I work, I drink, I gibber. I howl at the moon and lie in the garden, pushing my engorged member into the dry warm soil while my flat mates dog, at a safe distance, looks on, it's ears flat, whining pitifully, it's eyes rolled back in terror. Until with a swift shudder of my pale flanks, I finally flush my reproductive bile into Perths crust.

I get up, dust off my organ and go and do childrens parties. "Look mummy, the clown gave Jason a Latin necktie" I've got to go. I've got a few marsupials pegged out in the blazing sun in the backyard. Shitheads had the gall to try eating out of my hand. I'm going to turn them over and redouse with salt water. Did you know they have a rodent in Western Australia called a Quokka that does not drink, anything, ever. It eats leaves but never drinks. What a wry piece of reincarnation that would be.

Those I've pegged out back must have been real bad in past lives to deserve what I'm giving them don't you think. Still, who am I to judge.