Tag Archives: Hung

The Boys go to Blat

03 Friday Nov 2017

Posted by in Mark

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Off you go boys but I’ll be waiting

 

“Well I think that wheeze boys should have a weekend away for all that male bonding stuff” says Emmjay as he sips his glass canoe.

Oh fuck no, thinks Hung all that pretend bullshit about how great wheeze all were back in jail, oops I mean high school. ”I’m bored” says Hung reading from the script that he wrote. “Can’t we just put on some Dirt Air and Heat and pretend?”

Dirt Air and Heat

“Bloody good idea” says Gib ”Lets go out and shoot some cats, drink lots of piss and cook some critters on the barbeque.”

Cheers all round, well from the boys anyway.

”Not a bad idea” says Angler ”Lets get Gordon, Gez and Sandy and, and go camping.”

”None of that poofter stuff” pipes in Merv, who by the way hasn’t actually been invited, as he has to run the pub and granny wouldn’t let him go anyway seeing

This is the bit before the tzatziki

he is a juvenile delinquent or that he is from Deniliquin.

“An, an, an, how come Foodge and O’Hoo haven’t been invited?” pushes Merv.

“Ewes ain’t invited Merv, ewes have to stay behind and run the pub” replies Emmjay ticking over the dollars.

“And Merv, my young friend, someone has to keep the business fluid, if you get my drift” informs Gordon.

“But Gordon, camping is crap, flies in your caviar, no Macca’s for your hangovers and sleeping can be uncomfortable” pipes in Sandy.

“Not when you travel to a different solar system in the SS He Who Cannot be Named II” replies Gordon. “I have activated the ship and we off the the planet Blat, to kill cats.”

“Count us in” say the boys.

So we do all the science fiction stuff, you know beam up to the ship, fly so fast your

Looks more like snot to me

nose bleeds and then descend to the planet surface in a space pod, fully self sustaining so that no evidence, oops, rubbish is left behind to damage the environment. Wheeze clean, mean and green. Sounds like a slogan for a certain political party.

The pod lands and settles itself gently on a grassy patch next to a pristine river estuary flowing out to sea. Crikey, sounds like Summer Bay.

“What’s for dinner?” asks Geez trying to get his word count up and who has been in absentia (or is that dementia) for the last few stories.

“Ask auto cook” Emmjay contributes being much in the same bracket.

“Auto cook responding. Ask and you shall receive, seek and you shall find, knock and the door shall be opened up to you.”

“Stop, none of that religion bullshit” affirms Hung, smoke absolutely pouring out of his cigarette.

“How about roasted leg of beast with potatoes, carrots served with jus and mulled

Roasted Beast

wine” Gib pontificates “Oh and greens for fun, followed by a peach frangipane with

home made ice cream and raspberry compote covered with crushed almonds and icing sugar.”

“Swap the mulled wine for Shiraz and you got me” says Angler.

Cheers and beers all round.

“Auto cook responding, go the mass has ended, thanks be to Gordon…”

“No, no, no, no religion. I told you Mark, no fucking religion okay!” reinforces Hung.

“Hung, I’m not even in this episode, I’m on holidays at Long Bay but point taken” says Mark.

Seven days later, no one had thought to go outside, shoot cats, discover the

Here kitty

environment, meditate, do yoga, kill cats, look out the window, debate Chaos theory, find an algorithm that actually works but no matter everyone returned to Inner Cyberia in a totally happy mood.

So Honshades approaches the boys on return from space. “So boys, how many cats did you kill?”

“Coupla hundred” lies Gib.

“At least a thousand” lies Angler.

“Tens of thousands, wheeze run out of ammo” lies Gordon.

“Well none actually but wheeze brought one home” says the ever truthful Emmjay.

“Don’t tell Helvi but I’m in love with auto cook” says Gez.

One too many beers I fink…

 

Picture is from left to right, Sandy, Gib, Emmjay (at rear, as usual), Angler, Gordon, Foodge, Neville and Gez. O’Hoo is the stiff.

This is the cat that Emmjay brought back, aw we how cute, now they infest the whole planet, oh well.

How cute, we nick named her Cockroach.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Episode 93 – Foodge The Bowelactic Wars 1

01 Tuesday Aug 2017

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick, Mark

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This is shit mate, trust me, I’m a nurse…

 

Foodge Episode 93 -The Bowelactic Wars.

Story by Mark.

