The death of yves saint lewart

Yves got burnt off on Saturday.

Good grief it hurts. Well since a layer of acid sits on my kneecap, and I can't wear pants because it scrapes at it. So I'm pretty fudging uncomfortable.

I’d finally had enough after someone slapped my knee at Turtle Creak on Friday night and screeched in genuine fear,” There’s a massive bug on your knee!”
(No. That’s just Yves.)
And then I banged my knee on a wall much later, and fuck me if it wasn’t sore.

Smoking Legs' dad is privy to all wart-frying-off cocktails, since he’s a doctor, and Yves got acid thrown on him. He ceases to grow roots into my knee and reside carbuncle-like on it.
He really was the size of a small barnacle, and my excuses of But I think he’s really pretty just wasn’t washing with the general public anymore.

Then.
One of my male mates, who has admitted that he is threatened by his girfriend's vibrator, found my Bushwhacker 3 000. Everyone knows about my ever-faithful vibrating wiener, and this particular mate says he'd decapitate it (…?) if he so much as finds it 'for the sake of all male-kind.'
I’ve tried explaining how unfair this is, because Bushie hasn’t hurt anyone before. He’s a toy, and most men just have a fascination with dildos, if anything. I told him that his girlfriend should be free to use her Danny the Dolphin whenever she pleases.

My mate found it and ran around the house with my favourite toy on Saturday morning – throwing it into The Ant’s cupboard to try and hide it from me – then lost all the batteries of it amongst her shoes. (Sorry Ant),
“Fine. But if you damage my dildo, there’s going to be hell to pay.” Me.
“I’m going to hidddddde it. [Holding it up like a rifle] Bushwhacker 3 000 is a thing of the past! Now my girlfriend's dildo is next.” Him.

Nay. He needs to accept that the Bushwhacker 3 000, or any dildo for that matter, is about as necessary to women as tampons and hand cream. It’s a necessity for all chicks who know what I’m talking about. And you do. He does not replace the real thing, but sometimes it’s really really nice to whip him out if one is bored/horny/lonely/can’t sleep/frustrated/pre-menstrual/experimental.

It’s a wank thing.

So, my mate went and placed it right under the Pinotage and Sauvignon Blanc in the wine rack hanging from the lounge wall. Only noticed when mum popped in to visit.
But of course. Her now second confrontation with my whacker.

Mum and I both saw it together, as we turned to look at the wine rack. There he is. Mounted like a trophy, in whoring pink, under the wine bottles.

Mum: What…is that?
[Phew, she’d forgotton about the first time obviously. Selecive memory is amazing.]
Me: Oh shit.
Mum: That thing…is revolting [Still continues staring at it in fascinated bemusement.]
Me: It’s The Ant’s. Not mine.
Mum: What’s it filled with?

[pause]

Me:..Sweets. See The Gilb gave it to The Ant as an, um, stocking filler for Christmas.
Mum: Oh. It's quite funny though.
Me: Yeah…bit of a gag gift, huh?