A coupla weeks ago on a Sunday all of C.O.D. and a few guests were sitting around in mine and Nina's apartment having a beyootiful time. Clare had just driven me to Igga where I had pur-chased the necessary ingredients for one of these.
(Except add cauliflower cheese and gravy.)
The sun was shining, it was a beautiful day, and James and I decided that the only possible way the day could actually get ANY better was if we had some beer. Maybe longnecks, maybe a carton.
Urrbody piled downstairs and it wasn't until I got to the security door out of our building when it slowly but surely became apparant that nobody took any fucking keys to our fucking apartment fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. And we live on the fourth floor fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. And the balconys are too far apart to climb, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
So, first I called Stripperlord and asked him what to do. He called me a fucking idiot and said that it was going to cost me heaps of money. Then I called my Dad. He called me a fucking idiot and said that it was going to cost me heaps of money and to call a locksmith. Then he laughed a lot.
I called a locksmith and then we went to go get a carton. The carton was $40. It was Carlton Draught. We drank it on the stoop of my favela building while a real estate agent was attempting to take pictures trying to make our building look semi-deece.
THANKS HARRY SOMETHING LOCKSMITHS ON MURRAY STREET, YOU ARRIVED QUITE PROMPTLY AND I AM QUITE ENAMOURED WITH THE PARTICULAR TOOL OF THE TRADE THAT YOU USED.
I fucking want one of these;
Imagine if I became a cat burglar. All you would hear is nothing, except for maybe a few clicks of my locksmith gun and then a loud bang as I fall over your couch and break another part of my body in a really strange way.
P.S. I got a photo of the locksmith, he was really nice. It was supposed to be $120, but I only had fiddys and he let me pay just $100. Richard Cleverley has the flick. Give me it to me Richard please.
5 years ago
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