Friday, August 21, 2009

Psycho Bitch plus PSF Update

As I have mentioned before, I don't lock any of my doors at home. I live in Lorne, and there is no real crime here... certainly no burglaries that I know of. Oh, maybe at the height of summer when this town of 950 swells to 25,000 one might take some extra precautions, but really, it's a quiet town and we all know each other. Especially this time of year. The only danger is the pub on a Saturday night when bogans from Colac come down looking for trouble...

But last night, this happened: I came home from a dinner function in Torquay at about 9.45pm. I pulled up in my car space from where I can see into my house. I had left the lights on in the house and so I could see in. I saw a woman in my house, wandering around my kitchen. At first this didn't bother me because I have a few friends locally that know they can come into my house any time, but, I suddenly saw this woman stumbling a little, then, peering with more concentration, I realised I didn't know who it was.

I got out of the car and stood there. Just next to my kitchen is an alcove where I have two laptops... was I being burgled? How many were in there? I was suddenly angry that I was being burgled, and marched towards the house. The sensor light came on in my back yard and the woman noticed and saw me coming down the path. She came out my back door and we met in my yard. She was mid-20's, blonde, attractive, but swaying, as if drunk.

"Who are you?" she asked me, slurring her words.

"Who am I? Who the fuck are you? Why are you in my house?" I said sternly.

She looked confused, then laughed.

"Oh man," she said, "You're not Paulie!"

"No, I'm not Paulie. Paulie lives next door. Who are you?"

"Oops!" she said, laughing, "Wrong house!"

She started to move past me. She was carrying three bottles of wine, and I looked at them. They were mine... expensive wines.

"That's my wine," I said.

"Oh, yeah, sorry man..." she said, and handed them back to me. Then she laughed again and said, "Calm down, you look really tense. It was a mistake."

"I don't know who you are, and you were in my house. Yeah, I'm tense."

I grabbed the wine off her and walked into my house, all the while she was laughing and yelling out, "Oh come on, don't be like that..." and words to that effect.

I figured it was a friend of my neighbour Paulie who was just really drunk, and, after checking that nothing else had been stolen, I decided to calm down. I went out the backyard for a cigarette, and could hear her at Paulie's back door.

"Let me in Paulie!" she yelled.

"No! Fuck off! You're a psycho bitch! I want nothing to do with you!" I could hear Paulie yelling from inside his house.

"I'll suck your dick, come on, let me in," she was yelling, and banging on his back door.

"Fuck off!" he yelled.

"I just want half a gram of weed Paulie. I'll suck your dick..."

"I don't even smoke pot you psycho. Fuck. Off!" he was yelling.

I ran back inside. I didn't want her to see me in case she came back in.

I could hear some more yelling, then it went quiet.

Then my phone rang. It was Paulie from next door.

"Mate, lock your doors. There's a psycho on the loose," he said.

"I know. I caught her in my house. Who is she?" I asked.

"Mate, she's the girlfriend of Steve Hawthorn, a local guy who has a drug problem. He's been in Melboure for the last few years so you might not know him. Anyway, he met this chick at The Melbourne Clinic, and she's a junkie. She tried to stab him last week when he was sleeping. His arm's all cut up, and the cops took her, but then he dropped the charges or whatever, but now she's lost the plot again. He kicked her out of the house yesterday and she's just loose in Lorne... she wanted to suck my cock!"

"I know, I heard her. I often dream of a good looking woman turning up to my house willing to indulge in sex... but in my fantasy, it's not a crazy junkie**."

"Yeah," said Paulie, "It's been ages since I've had sex. Nine months, and remember, I told you, the last time I scored a chick I accidentally vomited on her, so, you know, I thought about letting her in... but it's not worth a headjob if you're also risking being stabbed when you fall asleep later... is it?"

"No..." I said.

Paulie went silent. He was thinking. Then, he came to his decision.

