source: sydney morning herald

Woman bogged down in bathroom for two years
March 13, 2008 - 8:36AM

US authorities are considering charges in the bizarre case of a woman who sat on her boyfriend’s toilet for two years - so long that her body was stuck to the seat by the time the boyfriend finally called police.

Ness County Sheriff Bryan Whipple, in Wichita, Kansas, said it appeared the 35-year-old woman’s skin had grown around the seat.

She initially refused emergency medical services but was finally convinced by responders and her boyfriend that she needed to be checked out at a hospital.

“We pried the toilet seat off with a pry bar and the seat went with her to the hospital,” Whipple said. “The hospital removed it.”

Whipple said investigators planned to present their report on Wednesday to the county attorney, who will determine whether any charges should be filed against the woman’s 36-year-old boyfriend.

“She was not glued. She was not tied. She was just physically stuck by her body,” Whipple said. “It is hard to imagine … I still have a hard time imagining it myself.”

The boyfriend told investigators he brought the woman food and water, and asked her every day to come out of the bathroom.

“And her reply would be, ‘Maybe tomorrow,’ ” Whipple said. “According to him, she did not want to leave the bathroom.”

The boyfriend called police on February 27 to report that “there was something wrong with his girlfriend”, Whipple said, adding that he did not explain why it took him two years to call.

Police found the clothed woman sitting on the toilet, her sweat pants down to her mid-thigh. She was “somewhat disoriented” and her legs looked as if they had atrophied, Whipple said.

“She said that she didn’t need any help, that she was OK and did not want to leave,” he said.

She was reported in fair condition at a hospital in Wichita, about 150 miles south-east of Ness City.

Whipple said she had refused to co-operate with medical providers or law enforcement investigators.

Authorities said they did not know if she was mentally or physically disabled.

Police have declined to release the couple’s names, but the house where authorities say the incident happened is listed in public records as the residence of Kory McFarren. No one answered his home phone number.

The case has been the buzz of Ness City, said James Ellis, a neighbour.

“I don’t think anybody can make any sense out of it,” he said.

Ellis said he had known the woman since she was a child but that he had not seen her for at least six years.

He said she had a tough childhood after her mother died at a young age and apparently was usually kept inside the house as she grew up. At one time the woman worked for a long-term care facility, he said, but he did not know what kind of work she did there.

“It really doesn’t surprise me,” Ellis said. “What surprises me is somebody wasn’t called in a bit earlier.”

It takes a sensational poo story to wake this hibernating beast, and a sensational poo story is what we have here.

The mind boggles after reading that story and so many questions fill my head. Bleeding-edge queries like: How many sandwiches does it take to push a turd out? Did she try “metamucil“? Has she swallowed a plastic fork whole that has now gone all horizontal? At what point do you give up and say “hey, I’ll drop off the kids later!”? Is this like an obsessive compulsive attempt at the “two week challenge“? And of course, the most obvious question: “is this sheila the full can of coke?”

The answer to the last one is a resounding no. Her boyfriend must also be a sandwich shy of a picnic. That or he just really relished the “me time”.

The only thing this story was missing was a reference to a nipple, but I’ll give it half points for repetitive quotes from Sherriff Whipple.

I’m not really sure what else to say… I am without speech… but I will admit that I do feel slightly jipped about the fact that I was proud of the efforts I could put in with a book in there til my legs went to sleep as a whipper snapper… Now I know the truth: that was nothing.

I’ve always been fascinated by tattoos. I guess they are just one of those things, you either are into them or you are not. So, naturally - given my fascination, over the years I’ve picked up a couple along the way… I’ve always been very thoughtful about each tattoo I’ve had done, on average I’d say that I’d considered a design and where I’d like it to be located for no less than 12 months prior to getting it etched in, usually 24.
Some might think you should be a little more spontaneous in life, but I figure I’m still going to be wearing it in 50 years, so I’d better be sure about my choice(s).
This has always been a good policy, as I have thought about designs to get in the past, that I ended up decided against and I am incredibly glad that I didn’t get now. But, as they say: hindsight is always 20/20.

