A long time ago, I used to flat with people.

I hated flatting.

Almost as much as I hated having to drive out to the woods to bury the bodies of my flatmates.

Over here, everyone knows that if you want to commit suicide, or get rid of a corpse, then you have to drive out to the woods out west Auckland.
But the main problem with a secluded bush burial is that there are just so many damn tree roots and that makes for hard digging. Especially when you consider that you have to bury a body deep enough so that the coyotes don't dig them up again.

I was reminded of that this weekend when I had to dig a big hole at home to expose a sewer pipe to allow for a second toilet to be installed as part of our renovations.

The hole was started on Friday afternoon and finished yesterday. How deep is it? Let's just say I can hear British voices at the other end going “Wot's all this then?”.

But it was good therapy. When you're digging a hole, you shut out all other thoughts and just focus on one thought: I just want this fucking hole finished already!

It's very Zen.

Anyway.

My point is that I now have this bloody great big hole, but later this week I will have to undig the hole again. This would be made easier if I had a body or two to go in the hole and lessen the need for me to put quite so much soil back in.

But I have no bodies. No one has pissed me off so far this week.

But then, I guess it is only Sunday evening.

So I guess, what I'm saying is, I have a hole. If you have a body or two that you want to dispose of, then I can probably help out.

You don't mention my illegal second toilet, and I won't mention your illegal undertaking.

;)

You have my g-mail address.

The poker (heh) night went great. I had fun and won a few thousand imaginary dollars.

Then yesterday D-Missus' dad suggested she put a couple of $5 bets on a horse he co-owns.

My supernatural spidey senses started tingling, and I said “No. Make it $10”.

The horse won easily, at what turned out to be 17-1 odds.

Curse my special powers! Why didn't they tell me to put $1,000 on it!

There will never be odds like that on that horse again. 17-1 was most unusual, considering it also won its last race, against tough opponents.

We split the cash and put it towards various funds. But we both got a hundred bucks each to play with. This is fantastic, seeing as my weekly pocket money is normally no more than 50 cents. Minus tax.

D-Missus: “So what are you going to spend your cut on?”

D-Man: “Dunno. Hookers, I guess.”

D-Missus: “How far will that get you.”

D-Man: “You know, I don't really have any idea. Depends whether we're talking High Class, or just some Back Alley Crack Whore, I guess. But I expect it should at least get me laid.”

D-Missus: “Really?”

D-Man: “Hmmm. Now I'm not really so sure. I wonder if there's some sort of help line I can call to find out. What's the number for Telecom directory? But… well, at least a blow job, or two. Surely?”

D-Missus: “Maybe your money would go further if you just opted for hand jobs.”

D-Man: “Hand jobs? Pssshhh! What a waste of money that would be. I can stay home with my own hands for free!”

D-Missus: “Ha. If you were a little more flexible, you'd be able to save on the blowjobs too!”

Sick woman.

But she has a good point.

Hmmmm…

If memory serves me right …. That was inspired by a day at the Royal Ascot races in England, which ended with a stolen bottle of red wine, and someone – surprisingly, NOT me – throwing up all over the train toilets.

This poem was also born on that outing.

I just won this award from the Podcrapular podcast.

I guess this means that I've done something crap-worthy of getting mentioned on their brilliant weekly audiopost.

(You're already a regular listener too, right?)

I'm not sure what I won the award for yet, though.

That's because even though the time-zone metric-system hemispherical difference thing puts New Zealand 10-years ahead of the rest of the world, our telecommunications companies SUCK, so I'm still on dialup.

And what that means is that in order to get on to the internet, I have to go to a homing penguin company, who then attach the string and can that serves as one end of my phone line to a penguin, and the cute little critter then swims to Australia, where someone at the other end will plug my line into the internet.

So downloading stuff like audioposts takes time. Especially, if like happened today, my courier penguin got attacked by a leopard seal, meaning the stupid internet only gave me the first 24.31 minutes of the 50mb audiopost.

So I now have to arrange for another courier penguin to brave the world's wild waters to hear dynamic duo Golf Widow and Andy Martello talk about me on their podcast.