"No, it's not. Oh... but.. no, it's not worth it."

"No, Paulie. You did the right thing."

"Cheers mate," he said, and we ended the call.

I put the kettle on and turned on the cricket.

And locked all the doors.

Somewhere in my town, there is a psycho on the loose.


** In my fantasies, it's not a blonde either.

By the way, no real names were used.


In other news, Mark Latham has called Julia Gillard a 'sell-out'. Why do the media even bother to report what he says, ever?



Well, nobody else is doing Poetry Slam Friday, so I will...

And how appropriate is this? Here is the opening lines of Dylan Thomas's 'Under Milk Wood' which is about the odd goings-on of the inhabitants of a small seaside town. Given what happened last night, I can think of nothing more appropriate to post.

But wait, there's even more appropriateness! My former internet girlfriend Puss in Boots sent me 'Under Milk Wood' - a 1952 print in good condition - as a belated present for my 40th, which came in the mail yesterday.

It all falls into place...

To begin at the beginning:

It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless
and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched,
courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the
sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboatbobbing sea.
The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine to-night
in the snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat
there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock,
the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows' weeds.
And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are
sleeping now.

Hush, the babies are sleeping, the farmers, the fishers,
the tradesmen and pensioners, cobbler, schoolteacher,
postman and publican, the undertaker and the fancy woman,
drunkard, dressmaker, preacher, policeman, the webfoot
cocklewomen and the tidy wives. Young girls lie bedded soft
or glide in their dreams, with rings and trousseaux,
bridesmaided by glowworms down the aisles of the
organplaying wood. The boys are dreaming wicked or of the
bucking ranches of the night and the jollyrodgered sea. And
the anthracite statues of the horses sleep in the fields,
and the cows in the byres, and the dogs in the wetnosed
yards; and the cats nap in the slant corners or lope sly,
streaking and needling, on the one cloud of the roofs.


Ramon Insertnamehere said...

You know some interesting people, Pers.

And the media use Mark Latham because he's a rent-a-quote cunt, ideal for a slow news day.

Evil Overlord aka Mad Cat Lady said...

You have made my morning Perseus.

Cath said...


Only could this happen to you Pers.

Anonymous said...

Your mate Paulie doesn't sound entirely sure he doesn't want some skanky bogan junkie giving him a bj.

I like to think that, in spite of having a dry spell many times greater than his, that I'd not lack for conviction to say no in that situation.

But anyway, back to your love life. Did you ask this woman if she's fertile and reads Proust?

Mr E Discharge said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
the projectivist said...

it was just like an episode of The Bill.

wari lasi said...

After nine DAYS without sex I'd have let her in.* But I don't have any drugs, loads of wine though.

What a great story for a Friday.

Who's doing the poetry today? Squib bailed and I was looking forward to one of hers.

Um, not that yours aren't great Ramon.

* Not really. I can't stand drug addicts.

Perseus said...

She was very attractive, but just had that "I'm on Ice and Speed and Alcohol all at once" look about her. She was mad, bad and dangerous to know.

I have added a poem to the original post...

WitchOne said...

I think I need to come to Lorne to visit for a while. Sounds like soooo much fun, a real family town..

Ramon Insertnamehere said...

Very nice Pers.

Dylan Thomas - history's second most famous Welshman.

Perseus said...

Who are you putting above him?

Let me guess:

John Cale?


The bloke who played Hornblower in the mini-series, whose name is seemingly comprised totalloy of vowels?


Llywelyn the Great?


Ah, yes, Richard Burton.

Yes. But it's arguable that he's more famous that Dylan Thomas, particularly because Bob Dylan borrowed the name and gave Thomas even more fame.

Hang on...

Oh no.

You mean Tom Jones don't you?

Perseus said...

By the way Ramon, Puss also sent you a present... to me, to forward to you. It's on its way.

Ramon Insertnamehere said...

David Lloyd-George, of course.