In addition to being careful about what you want to get and where you want to get it, you need to ch-ch-choose your artist very, very carefully. The topics of hygiene and sterility are paramount. You do not want to contract a blood-born virus such as Hep. You do not want to develop a skin infection. Both can effect your ongoing livelihood, or even your ability to live. Luckily, in Australia there are high standards to be maintained. However, the onus is still on you to assess the situation. I have walked out of tattoo parlours before because they didn’t quite meet my mental standard, and I am glad for it. I am infection free.

The other risk, albeit a slightly lesser risk in my mind due to its level of impact, is that of the artistry involved. There is always a gamble involved if you don’t know a gun artist or if you switch artists/parlours frequently.
I have been lucky. Each of my tats has been well executed. With the exception of one home-job of a southern cross, where I needed to remove a star manually as it was placed in the wrong spot and then get a tattoo parlour to touch it up overall.

Not everyone has the same luck with the artistry, as demonstrated by this Cats fan:

Neville, the fan, paid $150 in Phuket for the tattoo artist to spectacularly Phuk-et-up. Not only does the final G in Geelong look like a busted arsehole, the artist got hopelessly Bill Murray’d (read: lost in translation) by including Neville’s instructions on which tattoo goes where: hence the “right arm” tag, which incidentally reads “left arm” on the opposing shoulder - but hey, at least he got the sides correct.

The most spectacular Phuk-up of all was the artists misinterpretation of “Day Premiers 2007″ as “Gay Premiers 2007″. This would, no doubt, amuse the hordes of Rugby League fans Australia-wide without end.
Hell, it’s tickling me sideways and I actually love AFL. (Hmm, even that statement sounds “gay” now. Thanks Neville).

Poor old Nev.

Who is Robert Stewart? A reasonable and enlightening question that you might ask.
One could describe Mr Stewart as a “cycling enthusiast”. Plenty of people out there love to have themselves a good ride on a bike but I’d wager a guess that not so many love it as much as our mate Bobby.

Mr Stewart, 51, has recently been awarded a three year probation by the Scottish legal system for being caught in the act of attempting to have steamy, sordid sex with his bicycle. Incidentally, this also earned him a place in the Sexual Offenders Register - because we all know how emotionally traumatic it is for a bicycle to continue to be shoved up a fat bastard’s rectal-region post rape.
We’ll call it rape because I am pretty sure the bicycle did not have the prerequisite parts required to voice consent, and given the fact Mr Stewart has to turn to a bicycle for pleasure, we have to assume he’s got a head on him like a sack full of busted arseholes - thereby even making implied consent through a quick nod of the handlebars quite unlikely.

Spare a thought for the cleaners of the Aberley House Hostel in Ayr, as it was they who intruded on Mr Stewart as he humped away. I was going to write “dry humped” but then I might be making things up… for all we know there was a fair whack (no puns intended, but they work) of chain grease involved.

Now, the sheriff was quoted as saying:

“In almost four decades in the law I thought I had come across every perversion known to mankind, but this is a new one on me. I have never heard of a ‘cycle-sexualist’.”

And I have to agree. I have known some perverts in my time, for example, I remember a kid at school used to talk about how he would wank his dog, because “his dog really liked it”. Personally, I don’t think the dog was the only one who liked it. Dirty bastard. But I have never heard of someone shagging a bike before.
In fact, I want more detail on the whole sordid affair… seriously, who shags a bike? How is it even possible? Has anyone here ever got their finger caught in the spokes before? How about a jammed body part in the chain? I’ve done those and by god I knew about it, so the last appendage I own that would go near a bike is my beloved, treasured sausage.

Wonder if Mr Stewart also has a bit of a thing going for skateboards? Surely the deck would at least function as a good testicular exfoliation device… and, it would be doubly appropriate, as it is obvious Mr Stewart loves a good overdose of “grip”.