Foodge paints a lonely figure at the bar, nudging his tonic and gin, it’s nine o’clock on a Saturday, la dee blah dah dee dah dah dah dah.

“Shut the eff up Foodge. Monty Python rules here mate, no singing and especially Billy Joel” says Merv.

Billy and Joel give each other a hand

So the painted lonely figure got up and walked away and said “Ewe Finnish Foodge? And wheeze in the EFFALL Union mate, wheeze fictional and wheeze want our money now, turn your head to the left and cough!” The phoneticists in the viewing audience were hysterical, not Foodge of course, he simply held his nuts in one hand and said “Fank ewe my darlin, may fertility haunt ewe and meek.”

Counter reset.

Gin and tonics are wonderful on a hot afternoon under the shade of a good tree. Sensibly my parents, Mr and Mrs

This girl once saw a Fig Tree

Foodge Senior, planted Moreton Bay Figs. One in the front yard and one in the back. Never had to mow a lawn ever. Please don’t ever challenge me on the veracity of that statement, kiddies may be watching.

Merv turned the corner behind the bar. “Foodge, mate, I need help, like real help, like you know, help mate. I got a letter that says I have to go to court as I’ve breached the constipation, under section infinity, sub section A + B = C plus square rooting, what ever that is but I wouldn’t mind trying it” grins Merv.

“Let me see that young man, where’s the bong?” Foodge foodigises, checking navel lint theory and querying cyberianism.

“Foodge, read the letter, she said her name is Maria and shes addressing this to your wife says he won’t be coming home, on a Saturday night…”

Foodge nose what he wants(wink, wink) “that’s twice now, no more singing please especially who ever that was.”

You know, Foodge is a good man, a decent man, a man of honor or so, in his most humble opinion and reading the letter basically upside down “You have a case young man. Not just to the High Constipation Court, not even to the Very High Constipation Court or the Extremely Very High Constipation Court. We go straight to the Stratospheric Constipation Court”.

To be continued…

Oh yes, it’s real…unfortunately

Gordon Drops Inn

21 Friday Apr 2017

Posted by in Mark

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How people find this shit funny is beyond me

 

Well there is a buzz around the Arms tonight, buzz, buzz, kabang! Sorry, that was a fly, anyway, Hung here, tonight Gordon is going to drop in with a special guest, unknown at this stage. Even I don’t know and I’m the author, well sort of. Now would I lie to you?

The door swings open and in walks Gordon, one of his magic tricks he loves, opening the door without touching the handle, bloody miracle worker that guy, hmm.

“Where’s ya guest?” asks Merv.

“He’s still in make up at this stage” replies Gordon.

“Wheeze was getting all excited, like the good old days”

“The good old days were actually pretty shitty but I’m glad you are excited, finally”

PA’ XI 1863-Won Grand Final by a fingertip

quips Gordon.

“So have you made him up yet Gordon?” enquires Angler.

“Hmm, now that you ask no, so I’ll do what the pollies do and create a distraction.”

Again, the front door opens but this time it’s a funny looking man in a cap with a black uniform.

The Colonel in better days

“I’m Colonel Wilhelm Wafflekurgenburger from the Licker Licensing Board attached to the Inner Cyberian Pleece. My friends call me The Nasty. Your Licker Licence please.”

“So what about your enemies then, wadda they call you, Bozo the Clown?” calls Merv and much mirth displayed by the crew.

“They, my friend are all shall we say inconvenienced.”

Gulp! Never seen a character like this before at the Arms, must be the warming thingy.

Well Merv had never seen a licker licence before so he had no idea. Just when it was about to get a bit confrontational like, the patrons loading up their weapons, Gordon steps in.

“We don’t need a licence” chants Gordon as he waves his hand around the room.

“You don’t need a licence” says The Nasty.

“Why don’t you just leave”

“Yes, why don’t I just leave” and with that the Nasty packs up and scurries out the door.

“Gordon, out hero” cry the crew “drinks all round on Gordon”

Hung comes over to Gordon’s side “Gee, Gordon, that was some show, now what gizmo did you use?”

“Are you saying I’m not honourable Hungsie?”

“No, but none of this farce crap, okay!”

“Shit, it’s called a DOWOP(Drowns Out Waves of Other People) hence people

Do what? No do wop…

walking down the street singing Do Wop dah dah diddy Do Wop are trying to use the technique. Ten bucks in Start Wars at Space Mart, alters mind waves, useful at times anyway it’s 5 O’Clock somewhere in the universe, time for an ale.”

