Wednesday, January 15, 2014

The case files of the terribly descriptive Detective

It's a blazing low down dirty unwashed Thursday. A hobo looking Thursday so hot you could bake beef and vegie family pies in my engine bay in the three and a half minutes it takes from work to home and a self saucing chocolate pudding in the passengers footwell (why you'd want to is anyone's guess). I've been on holidays see, and if holidays were a woman then this dame would have legs that would go for three weeks and she'd be covered in kilometres and fast food wrappers.

I write like a detective good yes?
(Don't try to visualise that son, you'll only get your heart broken.) It's been too long since I've been in these parts, like an exiled president of twenty years back in his neighborhood to get a short back and sides and a copy of the financial times. I've been busy you see, like a butcher in a community that's just experienced scotch fillet for the first time. My plate has been so full, you could substitute it for the banquet table at your neices wedding and the moderately priced catering staff wouldn't notice the difference. Busy with cases so big, you could fit in a library on the shelves and still have room to store your collection of stuffed cats.
So grab your favourite gasper, light it up with that lighter from the servo that only set you back a buck cos that's all you had the day before payday and read on about what I've been up to. So up, I've forgotten what I catalogued down in... 


THE CASE OF THE MISSING LINK 

I'll get em to crack like nuts with a drug addiction
Can't say I understand moody computers - you'd figure they'd be happy with all the stuff they get to see. Recipes for tuna bake, cheats for computer games, bargain priced fluffy towels on eBay and the rambling diatribe of a non smoking detective who for once actually doesn't have a drinking problem and is happily married. But no, like my quivering legs after having a stretched limo run full pelt into my happy bags, my computer cracked it like a cheap plate and gave up. And when I say gave up, I mean it refused to talk to the internet like the internet had put a banana in its exhaust pipe. And then wizzed on it. Before uploading it to Instagram. And sending the computer a link.
First I thought it needed a good kick like a soccer ball from the Bradford City Football Club but after I investigated like the hack gumshoe I'm pretending to be, I found the rabbit hole went deeper. And the rabbit had shut up shop a long time ago when love came to town and overstayed it's welcome.
Firstly my internet provider didn't realise that I couldn't look at pictures of thrilling chess games and lawn bowls results until I dropped a dime on them - they in turn sent a signal down the line that took my modem out to dinner and wined and dined that Thompson so hard it wet itself. Once I ran a feline 5 cord down the dusty hallway that had seen better days like a Pete Murray song, I could continue my journeys.
I had to run that blacker than a blacked out midnight cord down that passage of dust bunnies because little Charlie had gone mute. Little Charlie was my usb wireless receiver and he has more power than a Bolivian drug kingpin but like a famous tennis player with two freshly broken arms from a dump truck accident, Charlie was receiving no more.
I never found out why to this day - right now he's looking at me stupidly, telling me he's like a bootleg Zelda game written by a monk who's never played it - without a Link. One day I might find out, possibly after I tell you the tale of....


THE CASE OF THE FISHING FESTIVA

Screams fishing like a folding laundry screams adrenalin rush

Now I'm not much of a fisherman see, the last time I caught anything I had to hand over my license to a friendly chemist to prove that I wasn't a drug dealer from the wrong side of the tracks and could I please have some strong cold and flu tablets as my nose was running faster than a fired up Cathy Freeman. So when I rolled through a Melbourne recently and played a sizzling game of crawl through traffic, I couldn't help but notice something strange on a nearby Ford Festiva - a car so nineties that it should be clad in Hyper color Phat pants and listening to Madison Avenue.
From one end of the back bumper to the either, there was a giant 'what fish is this?' guide complete with pictures of said fish taking up half the car and like a serious stamp collector who wakes up suddenly in the middle of a nunnery with no socks on and covered in blue paint, I was flat out confused.
Surely for fishing expiditions and adventures to land the big one and get drowned in sexual favours from fishing groupies, you'd use a vehicle that could actually fit a couple of rods, a tackle box, bait, lures, jigs, a case of beer and someone to witness you not doing much while you whiled away the hours. Not something as small as a battered burgandy Ford Festiva from Nineteen Nighty-Number something that you'd still struggle to squeeze in petrol even if you were the only one in it at the time. Of course, being a car that makes a fun sized Mars bar look like a nine course meal with silver service and an after dinner mint, the low positioning of this sticker meant you'd pretty much have to lie on the ground next to it, hold your catch next to it and squint to see what you actually landed. Sounds about as much fun as learning muscial theory from a non english speaking mad woman when you're brusied and battered in the emergency ward with a potato cake wedged up your nose.
Or maybe they put the Festiva in the boat and used it that way. Was the bumper detatchable perhaps? I'd probably find all the answers right after...


THE CASE OF THE MOVIE WITH THE NUMBERS

I should've known better. But like a slow motion accident with whipped cream and some formula one grid girls midway through what's been a fairy exciting racing season and not one without the occasional spot of controversy, I watched Movie 43.     

All the evidence you need, right here. Case closed. Where's my scotch?

All I can say is that watching it was like trying to hail a submarine to get you to the altar on time for your big wedding day to your childhood sweetheart, three months after actually wedding date and completely forgetting she left you and shacked up with your best mate instead. Oh and your wedding was completely inland and you were trying to hail the submarine from a disused bus stop. In Russia or something.
Made as much sense as that last paragraph really..

CASE CLOSED.

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