Sexism is one of those taboo’s that everyone subscribes to. Of course it is usually meant in a joking manner or as a means to vent… but even the most staunch anti-sexist girls I know are still prone to blurting out “stupid men” here and there… which leads me to think that perhaps there is an inherent element of hypocrisy in the world of “identifying sexism”.

I’m sure you’ve all received that classic email concerning female driving. Some of the images in that are simply beyond my comprehension of how someone, anyone, regardless of gender, age, ethnic heritage, etc etc, could actually be such a shithouse driver. I am pretty sure that if you had found your drivers licence hidden in the bottom of a corn-flakes box you would be more skilled behind the wheel than those individuals. Seriously, a cat could do a better job and you’d be flat out like a lizard drinking trying to find any means to justify such demonstrations of where the concept of the driving test falls short.
I would include some imagery from that email here, but I don’t have the time to dig through the archives.

Anyway, I was delighted to find on Nine MSN, courtesy of my favourite Geordie and work colleague, a short list of the most sexist comments of 2007, titled the Ernies.

The Ernies are in their 15th year and are a reasonably undesirable award for the most sexist comment made in the public arena, as voted by women. (Food for Thought: Is this not in itself sexist?)

The gold-winning nomination is pretty much a stereotypical insight into the mind of someone living in the past, way-way-way in the past, where Senator Bill Heffernan stated that the deputy leader of the opposition, Julia Gillard, was “deliberately barren” and unfit for leadership.

I am not going to dissect that statement, but instead give you the two that, for differing reasons, I enjoyed the most:

Warwick Capper: Ex-AFL player (or “legend” if you ask him).
Capper is well known for sporting incredibly, ridiculously, mind-boggling-ly tight shorts. Which, in itself, logically detracts from the likelihood of there being any truth to the following statement, which won him the “Sport Ernie”, commenting on Darren Jolly’s choice to attend the birth of his child over playing in an AFL final:

“Expectant father Darren Jolly needs to get his priorities in order. The birth of your first child is special, but if you are a machine like me, there’s more children to be had than premierships.”

and, my favourite, for its complete and utter disregard for any form of decency and its outrageous cheek in any context;

Gordon Wood: Former driver of the late, disgraced stock-market-guru, Rene Rivkin.
Gordy-Pordy-Pudding-and-Pie made all the girls cry, particularly when he made the highly unorthodox query to a morgue attendant whilst formally identifying the body of his deceased girlfriend, Caroline Byrne:

“Do you mind if I look at her tits?”

That is SO wrong I cannot stop cacking myself over it.

I have a personal nomination. I was playing a gig a few weeks back and some guy came up to me and started babbling something about wanting K and I to play a particular tune.. I am unsure what he was requesting we play because I was distracted by his teeth. More accurately, his lack of them.
He had about three teeth along the top of his mouth and the three remaining battlers were not faring well. I remember thinking to myself how convenient it would be to consume corn off the cob with those gnashers.

It was about this stage that a behemoth potato arrived beside him, sporting a blonde-tipped perm (read: blood-orange blobs in a sea of dangerous frizz), and started cackling something.
At first I thought she was in the heaves of hocking up enough lung-butter to fill an average sized bucket, but then I realised she was actually requesting a song (and perhaps finding it a little amusing?) - she just had a voice that was a cross between that of a fairy tale witch and that of a male anchorman. Yes, it was a classy establishment we were playing in.
While this patron was cackling out her request the bloke turned to me and said:

“dun worry about what that c__t wants. Jesus. 27 years I’ve been wiv dat bitch. I could’ve bloody killed her and done less time”.

THAT, to me, wins the 2007 Ernie. What a prick.

What about you? Do you have any nominations?