Episode 85 Close Nuff: Granny does a Runner

07 Tuesday Feb 2017

Posted by in Sandshoe

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Oops Tartan joker in the pack Kenny Logan created airport mayhem yesterday as Scotland's squad flew off to the rugby World Cup in South Africa.

Oops

Story by Sandshoe.

Shoe and Hung are sittin’ at the bar. They’re fit to burst judgin’ the expression on their faces to say somethin’.Shoe … that’s me (credit idea to Mark who’s Hung to put self in) so don’t go fashin’ yoursel’ ’bout the unusalness of puttin’ a first person in instead of the third and pretendin’ they’re not loungin’ ’round in this e-stablishment with the rest of ’em spinnin’ tall tales and gossipin’ ’bout famous people like their tomorrow’s are all used up … and Hung who’s a sort of confidante of betcha, well, once crowned heads of Europe and knows most the names of every bikie in the carpark since he bandaged up their sore punchin’ wrists and

Chook, a member of the Hell's Angles in the carpark

Chook, a member of the Hell’s Angles in the carpark

daubed iodine on cuts on their sweaty faces durin’ a brawl (lasted a week one long hot summer) they got in started by a mob of upswept vs natural’n’loose hairdressers … are gasbags.

It’s notable the two of ’em are sittin’ at the bar sayin’ nothin’ with that expression on both of their dials anybody knows who frequents … a place of low repute in some people’s diarisin’ and best place in others’ poetry anthology … this place, no home from home sweeter or e-stablishment their fancyin’, not only a scant mention in a lengthy history of the universe and no joke, their place in their sunset years to roost, perpetuals, like the chooks in the rafters.

Hung: Did you say the rafters, Shoe?

Shoe: I did, Hung. I did. Comprendez vous? Comprendez tes mes votre CHOOKS? The Pig’s Arms’ CHOOKS?

Hung: Bit flowery, Shoe. No matter. You sure about the rafters?

Shoe: Sure.

Hung: This comes to me as a surprise we’ve chooks in the attic.

 

The Burrito Brothers

The Burrito Brothers

Shoe: Me too. Not for long. Granny brought ’em back from Mejico, el pollo, see the new menu.

Hung: You mean Mex-ee-co. When did she go there?

Shoe: Yesterday.

Hung: Shoe, I can’t even hear ’em. In the attic? You believed her? I’ll talk to Granny.

Shoe: You’ll be goin’. She’s like a fashed chook on the run. She washed and starched the runner off the bar. She’s in the laundry tryin’ to iron it flat. Reckons she’s done it now.

Foodge: It’s perpendikular?

McSpoorrran (swaggers in the door in a dramatic cover all of clumps of hair of all colours and merged with red hair aglow on shafts of sunlight on his arms, bellows good naturedly): FOODGE! I gave y’ a lend for the hair cut and doin’ yourr nails, mon. Y’ll no’ be spendin’ m’ money in Rrrosie’s Emporrrium and House of Pain drrrinkin’ herr bottomless wee demi tasse’s of mocha and gigglin’ in m’ earrr thrrrough the thin walls in the tenant’s quarrrters all night long and paintin’ herr kitchen clatterrrin’ ladderrrs at 1 o’ the clock in the morrrrrnin’. Y’ owe me, mon. Aye, och, I’ve taken on the empty apparrrtment down the laneway. I’m yourrr neighbourrr now, wee mon and I’ve m’ rrrent to pay.

Foodge’s face would tell us of one dealin’, dinkum, with an ever life alterin’ history of the universe. I’ve laid a bet on it in the Sports Bar.

4:09 pm, South Australian time, 3 January, 2017.

PS: Read about Rosie and Rosie’s Emporium.

https://pigsarms.com.au/tag/rosies-tattoo-emporium-and-house-of-pain/

PPS: Read about McSpoorrran opening upstairs for men above Glenda’s Pig’s Legs Waxing and Beauty Salon

https://pigsarms.com.au/2016/12/21/bumper-christmas-edition-2016-episode-80-foodge-has-an-episode/

binb4yycuaioufb

Here’s a kitten

 

 

Apologies to Sandshoe. I received this story last week but was unable to publish it due to serious health reasons. I went bungee jumping and the rope was too long and needed a few days off.

