CRUSHING OPPRESSION FORGOTTEN
The homos had the Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras on Saturday, which included a bunch of overweight lesbians riding motorcycles up Oxford Street without helmets on, which is illegal unless, apparently, one is homosexual.
I can only imagine what would happen if I tried to do it. I assume there would be sirens, and batons and tasers if I didn’t submit. And all, apparently, because of my sexual orientation.
I am a victim.
Sunday I went for a ride. I wanted a nice place to ride to, where I could forget about the crushing oppression. None of this Dark Corner and Mount Horrible. I browsed Google Maps.
Lemon Tree sounded nice. It wasn’t all that far away. I typed it into the GPS. It directed me up the motorway and across a bit.
The road turned to dirt. I’d brought the wrong bike. The GPS told me to turn up a road that was steep and had deep ruts, and I turned back. I will return, I thought. Like Douglas MacArthur, except on a bike with knobby tyres.
I took a big loop south and then north, and hit tar again. It was around 1130. I was looking forward to Lemon Tree. I figured there would be a pub. It was too early for a beer, but I could have murdered a gin and tonic.
Lemon Tree is a sign, and a house. There is no pub. I wondered if I should knock on the door of the house and ask them to make me a gin and tonic. I decided against it.
I headed south. I explored side roads. There are some nice roads up there. Signs pointed to Yarramalong. I followed them.
Yarramalong has no pub.
I headed further south. I remembered that Mark told me way back that the Spencer general store sold beer. The GPS said it was only 30km away.
It was a great road. The store sold beer. I bought a Peroni Nastro Azzuro and sat at a table outside and watched the river. Four senior citizens drank coffee at the next table. A dog lay on the ground near me.
A small child ran around the corner of the building, yelled “Puppy!” and patted the dog. The dog sat up and licked the child’s face. I looked on benevolently. The child beamed at me and said “Puppy kissed me!”
“He’s not kissing you, kid”, I said. “He’s wiping cock crud off his tongue.”
A woman with roses tattooed on her arms walked around the corner. I’m not a fan of tattooed women, though I had to admit hers would be good camouflage if she wanted to take a crap in the garden. I hadn’t noticed her doing so, but then I probably wouldn’t, would I?
Probably time to be going, I thought. I drained my Peroni and reached for my helmet.
“Mummy”, said the kid, “What’s cock crud?”
I walked back to the bike. There was some discussion, possibility clarifying pronunciation, as I put my helmet on. The child pointed at me as I rode past the store. Her mother stared. I shrugged.
Kid had to find out SOME time.
About the Author
Al Al does a bit of everything, and likes hanging around with Boris, because there are generally motorcycles and whiskey, and because hilarity generally ensues. He wastes his spare time not moderating the BIKE ME! forums, where he posts occasionally and is regarded as unfair, unbalanced and unmedicated. Shows how much THEY know.