That's very nice of Puss.

Must have been before I dumped her.

Puss In Boots said...

Hey! Why is everyone dumping me around here?

And Pers, you forgot to say where I purchased the book from.

eat my shorts said...

I can't believe she was going to steal your wine. That's so rude.

Ramon Insertnamehere said...

You dissed Shaun Micallef, Puss.

But thank you for the present.

Anonymous said...

You know, Perseus, you are allowed to do more than one post a day, rather than appending swathes of new material to old posts.

Puss In Boots said...

Oh. Well in that case, I'll think you'll find the present falls into the 'revenge' basket.

Ramon Insertnamehere said...

It's an owl, isn't it?

Puss In Boots said...

Maybe not. It might be another disinterested cat.

Perseus said...

You dumped me, Puss. Your exact comment was, "You have an I-phone. You are dead to me." I took that as a dumping, and now I have my eyes on Pepsi. Unless you take me back.

And yes, I should mention it: Puss got me my book from a 2nd hand bookstore in Paris. So cool...

Boogeyman - I considered a new post, but because the poem related to the post, I included it.

On my lunch break I'm re-readig 'Under Milk Wood'. Fuck it's great.

Here, a description of Myfanwy Prices's lover, Mr. Edwards:

"...tall as the town clock tower, Samson-syrup-gold-maned, whacking thighed and piping hot, thunderbolt-bass’d and barnacle-breasted, flailing up the cockles with his eyes like blowlamps and scooping low over her lonely loving hotwaterbottled body."

eat my shorts said...

"...tall as the town clock tower, Samson-syrup-gold-maned, whacking thighed and piping hot, thunderbolt-bass’d and barnacle-breasted, flailing up the cockles with his eyes like blowlamps and scooping low over her lonely loving hotwaterbottled body."


Puss In Boots said...

Oh. Well I can't exactly dump you for a crime I let my real-life boy get away with. So yes, I would like to un-dump you. And stick my tongue out at Ramon and say, 'so there!'

Where can I get a Mr Edwards??

Perseus said...

It's the internet Puss. I'll be your Mr. Edwards. As he says, "I am a draper mad with love. I love you more that all the flannelette and calico, candlewick, dimity, crash and merino, tussore, cretonne, crepon, muslin, poplin, ticking and twill in the whole Cloth Hall of the world"

Puss In Boots said...

You love me more than calico?! Wow, that's some strong sentiments there, Pers!

wari lasi said...

history's second most famous Welshman.

Ok so it's a woman, but Catherine Zeta Jones is easily the most famous Welsh person alive.

Pepsi said...

I've gone all Alt-Country Pers so feast your goth boy eyes somewheres else.

Ramon Insertnamehere said...

It's David Lloyd-George, people!


Does nobody recall the Bristish constitutional crisis of 1910?

Ramon Insertnamehere said...


Clearly, I have been making holiday inroads into the pre-dinner drinks.

Ophelia said...

You tell a good yarn, Perseus. I never realised there would be any situation when a man would turn down an offer of a head job.

Fad MD said...

history's second most famous Welshman.

J.P.R. Williams is the most famous surely.

catlick said...

Druggies have no boundaries. Fuck heads. Speaking of which, if I hear one more idiot/moron/cretin argue that it would not have been in England's interest to produce a "result" pitch because they couldn't guarantee the outcome of the toss, may I point out that win or draw Australia would retain the Ashes, whereas England's only chance was to doctor the wicket and call the toss correctly.

That being said, it is dusty, crusty, but not unplayable, and if they keep their heads, start from scratch again today looking for another 480 runs, we might pull it off... A cracking series. Oh, and buy a beer for the guy that gave Ponting a fat lip.

Ebony McKenna. said...

ZOMG - I think you might know my dad. He's a long time Lorney.

As a kid we used to play at the back of the OLD Cumberland. It's so weird. Some of the oldies are still there, but it's changing so much!