Foodge 60.3 bits

15 Tuesday Mar 2016

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick, Mark

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Earnest Moncrieff, from a previous story but out there somewhere...

Earnest Moncrieff, from a previous story but out there somewhere…

Story by Mark aka Hung

“What’s this, a fucking clip Merv or Drumpf with a haircut?” larfs Angler On, an anagram of Algernon seeing no one got the Earnest Moncrieff connection, the sparrow killing associate of Gib W, who this story isn’t about therefore both Gib and Angler are sure to get many mentions, as you do here at Foodge Inc. Earnest has gracefully retired for Angler, get the picture. Sweet…

“I’m guessing that shirt fitting doesn’t hold the same appeal for you that it once did” says Foodge, seeing I can say “says” here, this is early in the story, plus Angler was smart enough to laugh his comment, even though he then couldn’t spell it, gave me another one of those ad somethings they belted into you at school, I can use them to embellish the conversation. I deliberately forgot all of that stuff from my skool daze just to get even. Now Emmjay has talked me into writing, the bastard, I have to learn to write, pfft, I wished I listened to what my parents said and no, I don’t know what they said because I didn’t listen. Is this Catch 22 or Deja Vu? I digress.

“Pertinent and very Aristotletic. It took a dinkum swagman to tell it like it was. Loved it. He looks like he will be the publican nominee. He’s a modern day Hitler and the followers are hoodwinked dopes.” reflects Gib really worried now that the author assigned him to this statement. Gib didn’t understand most of it just like the rest of us.

“No help then for me and ewe Sister” moans O’Hoo as he searchers his pockets for weapons. Something does, after a while, bulge down there but only a distant memory now days.

“As I’ve said before – well sorted. I did something similar about 12 years ago. I told them their sums were wrong” laments Yvonne as she sips slowly on her Pink Drink, Campari of course, well probably, this is Foodge after all, I mean,  is this chick style, I doubt the drink is metho and Eno’s, surely not but hey. “I have a special 5H enema if you’re ever suffering from ennui again” grins Yvonne, cheshirely.

Nurse Barbara

Nurse Barbara at 3 weeks

“Thanks Sister” says Nurse Barbara dropping in here, out of no where, as you do in Foodge “Needless to say, the custom designed enema is no longer necessary. Now I just need to get my shit together. I thought I’d better print this before it disappeared from screen. Oops, shit, missed it.” Don’t worry about an enema thinks Nurse Barbara, I’ve just read Mark’s story. Bum burner, hot on the way in hot on the way out.

“Now, that’s a worry! ..but then again there are a lot of crazies out there who should be looked after inside white coloured rooms with padding with a really good printers especially any one from the Pigs Arms” replies Yvonne, rolling her eyes and hoping that eye rolling can somehow be classified as a true exercise, me I relate to this, some how or rather, the story is only going to get worse from here on, not better, unless it gets better, I think so, jury’s out mate.

“We don’t need to fly anyone in, Paul. We just send the work overseas via the internet, works for me” says The Other John, a prick from somewhere near somewhere else. Foodge stands erect, well so he told me later, he went to the car-park and retrieved the shot gun from the Zephyr.

By the time he returned Merv had already unloaded two rounds into The Other

Smoochy smoochy, The Other John

Smoochy smoochy, The Other John

John, may Gordon bless us with more of the same. The 457 visa workers had actually already started to remove the body and clear up the mess. 47 cents an hour and they have temerity to complain, bastards.

“And for other selfish arseholes who game the system” retorts Arse Upwards(AU), “No, Angler, the ABC only seems to air the opinion of anuses and Onanists, these days. That’s why all of us here get published heaps” continues AU, Oh, please really think this through. Me, I can’t stop laughing at myself.

Nurse Babara

Nurse Barbara the other version

“This is funny Nurse Barbara. I’m trying to reply to Gorf(Frog in a blender) who replied to you, who replied to Merv, who replied to Hung, who replied to Emmjay who replied to Viv, who replied to Gerard but to no avail. I tried to say “the comment is devoid of compassion for the victims of lactose intolerance etc”. Why the fuck do the moderators don’t like me? Pfft. They favour the fucking heartless monsters! Why!” says fucking someone, bloody hell, name withheld due to a technical issue, I’ve lost control of this story. AI is here.

