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Friday, July 8, 2011

A Prank A Day Keeps The Bear Away

   I don't know if I've mentioned this, but I hate toilet jokes. Jokes about poo, jokes about menstruation, jokes about bodily fluids. I just don't like them. They're crass and disturbing and I'd rather people didn't even mention toilets, much less make jokes about them.
   I know that might make me a killjoy or a prude, but its not like I don't like fun. I like to dance. I like the odd drink. I like small animals. I like to drink with small animals. I like to dance with small animals. I like to dance while I'm drinking small animals.
   Filthy likes a good party.
   I used to go to a lot of open-house parties, literally parties where someone had opened the doors of their house to anyone who wanted to come along, usually some kid who's parents had foolishly gone away and left them in charge. Sounds nuts but it was a pretty tight nit area where I was living at the time and, though there could be anywhere up to 3 or 4 hundred people turn up, things rarely ever got too bad...well...except for the night there was a gang war, but thats another story.
   These parties were awesome. Sure some of them fizzled out a bit or were punctuated by too much ABBA but many were a roller coaster of fun fun fun and the pranks were many.
   Some of the pranks were perpetrated by yours truly, for which I am not so proud...well only a bit pround...of.
   I remember when I was still too young to have a liscence, there was this party where I filled up some poor girl's mother's car with drunk idiots and drove it around and around the block. Every time we came upon the house where the party was at, she would run out and implore us to stop. We would laugh, thinking it hilarious, and take off again.
   At another party, there was a huge birdhouse seated upon a tall wooden pole in the back yard. There were hundreds of people milling about, most of them in various states of inebriation. A buddy of mine, a polar bear, and me found a couple of tomahawks in the shed and, to the delight of the assemblage, we began to chop the birdhouse down. When it teetered, we called timber and people jumped out of the way as the structure crashed to the ground and splintered into a million pieces.
   There were always people sampling things at these parties, drinks, drugs, etc and I was fine with that, it made for good mischief.
   I remember there was this one guy who was so stoned that he sat propped against the side of a house, just completely out of it. My friends and I went to the garden shed, found an old empty petrol tin, and filled it with water. We went to where the stoned guy was and began splashing him liberally with the water in the tin. He hardly moved and looked up at us incredulously. 'What the fuck dudes?' he mumbled.
   I showed him the petrol tin and splashed him some more, then my mate, a particularly moody sunbear, started flicking lit matches at the guy.
   The matches went out upon contact with the water, but this guy was so wasted that he freaked out. He got up like a rocket and began throwing punches, screaming 'THEY'RE TRYING TO KILL ME! THEY'RE TRYING TO KILL ME!'.
   The last we saw of him, he was running away down the street, screaming and calling for help.
   Dumbass.
   Now we weren't all bad. We had a sort of moral code. Like one night when there were younger kids at a party, chopping up dope in bowls. My mate went over to them, all about 14, and said he knew of a way to make their experience way better.
   The kids seemed keen to try anything and so Grouchy went to the kitchen, came back with a carton of milk and poured it into each bowl in turn, filling them up.
   The kids didn't stop him, thinking that this was part of some mystical process or something, but they looked worried. Finally, when all bowls were full and the dope saturated, Grouchy said, 'There you go. Can't have cereal without milk. So...you boys into sugar or honey?'
   All good fun and nobody got hurt...as far as I know...but not everyone was so kindly with their pranks.
   There was a time there when a great mystery had arisen among the party-goers, a mystery so strange and devilish that it confounded everyone. Someone it seemed, was going to these parties and waiting for a moment when everyone was outside. They'd then sneak into the loungeroom, take the VHS machine from wherever it sat (yes this was a while ago), place it on its end, open the slot where the video would normally go, squat over said slot with their pants down, and there...they would take...a shit.
   The perpetrator would then wipe any excess excrement from the face of the VHS machine and place it carefully back where he'd found it. A lovely surprise for the owner of the house.
   This was happening over and over again, at every party that my friends and I went to and everyone had their suspects. I personally thought it was one of the football crowd. After all they have to start somewhere. You don't just start with date rape, pissing yourself on airplanes and writing your name on hotel room walls in poo. You have to start small.
   I'm sure that some people thought it was us. I mean people have an unfair prejudice against bears to start with so it wouldn't surprise me if they thought we were into this sort of thing, which of course we weren't...or so I had believed.
   One night, Humphrey, who was a weird bear by all rights, (quiet, he wore a straw hat like he was in a barber shop quartet, and liked to dress in a waistcoat and tie a fair bit) said he was going to talk to someone and left our little sloth of bears to wonder the crowd.
