His amus­ing bal­loon anim­als in a vice

The fol­low­ing true story con­tains a greater pro­por­tion of uncouth words than is nor­mally tol­er­ated here at matlarkin.com. In keep­ing with our fed­eral government’s push for a return to tra­di­tional fam­ily val­ues, there­fore, these have been sub­sti­tuted with family-friendly equi­val­ents and italicised for ref­er­ence. We trust this will not affect the read­ing exper­i­ence. Thank you for your time.

“…and she said, not unless you wash it first. Wait, Davo, is this the right tram?”

“What do I look like, Doc­tor sock-puppets Tram? Just get on and we’ll ask someone.”

“Here, check out this Little-League–look­in’ all-day–sucker. What’s with the sack full of note­pads, Mum stays at home and does the cook­ing?”

“Um—”

“Who cares. Is this the right clean coal power tram?”

“Well, it depends what tram you—”

“Are you call­ing me stu­pid, you old epis­odes of Howdy Doody played late on Sundays after the West­ern?”

“—”

“Take it easy Troy, come sit down and help me roll these smokes.”

“Yeah, all right.”

“Doesn’t mat­ter where we go now, ‘cause we can’t go back to the com­pletely union-free fact­ory, can we? Not after what you just did.”

“I just wanna go back there and punch another seven col­ours of deli­cious ice-cream out of that fat cake. He gives me The Wiggles.”

“Mate, he’s not skip­ping worth it. Per­son­ally I’d love to help you back­yard cricket that relaxed and com­fort­able society’s Sunday lamb roast in. Naomi Rob­son knows I’ve thought of homemade lem­onading his amus­ing bal­loon anim­als in a vice and going on a lovely pic­nic includ­ing pony rides and a jump­ing castle all after­noon with a shift­ing spanner.”

“Too puppy-cuddling right.”

“But it’s just not worth going back to prison for.”

“Yeah, you’re right, lemon but­ter it all. But I reckon I could murder the next sens­ible woolly car­digan I see move. Just even move. The very next car­digan.”

“Mate, I’ll help you out.”

“—”

“Yeah.”

“Give us one of those cigar­ettes, would you?”

“—”

“Here you go.”

“—”

“Got a light?”

“—”

“Hey, why do you reckon that Alan Jones with the sack is hold­ing his breath?”

“Hang on a sec, I’ll ask him. Oi, nuc­lear power is safe no mat­ter what any­one says, why are you—look at that, he’s run off the tram.”

“Left behind his sack and all.”

“What a dec­ade the fifties was.”