“That Pink Drink is a special mixture of tinctures and herbs, concocted  by Granny, and safeguarded by Mr Merv. It will put lead in your pencil, that is, if you wanted a lead pencil” says Gib obviously seriously concerned about heavy metals.

“Hallelujah, brother, I’ve been restored to health” states Yvonne seeing “says” has been done enough.

Perhaps, Mark, you could have your own episode of  “Call the Bigwife”

Hmm, thinks Hung eager to get one mention in the story.

The Bottom of the Barrel

16 Wednesday Apr 2014

Posted by in Emmjay, Politics in the Pig's Arms

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One down and one to go

One down and one to go

Story by Emmjay, Photo borrowed with undying thanks from the Canberra Times.

“But he was one of the better NSW premiers,” said Voice.

“That’s a load of cobblers” said Gez.  “His mates are up to their tits in it”.

“Not a chance of being up to my tits”, said Viv, adjusting her polo neck.

The usual suspects were having a quiet one or fifteen in the main bar of the Pig’s Arms and the ABC was re-running an interview (if you could call it that) of Robbie Robertson repeating over and over and over some horseshit about three cabinet ministers and one premier gone already and three more sitting members to face ICAC after Easter.  And “This has nothing to do with a bottle of wine.  It’s got everything to do with the untrustworthiness of the Liberal Party, blah, blah, blah. And I’m not going to draw any comparisons with anyone on this side of politics who has made a career out of corrupt behaviour and scored top billing at ICRAP”.

Arturo stirred his 1959 Grunge with a finger previously dipped in Granny’s wedges sauce – for that extra bit of piquancy.  He looked piqued, for sure. And he could have easily landed the lead role in Baz Luhr’s upcoming pulp movie ‘The Piquinese Falcon’.  Sinister, didn’t raise his eyes above the rim of the glass when Hung demanded to know where he got the Grunge.

“I don’t remember”, said Arturo.  “Wot, so the label embossed with ‘Compliments of the O’Bad Empire’ is no clue ?” inquired Hung.  Manne emerged from the cellar in the Greiner of time and added helpfully “I remember the Grunge, Mr Demons”.  That was the one that Merv had lying under his bed for a rainy day and he lost it in a poker game with Sir Lunchalot.  I dropped it off at your place on the way home, and you scribbled a note that I delivered to Mr O’Bad.  It said “Not half O’Bad, many thanks, the Rodent”.  “I thought it was very funny, Mr Demons.

“I don’t remember” said Arturo. The juke box was playing the Beatles’ “Baby said she’s drivin’ on the one after 59”.  “That reminds me”, said Manne, “Is (former) Justice Sin Minefield out of the slammer yet ?” “Nope said Gez, it’s getting pretty crowded in the P-wing library out at the Bay”. “Is it true that Ivan Milhat and Peter Snidearse asked to be moved out to avoid the corrosive influence – or more likely the smell of bent politicians ? I mean – even psychopathic killers have standards”.

“Most likely” said H (who was renowned for thinking the best of even the most obviously evil criminals).  “I’m given to believe that they adored their mothers and were kind to sparrows”, she added.

The acoustically-enhanced Pig’s Arms car park gravel gave up its customary crunchiness under the weight of a huge white NSW government Falcon piloted by Chikka Kerryovski and Colin Peters.  Obie, One Barrel Fatobie, rolled out of the back seat onto the deck trailing about a half a canteen of cutlery from the back of his commodious jacket.  The other half of the canteen was in the Kent street lunchroom – lacking almost all the knives.

The entourage entered the side door of the pub and took up the more comfortable seats in the ladies lounge.  “I had a serious memory failure” said Obie One.  “Thank Cripes for that”, said Arturo, who had been wondering whether the Cook’s River was going to give up more flotsam.  More in the shape of a Sinister Demon, he was thinking.

“GEEZUSS”, said Hung, holding a rather tired napkin over his nose.  “Someone must be cleaning out the grease trap in the Ladies Lounge”.  “There IS no grease trap in the Ladies Lounge, said Manne in his ever-helpful way”.

“For some reason I feel like a felafel” said Gez.  “You must be kibbehing me” said Hung  “I’m smelling the overwhelming stench of hypocrisy.  “How can you hommusly think of Foodge at a time like this ?”

“I feel awful”, said Voice.  “Our good ship NSW is without a rudder”.

“Perhaps” said Gez. “But there’s no shortage of ballast”.

Tabouleh continued ……