Gen Y stinks

It's not as though anyone pretends to love catching the tram to work ... especially at this time of year.  I mean it's crowded, damp, cold; there's never a seat for you to park your weary butt after dragging it across city blocks in order to hook-up with the illogical tram routes, and people are generally rude and as grumpy as you.

As if all that's not bad enough, this morning I had to stand next to two young guys who I am pretty sure ... hang-on ... [sniff sniff] ... yeah, I'm sure they had both been rolling in poo.  I lifted my nose (now on auto-shutdown) over the top of my magazine, and dared to view the source of this funk, but on viewing these fragrant specimens, I could see no brown smears, nor any other visible sign of soiling on their outer garments.  But I could smell them ... perhaps not poo after all, but certainly a rather putrid mixture of cigarette smoke and the stale odour of unwashed bodies.

As I retched and searched around for a place to stand at the other end of the carriage, these two stinky youths started talking about a girl of their acquaintance, whom they supposed was "going to be there later", and who they were expecting would bring some of her friends, and, from their leering tone, these two were pretty certain they were going to see some action as a result

Whaaaaaah?

Now I've never pretended to be an attractive Donkey, but even back in the day, when I was even more pimply, whiney and awkward than I am now, I still went to a lot of trouble to make an effort, and one of the first things one learnt when one was trying to attract a mate, was that the reek of unwashed adolescent boy was almost certainly the first criteria on that massive list of rejectable pre-requisites that the Presentation Nuns used to instil in their young borders, right from Day 1 (I know what you're thinking, perhaps Donkey might have had a little more luck if he'd cast the net a bit wider than the local Catholic girls' school – but we'll deal with that another time).

But the point is, one made an effort ... if not to smell like the Celvin Klein counter at Myer, then at least not to reek like stale faecal matter.

Still, these young turds thought they were in with a chance, and from the sound of their conversation, they didn't appear to be complete strangers to the female flesh.  So was it the young Donkey who was wrong? – going by my track record, it's possible – or are young women these days into the stinky stuff?  Either way, Melbourne's unfortunate commuters ought not to have to eat the shit sandwich yet again, this time by being forcibly exposed to the offensive courting rituals of Gen Y.

"Yeah Dude, let's go get some action".  Pic : http://8mm16mmfilmscollectibles.com

Guilty pleasures

Mrs Donkey's on some kind of health kick, so while I count myself a very lucky Donkey indeed to have my darling wife prepare an evening meal for me, tonight all we got was an entre ... soup!  So while most blokes disappear out to their shed of an evening to play video games, drink beer and watch porn, my lonesome, guilty pleasure these days consists of nothing more than to sneak away for an egg and bacon roll. 

C'mon Mrs D, all I ask is for a potato or two!

Mmmm ... better than sex.  Pic: http://www.smh.com.au

A gutful has been had

As if sitting in a dark room in front of a computer all day wasn’t cause enough for my sallow, jaundiced complexion, I now have even fewer motivations to step out into the light.

Some years ago I came to develop skills enough to produce a damn fine espresso beyond the capabilities of most of the grease-monkeys serving up their very special brand of rank, brown dish water in the local cafes, so there’s four or five fewer trips out of the house each day.  Fortunately for me, I’ve still got a massive, blubbery belly to fill, so the lure of tasty morsels still has me hooked…

Or at least it had, until today.  Today, while out grabbing some lunch, the penny dropped on something I’ve had an inkling of for some time, but was never able to completely put my finger on.  I am sorry, Food-Preparing People of the World, but a thin smear of mashed avocado does not constitute a legitimate ingredient, deserving of the privilege of ‘dish naming rights’ (a-la the ‘A’ in BLAT).  Where do you get off suggesting that greeny-brown skid-mark is adding anything to my sandwich experience?  At home, I’ll go to the trouble myself of cutting out big, creamy chunks of avocado flesh for my filling, and enjoy the wonderful flavour and texture that its addition brings to my life.  When I’m out, and I’m paying big moolar for my food, I expect fantastic, luscious, even cocaine-laced chunks of avocado to ooze out of my sandwich, dribble down my chin and form rotting brown stains on my lap – I don’t just want a serviceable meal, I want a dining experience.  I mean, it’s not as though you’d get away with ketchup being the constitution of your tomato sandwich, now is it?

So, I’ve had a gutful of the short cuts and cost savings; I’m staying home where I can get a decent feed, from now on, and I’m gonna eat as many avocado chunks as I dare.  When they happen upon my bloated, pale, lifeless corpse hunched over my laptop in the dark in a few years time, no doubt they’ll have to bash a whole in the roof and crane me out – but better fat and dead than … y’know.

Pic: http://typeaparent.com/

Donkey's gettin' all Gen-Y on yer ass

When you've been married as long as Mrs D and meself, pillow talk tends to extend into all sorts of unexpected realms.  Just the other night, while settling into a soft, warm embrace, I leaned over to whisper some sweet words of love and devotion into My Beloved's petit and pretty ears, to which she sat up, shot me 'the stare', and proceeded to inform me in no uncertain terms that my blog posts are way too long, and in this age of FaceCrock and Twit-er, "no one's ever gonna be desperate or interested enough to wade through all your self-absorbed crap just to get to some flimsy punch line ... and by the way, your breath stinks of onions and beer!".

My injured expression was lost in the sudden darkness of the extinguished light, as was my mumbled, "Sorry Dearest" in the creaking springs of her cold shoulder.  As the snores cranked-up, I got to thinking that it might indeed be fun to be drawn into that which I've always tried to avoid on DonkeyBlog, but which The Kids seem to really love.

So here we are – Post #1 of Donkey's new, daily-ish, "Today I went down to the shops to buy some milk" blog.  Hope you like it so far...

Mrs Donkey: my muse  Pic: http://www.guy-sports.com