Yeah, so, I’m alive. Not that you’d know it from visiting here before, well, right now… Hope you don’t have allergies to dust: I last posted a blog up in MAY!
Excuse ME!! Can you please tell me where this year has gone? It feels like 5 minutes has passed, not 5 months!! Most of you have probably developed some form of other interest and disappeared, such is the transient nature of the blogger. (Bloggers really are the gypsies of the Internet). Hopefully a few of you are still lurking out there and updating your sites. Mental Note: make a mental note to visit other people’s blogs. (Yes, I need a mental note to take a mental note about a mental note. Mental).

Lots has happened in this time… I’ve had relationships end and new ones begin, strengthened my previously flimsy CV with certifications, played many gigs, drank too much, partied too hard, left myspace for facebook, missed having our 200,000th visit to this blog, had several riotous times and had more of a ball than a female horse on a stud farm. Basically, I’ve had more fun than a Dwarf with a vacuum cleaner…..
(To put that final statement in context:)

A dwarf performer at the Edinburgh fringe festival had to be rushed to hospital after his penis got stuck to a vacuum cleaner… (read more)

Despite all of that, I’ve missed chatting with you lovely pumpkins. A lot.

The weather is finally warming up down under, and I am happy to report we can now get back in the water without fear of turning our walnuts into freeze-dried-peas. I am the first to acknowledge that that is a win for all involved.

Sunday morning we took Clark-eyes (tug)boat down to “devil’s corner” and put it through its paces… I struggled on the ski’s big-time, as demonstrated by this shot:

But I’m new to skiing.
I feel very “at home” on a kneeboard. (Warning: Bullshit alert).

Here is some footage from the day, to the tones of “Alice in Chains”. Personally, I think mid-90’s grunge is underrated. The focus is always on Nirvana and not enough focus on some of the other classic groups of the time: soundgarden, stone temple pilots, alice in chains etc.. But I digress - just watch the video.

Anyhoo sea-biscuits, hope all are well - I’ll try to be more frequent with my postings!

Somehow this site has undergone a transitional phase. From constantly wafting around the topic of the fart, to recently take a firm grip on the topic of, well.. you know.

I find myself questioning if this is indeed something to be proud of - not that the first topic is either, I suppose.
In my defence, I should state live in a fairly male-oriented, (and grossly under-sexed), environment, where there honestly are repetitive strokes of genius when it comes to the double entendre. Maybe that has some influence.. or maybe it’s just a big, fat coincidence.

The problem at my house is that there just isn’t much privacy. No, I’m not referring to the topic at hand - so to speak - but, instead, of how our conversations must carry while we loll about on lie-lows in the pool, conversing intellectually on all matters concerning the boob. Or our chatter to each other as we lift weights of an afternoon and discuss how all this testosterone-inducing activity was making it, well, really hard to concentrate on our everyday activities.
And while I might have never spent so much time laughing, (those of you who know K & Frank well will understand their incredible quick wit and dry humour), I can’t help but wonder exactly how much of our so-called private lives are really all that private. Don’t get me wrong… we’re not standing there screaming “jizz” at the top of our lungs, well - not often, but instead, we’re just chatting amongst ourselves as you would normally: you know, like prepubescent school boys giggling and cracking incredibly well-thought out gags (read: “one liners” carbon dated to 1683BC) concerning the ladies undergarment section of the K-Mart catalogue… Only minus the cute blazers and cherub-like looks and, instead, all mid-to-late 20’s and grown-up(ish). Yes - Normal. (Please be normal!)

It’s just that normally you can’t hear the neighbours chatting over the clinking sounds of their spoons in their breakfast bowls, while you struggle to contain the 7am Sunday-morning-beast inside you that is: your whole lower intestine after 3 nights in a row on the turps, with a dodgy service-station meat pie (which the rude, pimply, half-asleep late-teen manning the counter has only managed to semi-defrost and partially heat the outer crust of) stuffed in the gob at 3am - as you squirm, precariously perched on the edge of the toilet seat, bracing for an ethanol-rich explosion and wondering how high into the atmosphere you will travel, trailing fire behind you like a rocket, before you loose consciousness from the lack of oxygen available to breathe… (probably about 2 centimetres).
That’s the level of privacy we have… and so you begin to question how much of your life you censor for the neighbours and how much of it you just have to live for you. Besides, when you have to go, you have to go - what can you do?
But then, maybe I am just spoiled and used to slightly more sound-proof housing… Or maybe I am just exaggerating how much we reference tugboat willie… hmm.. maybe not!
I wonder if things like privacy even exist for most people living in New York? I don’t know, I haven’t been. Customs say it’s my fleas - that I need a permit to bring a Circus to town, but I don’t believe them - I think someone’s telling porkies.

