The Daily Wit part deux

1. the miracles of the credit card
2. the bulls the bears and the skunks
3. why did the zombie cross the road
4. 1001 ways to buy shampoo
5. should relationships have a black box of post-destruction feedback?
6. chemical castration
7. baby oil
8. Chicago style pizza
9. pudding
10. motorcycle jumps
11. sand in your bathing suit
12. stroking your ferret
13. packing tape
14. the subtle difference between zucchini and cucumbers
15. charity

The list above is the latest literary challenge from the Daily Wit. Yet again I’ve lucked out has it fits in nicely with last weekend. It’s also quite cool because lots of people have been asking me what Cardiff is like and more specifically, where I live. Read on.

The sun was streaming through the kitchen windows of Rubbish Manor. Unsurprisingly, for a Saturday morning, I was nursing a monster hangover. The swingers’ party at the Clintons who live at number sixteen had turned into all nighter. Brad and Angelina had tried to do a deal with Mrs. Rubbish and I as per usual but quite frankly the pair of them are starting to worry me. I know Ange had popped out a few kids but the first time I ended up in bed with her was a real eye opener. When she opened the conversation by explaining the subtle difference between zucchini and cucumbers I knew I was in trouble. I’m no slouch in the trouser department but I might as well have stood in the Channel tunnel waving a chipolata.
Luckily Bill had shipped a load of beers in and the pair of us settled down for the ESPN Chicago sports evening extravaganza. Six hours of the bulls the bears and the skunks. I admitted to never hearing of the Chicago skunks which upset Hilary who reliably informed me they were Chicago’s premier Lacrosse team which she had once played for. They lost 26 – 0 to the Texan Torquemedas and absolutely stank. Not sure if that’s how they got their name and to be truthful, I didn’t give a fuck.
The last I could remember of the evening was Hilary placing a plate of Chicago style pizza in my lap and taking the opportunity to give my love spuds a swift tickle. Bill reliably informed me the toppings were Magic mushrooms, oysters and ketamine. I hazily recall talking with Jordan and Peter from number twenty two regarding should relationships have a black box of post-destruction feedback? Beyonce from number nine piped up that she had a black box and that was the end of that conversation.
The sound of Bob next doors girls playing in the garden stirred me from my daydreams. I glanced out of the kitchen window to see the three of them squirting each other with hose pipes. Peaches and Pixie were ganging up on the least known of the three sisters, Pudding Margarita Truck Stop. They noticed me watching and stopped to blow me a kiss. Their lithe young bodies in skin tight wet vests immediately made me think of life in jail and chemical castration. Don’t know why? If you laid out each dick they’d sucked, end to end, it would be long enough to build a safety rail around Antarctica. I blew them a kiss back and put the kettle on.
Bill and Hilary’s goodie bag they had given each guest as they left was by the kettle. I peered inside before spreading it over the kitchen table (a similar experience to what I had done with Ange a few hours before). Ten grammes of coke, a dozen strawberry flavoured condoms, love beads, one litre of baby oil and two invitations to a charity auction on behalf of Robbie Williams now his career was finally down the pan. I cut some coke with my Platinum Amex card and rolled the invite up for a quick snort. The miracles of the credit card, I thought. You can cut your drugs with them. You can spray them with lacquer and use them to get into any hotel room in the world with a magnetic lock. Bill had even told me a story that the US Government had issued all their foreign diplomats with worthless Royal Bank of Scotland ones in case they were posted to third world countries that had no toilet paper. I’ve never had that confirmed but I think someone might be able to.
The sound of the kettle boiling helped me focus on the task in hand. I opened the fridge door and groaned. No fucking milk again. What was Mrs. Rubbish doing with it all? I looked at the plywood and knew I should have paid extra to have Thor stand guard. He wouldn’t have let her nick all the milk.
I threw on a vest and tracksuit bottoms and slipped on a pair of Adidas Sambas to walk down to Madonna’s corner shop and sex emporium, satisfaction guaranteed or your money back. Pausing at the front gate to light a spliff I caught sight of something weird. Why did the zombie cross the road and start animatedly waving at me? I immediately reached an arm over my shoulder, just below my neck. Thank fuck I was packing. Tape was holding my Glock under my vest. I was just about to draw and blow the mother away when I realised it was that Posh bird from number two.
