Monday, May 28, 2007

Karma Police...

Around a fortnight ago I saw the three ugliest women I’ve ever seen.

There very well may be uglier out there, but they’ve not been seen by these eyes; and more than likely they don’t live above ground if they do exist.

I understand that this is a rather obtuse statement to make, and believe me it’s one (up until a fortnight ago at least) I thought I would never declare. It should be noted that I myself take home no awards for Clooney-esque looks, and have, on more than one occasion, been mistaken for a fourteen-year-old girl - and not a pretty one at that. Furthermore, there is no greater fan of the opposite sex than I (with the possible exception of Van Damme) I’m an unconditional believer that there’s always something about a woman that will melt your face with beauty, fill your heart with must have desire and force you to write trite poetry about meadows, autumn and young milkmaids, but these women three did push the boundaries on thee. Not gifted when the eloquence to give these creatures justice in word, I can only hastily describe them in likeness:
  1. Andy Warhol/ Keith Richards hybrid – spotted frantically crewing gum in my rear-view mirror driving a Peugeot.
  2. Dolph Lungren lookalike with a mullet - spotted leaving the Eltham YMCA gym with eyes and biceps that seemed to say “I will break you.”
  3. Chopper Reed clone – spotted on dvd shelves around the country and most recently in the parking lot of the Eltham YMCA.

So, why am I blathering about three women who look like extras from Prisoner Well, mostly in warning to you all. From what I can figure, it turns out that the saying “if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all” is in fact not a rule of common courtesy, but rather, the words of age old black curse.

You see, friends, no sooner had I announced to another that these three clearly fell far short of the alluring beauty of Rea Pearlman than I was punished by Fortuna by breaking down on a major Melbourne intersection during peak hour traffic some seven days later – I had to push the rig through three lanes of traffic and missed work as a result.

North Richmond Station moments before I
thought of stepping into oncoming traffic.

Now, I’ve had my boat re-tuned, re-polished and re-(insert auto mechanical term here) several times of late, and as my dear old dad threaten to murder the mechanic in cold blood, coupled with the knowledge that the car was running without bump or shudder for the last month, I can only think that his assuring words towards car’s reliability were spoken with absolute sincerity. By all estimations, the car was in as fine shape as it was the day it was driven out of the showroom. So why exactly did it break down? It couldn’t have been anything mechanical; it certainly wasn’t anything environmental, a warm 22 degrees was the Wednesday in question. No, one can only fathom it was the forsaken power of the three demons I saw out of their human masks. Announce you've seen the three roughest women you've ever seen and one week late you'll owe over $800 in automobile bills and suffer the taunts of half of the Melbourne workforce attempting to drive home from a hard day's work only to be blocked in their journey home by your self righteous self. You'll think twice before saying anything un-nice. I imagine the experience is similar to that of seeing the blighted VHS in The Ring films.

However, the curse ain't all that bad. If by chance you do name the three uncloaked demons, brake down seven days later, suffer a $220 tow and $600 repairs to a computer and distributor which your mechanic describes as "f***ed by Satan himself" you can still look forward to an enjoyable 45 minute comedy extravaganza with a Hungarian tow-truck operator named Peter who looks not dissimilar from this man and who will instantly evaporate all friezed thoughts of massive repair bills and damnation with the funniest observations from his thirty years of towing experience in an accent akin to a bad Schwarzenegger impersonation. While in the midst of all this madness, I did record several minutes of Peter's dialog (believe it or not, I kept the composure to hit the record function on my trusted mobile telephone), unfortunately the quality of the audio is a might fuzzy, so the best I can do is transcribe some of the prime moments - please read with the densest of accents, preferably aloud:

"Hahahahah...You are funny. Sunroofs are useless! The girls and poofs love them, but they're s**t. They leak, the seals break, but the poofs don't care, they love them."

(In response to my support of all models of Volvo)


"Yes, they are safe...but they are s**t too. Always brake down and are s**ts to work on. Jags and MGs are s**t too. Crazy people drive them. English people make them. They are more crazy. Take weeks to fix. All the nuts are crazy. Designed by bas**ds who want to waste my time."

(in response to my query to the best car on the road)


"Japanese cars a the best. I love them. s**t to work on. They have small hands those Japanese, but great engineers...their trick is to steal the blueprints of German cars and fix all the stupid German problems. Great cars. Lexus. Honda. Small parts, but great cars from those Japanese

Apologies to my most loved Japanese constituency, besides your tiny mechanical hands and haunted video tapes, I love you most of all.


Waiting for my Hungarian tow-truck
driver to lift my spirits.