Anyway, I’ve gone stupid. Wild tangent(s). All I meant to do was post the title: Funny! Then thank EC for this:

| click to enlarge |

Hello Possums. The mind is an amazing thing - we subconsciously rearrange letters in our head, or censor unnecessary words, to help us understand what it is we are reading. Our minds do all this without us knowing we are doing it.

I have two slightly differing examples:

On the weekend we went and
and had waaaaay too many drinks
with one of our mates who had
had recently come to visit us on the coast.

and;

We can rearrnge, or msispell, as mnay wrods as we liek in a sentnece, and as long as the frist and last lettres of the wrod are accuarte, our mnids will tranlsate for us.

“Fascinating stuff, dickhead - why are you telling us this?” I hear you ask… Well, if you’re not careful what you click on when surfing the web, it is pretty easy to to loose the integrity of your passwords.

I’ve been spurred to write this after watching a few accounts on myspace.com, belonging to friends, be infiltrated. Their accounts are now being used to post spam to inboxes and bulletin boards in the system.

Some of you are on my friends list on myspace… and will have received this from me in a bulletin, apologies for the replication. But I wanted to post this here so that people that aren’t connected to me on myspace, also get the information.

So, I’ve had a bit of a look around at the stuff being posted by the spammers i.e. the links involved, page code etc… and you guys need to be on the lookout for “phishers“.

Essentially, some smarty-pants out there are purchasing/setting up domains/subdomains like: http://login.rnyspace.com, and then they replicate the code on the “you must be logged in to do that” page that myspace spits out.
This is, for the record, insultingly easy to do - I just did it in under 2 minutes, check it out.

So, at first glance you think you are inputting your details to the usual myspace login, but reality is you are giving the phisher’s your username and password for them to access and utilise your account.

Read that url above again, it isn’t login.myspace.com, it is:

login.r nyspace.com

So, my advice to you, if you have gone and clicked one of those things, or anything similar recently, is: change your password.

Now, most people are lazy and use one password for all their accounts, myspace, email etc etc.. so, remember these guys also have your email account now from the required/normal myspace login fields - so change that password too… your identity is only as secure as your password. Make it a strong one.

Want tips on a strong password - then mail me and I’ll give you some guidelines.

There are two facts in life that you cannot deny. Firstly, many of you pleasure yourself in the shower. (I can only hope that those of you who live in close living arrangements have curtains). Secondly, many of you pleasure yourself in the shower.
There’s nothing wrong with that. Unless, of course, you are in share-housing - in which case it is probably more than a little bit disturbing to your flatmates. You probably circumvent this by telling them how lucky they are to share a shower with your spunk…. but my gut tells me that will be an argument that will take some time to win.

In our modern day and age, people are always looking to new inventions and technology to “kill two birds with one stone”. You want to own clean and satisfied junk? Then apparently this is the purchase for you:

I really want to purchase this for GG, considering she has just had a birthday. However, there is one fundamental flaw with that idea, she is without wang. Oh no.
Either way, it seems the old bath-time rubber ducky is a thing of the past. The future is here: the rubber fucky.

Now.. I had to laugh the other night when 20-to-1 showed the top 20 political blunders, and right up there was Mr George Dubbyah. I’ve always been a massive, massive fan of bushorchimp.com (seriously, I’ve never seen such a look alike. ever), but I’ve never really had much opportunity to witness Bush’s truly fantastic public speaking skills. The man could not get more tongue tied if he tried. Actually, he probably could. Which is even scarier.
But that’s the problem with having a voluntary vote… people just can’t be arsed. I know I would probably be tempted to say “fuck it” if voting were not compulsory here in Australia. More people voted in America Idol than in the election, and that blows my mind.