“Hi Victoria” I greeted her, “you’re looking well”.
“Hi snake hips, how’s it hanging?” she greeted me back.
“Yeah, I’m fine babes. Just nipping down the shop, you want anything?”
“No thanks, got to run” she replied and she actually did.
Fuck me, I thought, what’s her problem?
I watched her disappearing down the street at a rate of knots and turned to walk down to the shop. It was then I realised what had made Victoria flee for her life.
“Hi Paris, how are you love?” I asked through grimaced teeth.
“Hi Rubbish, watcha doing?” she enquired in a way that made me want to reach for my gun and do the whole world a favour.
“Why are you stroking your ferret?” I thought out loud, “Aren’t they vicious little fuckers?”
“It’s not a ferret” she implored, “It’s a pedigree Chihuahua. I bought it from Mr. Nixon at number thirty two”.
“Who, Dick?” I asked, “I hope you didn’t pay too much for it”?
“£97,000 grand but that’s cheap. Mr. Nixon assured me of that”.
I bet he fucking did I thought.
“What you doing today then Paris?” I asked in a small talk, take the hint and fuck off sort of way.
“I’m shooting a new TV programme. It’s called 1001 ways to buy shampoo and today I’m taking Daddy’s Lear Jet down to Tesco’s and paying in Kruggerands”.
“Well I won’t keep you then”, I interjected, seeing my opportunity to escape. “All the best”.
“See you Rubbish”, she whined.
“Lucky escape there Rubbish, you jammy bastard” a voice from high said.
I looked up to see Mr. Jagger the window cleaner polishing number tens bedroom windows.
“Yo Michael, how’s it going mate?”
Mick expertly slid down his ladder, reached over the garden gate and pinched my joint out of my mouth. He took a deep drag.
“Nice shit”, he spluttered.
"Where's Keef, Mick, I haven't seen him for a couple of days?"
"Jeez Rubbish, haven't you heard, that mad cat is in hospital".
"Yeah", I said, not really surprised, "What's he done?".
Mick took another drag and passed the spliff back to me. He savoured the taste for a second then went off on one of his rants which always brings a smile to my face. If there was any gossip then Mick knew it and boy, did he like to share it.
"You know the track at the back of the street, well Keefs down there totaly out of his head. He's had about fifteen Neptune's bollocks and five grammes of Thorazine and he's watching all these cool young cats going over the motorcycle jumps on their BMX bikes. So he goes home and gets his Kawazaki ZR Ninja and fires it up. The eye witness reports reckon he hit the first jump doing about 165 mph. They found his bike 400 yards away in a mangled wreck on the bank of the Taff. Keef washed up about thirty hours later in Swansea Bay. Over half the bones in his body are broken and they've got him drugged up on Haldol, Prolixin and Clozaril. He reckons he'll be back in work on Tuesday".
"Wow", was about all I could muster.
"Yeah wow", Mick continued, "You heard about Mr. Blunkett in number nineteen?".
"No Mick, what's he done?"
"Well, you know he's our MP?", I nodded and Mick continued, "He's only been sent to prison. He's been fiddling his expenses and he's only claimed for parachute lessons, a motorbike and a pair of binoculars. Six months he's got".
I mustered another "wow".
"Yeah and that old bat in number twelve".
"Mrs Thatcher", I offered,
"Yeah her, she's in hospital as well. Broke her arm whilst hanging out her washing. Word is something fell out of the sky and hit her. Could have been Keefs baffler so keep that under your hat because I've heard she's got friends in the BNP".
"You sure about that?" I asked.
"Well I haven't seen what hit her but Keefs baffler hasn't been found yet".
I shook my head and passed Mick the joint.
Mick took another big hit and went on.
"I went around that new birds house, you know, the one that's moved into the end house. Lady mental as fuck".
"Gaga", I interupted.
"Too fucking true she is Rubbish. Got me pissed on those cocktails, sand in your bathing suit I think they're called".
"Sand in your shorts I think you'll find they're called actually Mick".
"Yeah them, twenty seven of them I had. Absolutely wankered I was. Anyhow, she kept on asking me to poke her face so I did and then she flipped and started hitting shit out of me. Fucking crazy she is Rubbish".
By now I could feel my will to live ebbing out of every pore.
"Mick, I really need to jam mate, you have a good one".
Mick offered me the joint back but I declined. It was eight a.m. and I needed my pit. Fuck the milk I thought. As I headed back to the house I could hear Mick singing. It sounded like he was saying "I know they're only sausage rolls but I like them".
I couldn't agree more.