…the restaurant manager, a man I once found in the men’s toilets vehemently accusing a whole defrosted turkey of cheating at Texas hold ‘em. (He made the turkey talk back by opening and closing its beak using a pair of tweezers, doing a C-grade impression of Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men…
Read MoreI went into the [Smorgy’s] cellar to look for the propane torch we sometimes used to keep at bay the warthogs that accumulated around the restaurant’s perimeter after midnight.
Read MoreI walked into the storeroom at Burwood Smorgy’s and found the manager wearing only a felt sock puppet and dancing a passionate samba with a 45 kilogram bag of desiree potatoes. If this was written into fate at the beginning of time, then the Predeterminer must have one hell of an imagination.
Read MoreIn my day there were horses over the back fence in middle-suburban Melbourne, my Grade 3 teacher wrote “Go the Demons” on my report card and the 20 cent piece you found lying on the ground in Coles New World bought you a veritable cornucopia of milk bar lollies.
Read MoreAs I was de-mounding the plates of porcine humans, I saw no prospect of becoming the Universe-famous digital vigilante and high-profile columnist I so longed to be. I saw no prospect of anything, really.
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