Something else blew my mind today, and I have to thank the one and only gutterball gertie for sending me through the link, but seriously…

US baby gets gun permit
He can barely walk or talk, but 11-month-old “Bubba” Ludwig is already a fully paid up member of America’s firearms fraternity, with a 12-gauge Beretta shotgun and a gun permit to his name.

The shotgun was a gift from his grandfather who bought it as an heirloom for his grandson when the infant was just two-weeks-old.

The gun permit came courtesy of the Illinois state authorities last month.

Even in a country with fervent gun advocates, news of an infant owning a gun has made headlines in US newspapers.

The toddler’s father, also named Howard Ludwig, applied for a Firearm Owner’s Identification Card (FOID) for his son, never imagining that he would actually get one.

“I filled in the form, saying he was two feet, three inches, 20 pounds, and I included a photo of him,” said Mr Ludwig, who is a columnist for the Daily Southtown, a suburban Chicago newspaper.

The 30-year-old also had his son “sign” the application form, by putting a pen in his hand and letting him write a squiggle on the paper.

“I was expecting to get a letter back telling me I was an idiot. So when I got his FOID card (permit) back I was shocked. I couldn’t believe it.”

In Illinois, all firearms owners must apply for a permit, or FOID, in order to legally own a firearm or ammunition but there are no age restrictions on applicants, although anyone under 21 has to get the written consent of a parent or legal guardian, according to the Illinois State Police website.

For now, the shotgun is under lock and key at the home of Howard Ludwig senior.

Grandpa Ludwig plans to keep the shotgun under wraps until “Bubba” or Howard David Ludwig gets to be a teenager, at which point he plans to take the boy out trap hunting, family members said.

source: abc.net.au

Reminds me of all the “Virginia Tech” jokes that hit my inbox straight after the massacre, but something is telling me it is still too soon. Patience precious.

A weekend can teach you a lot of things. For example, I learnt on the weekend that pigs are incredibly strong and horny from a very early age. (This will be explained).

On the weekend K and I played a gig in Imbil, at the reception for the wedding of two friends. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a bad wedding. This was no exception. Set on the family farm, the ceremony and setting were picturesque, the people were great and the beer flowed. (and flowed, and flowed…)
The ceremony and reception were held in the one place, with marquee’s set up across the fields for different areas. One was set up for the speeches, one was set up for K & I (the band), there was an outdoor bar and the ceremony seating/aisle was somewhere in the middle.
Deer antler decorated the tables and the bull-bars of the utes. The groomsmen arrived on 4-wheel motor bikes and a black piglet was part of the bridal party. Yes, it was very rural. You could almost say “Deliverance Country”, but that would be unfair, as the people involved were tops and not in the slightest bit *insert banjo riff*.

The day started well. K and I arrived early and made the best effort we could to blow every fuse on the property by plugging as many power-boards into each other as we could. But hey, what is a gig without power? Answer: quiet.
Pretty soon the wedding got underway. I stood at the very back of the aisle to check that the minister’s microphone had enough volume to carry his words to those gathered when I discovered that the piglet really liked me. A lot. The piglet had already done it’s bit for the day, it lead the bridal party down the aisle, (seriously), and then had set about chewing the toes of as many people as it could.

Then the piglet found me. From the piggies perspective, it was love at first sight. The wind swirled the leaves on the ground. The very earth itself seemed to find a heart-beat and you could almost hear Lionel Ritchie crooning “Endless Love”, each individual note riding the whispering breeze.