   Five minutes later we hear this scream, (which we heard before anyone else due to our far superior bear hearing) and the music died. That was followed by yelling and things inside the house breaking and a minute later Humphrey was ejected from the premises by a large man in a polo top. The man proceeded to wail on Humphrey and our first instinct was to help him. "More opression from the biped slavers" we thought, but then the girl who's parents owned the house stormed up to me and asked if we knew what Humphrey had been doing. We were in the dark but then she described his being caught in the act of shitting in her video recorder and all was clear. Humphrey was the culprit and he'd never said so much as a word to us.
   Well we didn't feel such a need to help him after that and went back to our drinks instead. We never saw Humphrey after that but looking back it should have been more obvious. He was slightly unhinged. When we went to the zoo to visit Bogey and Mopey, two of our captive slave brothers, he took great pleasure in going to the butterfly house and stuffing butterflies into his waistcoat pockets, giggling giddily the whole time, until we had to usher him out of there.
   And sometimes...just sometimes...he wore a scarf...in the Summertime.
   Speaking of toilet stuff...
   I was in a unisex toilet the other day which was a little weird but did make me feel quite modern in a way that my ipod does not.
   Now I'm not a fan of public movements. I don't much like the smell and it continues to confound me that people find it so hard to press the flush button. You can't ever sit on the seat because its generally covered in urine or some other random forms of DNA and stem cell goop that you'd never purposefully lather your bum with, and so you end up taking up all sorts of yogic positions and contorting your body so as to make a deposit without picking up HepB or Menapause or getting pregnant.
   I personally have nearly perfected "the Eagle" and can perch on the rim like a proud raptor for quite some time. Yes...there was one instance where my foot slipped out from beneath me in South America and my bum touched water, but generally its my favorite. From that hight however you need to set up a paper landing pad so as to avoid the inevitable splash.
   Another is the human scaffold, single or double handed, where you take up a position as if you are seated a few inches above the actual seat with your hand, or hands, against the wall behind the toilet, holding you up. Its pretty strenuous and if you get stuck with a hanger-on, the muscles in your arms and legs can take a nasty beating.
   Then there's "the TeePee" where you basically stand with a leg off to either side of the bowl, but I find my big bear cheeks don't allow the bum junk to pass freely in this position and I HATE having to lick my arse clean in public.
   Anyway I have strayed from the point.
   I was in such an establishment the other day and this lady was in there with her kids, all of which were small. I'm talkin' maybe waist high or somethin like that. Maybe a bit smaller. So one of the kids is in the stall next to mine, and she's giving it a really good go, grunting and talking to herself, making all the noises of someone exerting themselves, only in a higher tone. Think Tele Tubby.
   It was like Pappa smurf snapping one off next door and i was losing it, and then to top it off, when she'd finished, the mother went in to see how she'd done (I'm not sure why. Maybe its a point of contention among mothers these days. "My son pinched a loaf that would feed a whole family." "Oh yeah, well my daughter dropped a stool that that family could all sit on side by side while they ate that loaf". I really don't know, but when the mother went into the cubicle, there was a gasp and then she said, "Oh that's not even funny." She must have flushed the toilet about 5 times in an attempt to get rid of the evidence, all the while the little girl giggled to herself proudly.
   I really don't know what it could have been. I've never heard a little girl grunting so loudly when taking a shit before. Usually that sort of thing is the realm of old men.
   I have, on occasion, been to the casino near where I live and its the one thing that I've noticed that sets it apart from a lot of night time destinations. The number and sheer fervour of the sounds coming out of those toilets is beyond the imagination and better not heard.
   Oh if only my ears were virgin again.
   Maybe its the loss of cash, maybe its the alcohol, maybe its the giant steak dinners, I don't know, but going to the toilet in a casino seems to be a harrowing, distressing and painful experience for many.
   I'm thinking of getting a colostomy bag...either that or a catheter.
   The guy in the flat in front of mine a year or so ago had a colostomy bag. I know this because he used to take great joy in showing it to me. He'd open up his shorts and say things like, "oh oh...almost full again."
   The sight of the colostomy bag was bad enough, but he had a hernia smuggled away down there as well. Do you know what that looks like? Its like a tennis ball sized lump of flesh that hangs from your stomach. And don't get me started on the smell...
   Eventually he moved out. Seems he took a fall and was laying on the floor of his flat for 4 days in his own filth, calling out to me for help as I went to and fro from my door. Being a modern bear, I always had my headphones on and so never heard a thing. Well...that's what I told his family.
   I really don't like that smell and like I said, I can't even talk about toilet stuff without wanting to gag.
   STAY FILTHY!