m trying to convince Mum to stop shaving her legs herself until she can bend down and do it properly because it looks like they are shaved by an epileptic in an earthquake (sorry). There are about 7 cuts, no slashes on each leg and Winky keeps licking the scabs of while Mum falls asleep in front of the telly. Still I suppose he has to eat something eh?
I got my revenge on the vile clothes Mum bought for me to wear to work. (I can’t help wincing at the word “work”) All the people there look like dero’s anyway and I can wear what I like and I’m gonna buy some clothes tomorrow hopefully.
Did you get my star in my last letter? I was tempted to send one that didn’t glow, but I’m such a saint I couldn’t do it. Oh, what misery to live within the constraints of a strict moral code of ethics steadfastly devoted to halting the decadent decay of society and bringing back traditional Victorian values! Stop your evil ways and repent lass, as I have done, before it is too late and thou art sent to hell to stand in monkey pus up to your upper lip. I don’t want to spoil you though, I think I sign off here because tis 2:30am here which must mean in England that your lunch break is nearly over. I wouldn’t want to get you fired.
© 2015 Dead Mans Diaries (S)