From my perspective, standing at the back of the aisle, I heard a grunting noise… and looked down to see one very excited piglet sniffing my leg. I obviously passed the “sex-able” test, as it began to mount my right leg (*kick*) then left leg (*kick*) then right leg (*kick*).. I glanced up to see the group at the back of the wedding, local farming lads of the age of 21-ish, absolutely creasing themselves at the sight.
“I know!”, I thought, “if I go for a walk the pig will loose interest”. So, I went for a stroll towards the marquee where we had our music equipment set up. Unfortunately, the piglet wouldn’t take no for an answer and ran after me, attempting to mount me every step I took while letting out some seriously disgruntled squeals. I again began the “get the fuck off my leg, pig” dance behind the band equipment. Unfortunately, my lack of foresight came to the fray. We had set the band up to the left of the aisle. Read: the entire guest-list for the wedding was now watching me get mounted by a toey piglet while the couple were getting into their vowels.

Oh no.

This thing was about 1.5 foot from head to tail and as strong as Hercules. It did not want to leave my leg (who’d blame it, what pins!!) and I couldn’t push it far enough away to have any sort of effect. Like a truly (un)civilised human, I realised the only option was to inflict pain. Pigs are incredibly smart creatures, I figured that it would get the idea… So, I applied a vice-like grip to its neck and gave it all I had. The pig gave me a “oh… that’s right, no means no” look and disappeared to not come near me again for the rest of the night.
Despite the porcine raping of both my legs (and the subsequent muddy trotter stains all over my slacks. For the record, trotter stains only), I felt like I’d had a minor win. However, the reality was: the pig had won the battle: the popping of my cherry was a hot topic amongst attendees for the rest of the evening.

My only saving grace was that K was too busy managing the music for the ceremony to work the camera.

The gig was a success. Not only did the bridesmaids have enough nip-slips in their satin attire to fill my nipple quota for the next six months, but despite the pouring rain, the guys and girls danced their little hearts out in the wet and mud that was “the open”. By the end of the night, I was tanked enough to get in on the action dancing away in the middle of the dance-floor, while playing the guitar in the pouring rain to the song “Laid” by James. (This was a decision I came to regret yesterday when I cleaned my equipment on returning to the coast).
The beauty of it is, that as a band member, that wasn’t inappropriate…. it was all creating atmosphere and having fun. The polar-opposite of this was the barman, hired to pour the drinks for the night. I need to stress “hired” - as in, not a friend helping out, but someone employed.
Not only was he the first to pass out, but he kept leaving the bar (which meant us punters were responsible for getting our own drinks - always dangerous, especially at a wedding) and his shirt just wouldn’t stay on his body. I don’t know, maybe he is sporting some kind of allergy to cotton… Either way, the young buck certainly knew how to write himself off. I saw him passed out in multiple locations. Mostly near the parents of the bride. Good form.
At about 2am a blood-curdling squeal echoed across the car-park, and we raced over to find an intoxicated bridesmaid had opened her car to climb in and sleep, only to discover the bar-man, whom she didn’t know from a bar of soap, had already broken into the car and passed out in the back seat, hands firmly planted between his legs… physically and mentally non-responsive.

Shortly after this, K and I decided the time was nigh for testing the theory of “Cow Tipping”.
Unfortunately, these cows were night-owls and we couldn’t get close enough to any of them to give it a go. It could have been how quiet and subtle our approach was, in the pitch black, through a smorgasbord of cow-pats and after a solid 12 hours of drinking… but the tipping was a failure. Rest assured I will complete this mission at a future time and report the findings.

There is sooo much more I could say, but to describe it in written format would take a novel, so I’ll just tell those of you I see IRL face-to-face, but I will say that the weekend of stories reached a climax, pun intended, when we walked in the front door of our house on Sunday morning to see a friend who has been having stay with us (from interstate) a few days. He’s been sleeping in the living room, and the first thing we saw was him in this position:

| click to enlarge |

Hahaha. It doesn’t matter whether or not the magazine was planted for the photograph, as the accused alleges. Once a picture is on the internet it simply becomes “fact”.

I feel rusty today… but the weekend was worth it in every way.