the wuc bytes – dodgeball

I think GP broke me.

Not in a wild horse kinda way, understand. He aint the Wuc Whisperer, for cryin’.

Nor, for the record, have I sunk to Bridget Jonesean lows (all by myself in earnest and epilepsy, my undies big enough to house a troupe of transient midgets).

Neverthemore, lassy. Much like little lost Ledger on his mountain of gayness, or the pink boom box which fell from my teenage hand one Bangled day in June, I’m broke back good.

Blessed be my boom box. May you rest in Iko Iko an nay.

Where inspiration once flowed, as hot and steady as Ryan Reynolds on roller skates, now here I sit. My synapses on dolt delay. My thoughts as restless as the audience of any given panto. My literary light as wayward as a Lohan firefly.

GP, my figurative Fat Bastard, has stolen my motherlovin mmmojo (to be said like Autistic Powers). He took my, baby back, baby back, baby back ribs. (He ate a baby.)

What am I to do, you ask? Well, there’s only one thing you can do when life gives you a wedgie so profound, your children are picking the cotton from their cleave for generations.

Published by the wuc

I'm a chick living in Australia, working for the man. I hate office work with a passion usually reserved for James Cameron, but somehow I ended up with a career behind a desk, stapling my forehead at random intervals.

30 thoughts on “the wuc bytes – dodgeball

  1. Wedgies (cosmic and otherwise) are good in that they remind us that at least we’re still alive and equipped with, well, with items worth defending against getting wedgies from…

  2. Carry awnnnnnn. That’s all you can do, with spangles on your kilt and a plate of strawberries and cream in your kitbag.

  3. Well, dearest deepest of desires from across the ditch…I did offer my fantastic services (and for you, at a discount). But in seriousness for just a nano-second, take a spoon of concrete in your morning coffee and harden the wuc up. Its just a minor speedbump on the highway to hell, the more of them you hit the quicker you arrive…hmmm, starting to relaise why I didn’t get the PR job for his hoiliness, Pope Benedict-Arnold the LCVIII (or something like that).
    My advice? Give lesbianism a crack, you got nothing to lose. And when you do, upload it to your own site and charge $0.99 per viewing (except for me, I expect a discount).
    Until the Cows Come a Brooding, and Ten Swans-a-Singing (or sumfin like that)…
    PiS…hugs and kisses all round (or is that alround? Around?)
    PiSS…re-reading this snippet of advice seems to have the impact of a Poodle dry-humping your leg. Funny, somewhat charming almost, but ultimately disappointing and irrelevant

    1. It’s been a while since a poodle dry-humped my leg. I feel almost nostalgic. (He never calls.)

      To recap: turn to concrete coffee and lesbian porn? I dunno why Pope Bene’ didn’t go for it, seems sound to me. Thanks Alfmeister, master of kaleidoscopic counsel and cylindrical hugs.

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