Tuesday, October 06, 2009

Malkmoosa’s Revenge

For the sake of posterity t'would be remiss not to disclose my recent volcanic bought of gastronomical disorder that erupted on the eve of the gold-shitter himself's visit, Stevie M and the Jicks rocking our shores. I shriveled up like a shrink-wrapped twinkie on a bonfire, a human stain boogying down like a diarrheic clown in Melbourne and then on to Adelaide subsisting on dry biscuits and the odd cookie crumb. We fled South Australia for Port Campbell in a robust rental the day after.

Anything less than muscular than the Henry Ford Falcon and we would have hydroplaned into a ditch as the rain was operating at plague proportions. I drove the leg that got us way off-track, but op shop serendipity came a-calling and I wouldn’t have procured a beautiful-fitting jacket and shirt without taking a wrong turn to that remote outpost.

On Sunday me and my new jacket, now freshly dry cleaned, got shat on big-time by a seagull and this is after I spent three hours waiting to get into the Dali thing — I mean who waits three hours to get in to anything anymore? If I had known it was going to take that long I would have walked. I’m sort of happy I stuck around, I only wish I had brought something to read. Three hours is a long time to be alone with your thoughts.

- photos de campo

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