About Me

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Brisbane, Queensland, Australia
Abandoned by the orphanage when I was six weeks old, I was left in the nearby woods where I was raised by wolves for two weeks. Then they got sick of me and abandoned me. A few things were said, I could have been more diplomatic perhaps, but I still maintain that wolf politics is corrupt bullshit. After this, a squirrel* took me in, until I realized that, whilst I was crazy about nuts, I was also allergic to squirrel hair. I hiked to town and hid inside the back of truck that was transporting Starbuck coffee cup lids and stirrers to The Big City. I stayed here for 18 years, never alerting my presence to the truck driver, who used to pull over every 500km or so and silently cry to himself. To this day, that truck driver is unaware that he was my primary caregiver growing up. I like trucks, beards, and country and western music. I've accidentally used deodorant as hairspray and vice versa on only one occasion so far. *Because of this I will not wear products made out of squirrel.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Billies vs Cannies: The Great Debate

Last night after I watched this awesome episode Cops, I got the munchies and decided to fry some eggs. The two yellow yolks were looking at me like two eyes, and I stared down at this trippy egg-face for like, two minutes. Then I was like, "fuck this staring contest" and went into my bedroom to have a smooth cannie.
It was then that I saw something gold and glinting under my bedroom table. I bent down to pick it up and my sunnies fell off so I couldn't see too well, and anyway I was blazed out of my mind so my vision was kinda fucked. But this wasn't like the time I thought I saw Pat Rafter at the BP. The gold thing was actually there in real life. I picked it up and wouldn't you know it, it was that cone piece I lost in 2006.

I guess I should feel like a bit of a prick since I blamed Terry for losing it. Then again, fuck Terry. He won't read this. He has a computer but he doesn't know how to use the internet. That is, unless one of you cunts tell him I wrote this. If you ever want to get decent weed off me in the future, don't fucken tell him.

Where was I? Oh yeah. I found the cone piece and I thought, "Oh, yeah, that's back from when I used to own a bong." Back in the day I made this fucking wicked swirly-coloured bong at TAFE. It was like almost opaque glass with purples and greens (lol) and shit through it. I loved that bong so much, I was so pissed when Mum found it and chucked it out. Well, that's what she says. I reckon she and Dad are secretly smoking my shit behind my back. You'd have to be stoned to stay married, I reckon.

Anyway, it got me all thinking about the bongs I've had since I was a kid, and I felt kind of emotional. I remembered the first ever bong I had, made out of a honey container. I called it Honey. My mate's dog ripped the shit out of Honey when she was a 6 months old, so I punched the cunt in the face and ended up getting reported to the RSPCA. I was a bit messed up after this but I ended up buying a new bong from Jared's mate's shop in The Valley. Cory was this awesome bong in the shape of a G.I. Joe doll. Cory could really hit the shit hard and long and he lasted about six years until some stupid slutty chick pretended to make out with him at a party and dropped him. His head snapped off and she giggled, "ooh, I decapitated him," and I muttered, "I'll decapitate you, bitch," but I didn't because she was sorta hot.

After this I moved home again because I got fired from Pizza Planet because Jason is a prick. Mum was always up in my shit at this time of my life. "Matty, get a job." "Matty, your room smells funny." "Matty, you're not doing marijuana again, are you?" With the bitch breathing down my throat, I couldn't keep a bong in the house. I walked to the shops one night and I was dying for some weed. I was thinking, "what the fuck will I do?" and then I walked into the 7/11 and bought a can of coke. Outside, I punched two holes in the tinnie with my car keys and let the coke shit just spill out. The Indian dude at 7/11 came out, all like, "You can't do that here," and I was like, "Do fucken what? Drink my coke, mate?" and he just kept shaking his head/turban and saying, "You can't do that here." I told him to fuck off and lit that shit up as an awesome cannie-bong, right there in the Sevs carpark. Walking back home was like a dream, like I was on a travelator the whole way back.

That's when I startied with cannies, and I never looked back. I know bongs look awesome and shit, but think about it. Cannies are like raw metal, raw weed and your mouth. That shit goes straight into your lungs, hard and fast. It's like the weed's become some monster from Where The Wild Things Are and it's in your chest, eating hash brownies and banging its head against your lungs. Or it's maybe ripping at your lungs with a miniature brick and then just blowing weed smoke into the bloody wound. You FEEL it, you know?
I've seen photos of me smoking a normal bong and even though I do look cool in those photos, I can tell you right now I wasn't as stoned back then. Not sure why, but billies just don't hit you as hard.
I remember being at Ben Primer's 14th birthday party and you can see in one pic that by the end of the night I looked almost completely sober, and I'd had about 15 billies by then. That shit was fucked up, I remember. I smoked all my weed in one night and I had to trade my Mortal Kombat: Annihilation copy to get it. If I'd had a cannie, I would have been ripped straight away, like at Mica's party last year when I broke my wrist* trying to do a keg stand.
I guess if someone put a gun to my head and said, "smoke one of these and one only, bitch", I'd choose a cannie over a billie. Billies get you stoned enough to draw pictures of your favourite metal band but a cannie will make you want to be a better person. Last week I had a cannie and wrote a letter to Eddie McGuire, telling him to fuck off. I've lost it now but when I find it I will definitely send it. Anyone know Channel 9's address or where the fuck I'm supposed to send it?
* For those of you who are concerned about my broken wrist, thank you but it's all good. I don't need to go to a doctor because breaks heal themselves and weed is better than any painkillers the doctor can give you. Except for strong cold and flu tablets, but they're real tight cunts about that shit nowadays. No, Naomi, I didn't break my wrist from batting off. Steve, I'm not paying you for the keg since it fucked my wrist. Sorry, bro.

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