Let's Get This Party Started...Usch Usch Usch!

How the hell are you, man? Where on Earth do I start. It's been way too long between blogs; what will our fans think huh? I bet they're out there staying tuned for another dose of smut and diatribe from Down Under...
Didn't you turn thirty last time I posted, buddy? I hope you survived that transition and I hope you're soldiering on towards the middle ages where the rest of us have come to lay our weary heads and shrieking bones. Perhaps you don't feel much different to the twenties huh? Perhaps you're just in denial that you're an old fart now like the rest of us!
Who the hell said you're an adult when you turn 18 anyhow; it doesn't happen till thirty if you ask me and even then, it's hard to embrace the concept some days. Especially when you rock up to a two year old's birthday party with a pair of hot pink bunny rabbit's ears with sequins and a matching hot pink feather boa! That's right, I dressed our dear friend, Mel up like a playboy floosy in front of her latest lover (oops – sorry girlfriend, I honestly had no idea) although she did look mighty fine shaking that tail feather to ABBA's greatest hits. Every time I turned my head she was rolling in the hay with her gigolo – they were guzzling red wine like there was no tomorrow and feeding each other raspberry friands – who wouldda thought it was a little girl's birthday huh?
Meanwhile, Maddy Max was dangling a paper mache pig in the air while sugar obsessed children were bashing the poor thing over the head with a stick. I think they call this ritual 'Bust the Pinata' in Mexico – if only it was cocaine and tequila that spilled outta that poor piggy's snout!
There was no shortage of sunshine, sugar, animal costumes and good cheer – there wasn't even a single mosquito biting my cheeks or a single fly buzzing in my ears. Thankfully, none of them kiddies fell down the cliff and tumbled into the mighty Yarra and none of the adults drank too much booze and started throttling each other like they did when I was two. I was near ready to explode after my second slice of quiche, my third sausage roll and my fourth muffin. I disappeared to the loo for a brief choking stint when a chicken bone became lodged in my throat. Never mind, I don't think anyone noticed – they were too busy smearing chocolate over their faces, slurping lollipops and spilling soft drink down the front of their t shirts.
Yes, it was another splendid shindig, slapped together by the mother of all mothers – Ms Obedie, otherwise knows as Maddy Magoo. She certainly has the goodies, that gal from the wild west. The Collingwood farm hasn't seen a celebration of those proportions since Greta the wild pig spilled out 14 piglets in the pen last month. Thank God they weren't there to witness those kids publicly mutilating their paper mache protege!
It was back to work at the farm a few days later for this little piggy – shovelling piles of compost mixed with chicken poop, tearing stinging nettles out of the veggie patch and feeding branches of eucalyptus leaves to doe eyed, floppy eared goats. How did us humans get so darn fussy about what we consume? Those animals just eat what's put in front of them. They don't play with their food or send it back either. Can you believe, one of those cheeky chooks sneaked up from nowhere and literally snatched a blueberry muffin outta my hand while I was chomping away, savouring the last mouthful!
I requested to go on gardening duty after that and now I'm being watched over by a crazy old bird with as much patience as a brat with attention deficit disorder. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind crawling on my hands and knees in the dirt for hours on end, getting stung by bees, swooped by magpies and stalked by tiger snakes but I didn't appreciate being hounded by a hysterical woman who has no idea how to explain a task coherently. Maybe I did destroy last season's root vegetable crop but how the hell was I to know – all my vegetables come pre packaged at the local supermarket! The fact is, she is no good at delegating tasks, explaining herself clearly or controlling her temper. Granted, she's a kooky old bird, as entertaining as all heck but I just think she smoked too many of the herbs in that garden before she took on this gig.
Meanwhile I'm running across town on Wednesdays and Thursdays to do one half of my RMIT placement at a drug users organisation. I'm writing a feature article about the international drug scene for the upcoming issue of 'Whack magazine.' It's a creative, punky little number produced by drug users to give them a voice and a means of creative expression. It's an okay gig, aside from the fact it's a stuffy little shoe box of an office and the heating is always on, even though Spring has well and truly sprung. Half the staff are clearly affected by opiates of some description, the printer's always breaking down and it's got seriously slow speed Internet . That place is so damn stuffy, I can hardly breathe or keep my eyes open. I'm literally nodding off at the computer and it looks like I'm coming to work stoned outta my mind. Believe me, the lack of ventilation is enough to knock out the most hyperactive amphetamine addict.
Meanwhile, I got the Rave Safe chick, 'Purple' in the cubicle next door, blaring duff music from her last dance party – my head is thumping, my teeth are grinding, my fingers are bashing the keyboard, my pupils are dilated and I'm totally tripping by knock off time, man. It's the closest thing to Rave I've had in a decade. After years of abstinence, I'm surrounded by chain smoking, pale skinned, sleep deprived twenty somethings and I look like a reformed geek, refusing to go for a ciggie break or a beer after work.
Back across town, there's dead silence from the editors at BNews After publishing seven of my stories in a matter of weeks, the work has come to a standstill and the future's uncertain, to say the least. All I've been told is that management are having a few issues and no more editions will be produced until it's resolved, the editor's taking it easy in Apollo Bay and I'm left high and dry – smack bang in the middle of my RMIT placement and a burgeoning career in queer tabloid journalism - sometimes I think I'm cursed, buddy!
I've been hitting the Sircuit on Smith Street to let off steam, but even there I get harassed by a grotesque Maori drag queen in a God awful wedding dress and a microphone – humping the legs of the patrons and stroking their chins with razor sharp nails. I saw an atrocious strip show with a muscle bound beefcake dressed as a police officer, gyrating with a baton between his steroid pumped thighs to Michael Jackson's 'Beat It.' That buffed up meat head had a g string riding up his butt crack which was particularly unflattering yet there were a stream of horny old guys begging to rub their face in his crotch...some queers make me sick!
A friend of mine just broke up with his tall, scrawny, obnoxious partner so I was showing him around. That place has gotta be the closest thing to the full on, no holds barred flesh fest I witnessed in the US. I took the poor bastard upstairs to the sex on premises venue where an intoxicated guy was on his hands and knees, getting butt fucked by a series of predatory punters. We were gobsmacked by the lewd spectacle of the scene – it was public humiliation at its most explicit. Sometimes I wonder what species we are, Lars – how far will some of these guys go for a fucking good time?
My friend is a few years younger so he dragged me to The Peel, against my better judgment.
I huddled in a corner most of the time, pushed and shoved by tripping teens and drunken sloths making their way to the bar or prancing across the dance floor, checking out the action. Now and then, a scrawny boy elbowed me and winked – some kinda come on, I think. My clothes were stinking of smoke, my pupils were dilating from the strobe lights, the music was making me cringe and it was all too much. I think a few beers and a good ol' fashioned striptease is all I can handle, buddy. Not long after that I staggered home before the sun came up, got online and whipped up an Internet profile like every other lame ass fucker in this town!

Stay Tuned, Buddy
Love to y'all,
JJ X