You don’t speak any English? Like, what the fuck?

So you’re from Haiti. That’s got all that voodoo shit, yeah? Well that kinda explains that, umm, thing, uh, on your , err, face, there.

You have sister? Is she cute? Is she here?

Okay you can come up, but only for an hour, okay? I’m not paying for no twin share.

Whoa, what was that? Was that you? No, wait. That was me.

Shit. It’s not working. Oh, hang on. It’s inside out.

I’m done. Your turn.

No, I’m too sleepy.

I gave you twenty bucks for a taxi. I don’t have more just for you.

Who took my fucking passport?

Okay, so I’m like so in LA right now, and soaking up it’s awesomeness. I got photos on Facebook. There was one sight I could not bear to photograph, Muscle beach. Picture this: (a) open air gym; (b) only one guy in the gym; (c) said guy has more muscle in his ear than I have in my entire body; (d) said guy wearing less clothing on his body than I’m wearing on my head; (e) said clothing used to carry his iPod.

If ever I could accused of approximating a mid-life crisis, I can now say that crisis is successfully averted. I’ve seen LA and I embrace my lack of coolness.

Sometimes I think my daughter would make a fantastic fundamentalist Christian.

Beautiful Girl: “Dad, you like boys?”

Dad: “Err, yes, honey, I do.”

BG: “Right.”

Dad: “So… why ask?”

BG: “Well, I was wondering….”

Dad: “You can ask me anything, sweetheart. Go ahead.”

BG: “Who do you like better, Edward or Jacob?”

Dad: “Oh man, I thought you were going to ask me something serious.”

BG: “This is serious.”

Dad: “I don’t really like either of them. They’re both too young for me.”

BG: “What?”

Dad: “I’m old enough to be their dad, you know. I’m really not attracted to boys that young.”

BG: “I don’t get it.”

Dad: “You know, Bella’s dad?”

BG: “Eww, yeah. He’s mean.”

Dad: “He’s cute.”

BG: “Oh that’s disgusting. And I just don’t accept that.”

Dad: “I beg your pardon?”

BG: “You have to like either Edward or Jacob.”

Dad: “Why?”

BG: “That’s just the way it is.”

1. Exercise.
   There’s nothing better than getting in touch with your body when you’re feeling low. I enjoy going for a run. For that extra resistance, I knock out my ex with some rohypnol, take off his clothes, and drag him along behind me.
2. Remember that drugs and porn don’t work.
   They have, however, earned me enough money to get a good therapist.
3. Kick a puppy.
4. Don’t slut it out of your system.
   That’s just offensive to sluts and takes the fun out of being a slut for its own sake.
5. Hug a friend.
   Some of my friends have massive knockers. I can convince them I’m depressed enough, and gay enough, that they let me cry into their cleavage. A real good sob leads to that wet and warm feeling.
6. Write a list of all the things you can do now that you’re single.
   For example: Lee, Michael, Sarah, Ramon, Jeremy, Stuart and Michelle, and then on Monday, Alexis, Hoa, Pedro and that guy who sells coffee outside Melbourne Central station.
7. Remind yourself of your own worth.
   $150 in-calls, $250 out-calls.
8. Consider it an opportunity for growth.
   Tell the story of your broken heart to your children every night. Add a moral to the story, so that your experiences will help them grow as people. The moral I like to use is, “Don’t have kids.”
   

So last weekend I was the only single guy under forty at a mate’s wedding. I can’t say there are any real drawbacks to it. They place you right at the back table, which gives you freedom to do whatever you want, like having a nap during speeches and whatnot, and you’re close to the bathroom, which is handy when the fish in balsamic sauce and asparagus comes out (the same balsamic vinaigrette and asparagus found in the hors d’oevres and entree). And for some reason men with girlfriends have decided that they don’t dance in Australian country weddings, so all the pretty girls had to dance with me.

I’m not sure what it is though, as much as I’m a sucker for love, and even bigger sucker for free food and booze and pretty girls whose boyfriends don’t dance, I think I am allergic to weddings. I wake up the morning of every wedding I’m invited to with a thumping headache and massive nausea, which leads to me staying away from food while looking for headache remedies (such as booze), which leads to even bigger headaches and greater nausea. The previous wedding I attended was MFEW’s (my favourite ex-wife’s) mother’s wedding. Rushing to the toilet every forty seconds wouldn’t have been so bad if it wasn’t me who was actually officiating the ceremony. I think in the end though everybody was relieved how quick and simple the ceremony was, and how sooner everyone could get to the all-important free booze and food.

So for this wedding the signs appeared early in the morning, so I doped myself up on as much paracetamol and codeine that I could find. I don’t why people say overdosing on such stuff could be harmful. I had about fifteen of each during the day and I felt fucking terrific! So terrific in fact, that I played games with everyone at the wedding. I was having so much fun. I had this little project, you see, that involved the groom’s brother, who just happens to be my best friend, who also just happens to be living with his super brilliant girlfriend, who both have just happened to decide that getting married is not their thing. So my little project was to be as friendly as I could with everyone at the wedding, introduce myself to all the relatives and old uni mates of the bride and groom, and tell them all how they should approach my best friend and/or his girlfriend and ask them “So, when is it your turn to get married? You’re such a lovely couple.” Being so super friendly and outgoing and charming I could not lose in convincing everyone what a brilliant idea that is to do.

But then when dancing with my best friend’s girlfriend (did I mention men with boyfriend’s can’t dance?) I kinda let it slip that I had this project. I think I was doing the twist at the time, because that’s what you do when all members of the wedding band have decided that when they grow up they want to form a wedding band and do nothing else for the rest of their lives but play fucking awful sixties tunes to bogans in suits. Anyway, said girlfriend told me she was actually relieved that I had such a project, and not at all surprised, and that she too, had prepared a repertoire of appropriate responses to said question:

• Oh my, am I showing already?
• Oh yes I can’t wait, I’m just have to get permission from my pimp first.
• As soon as same-sex marriages is legalised. Any day now. Yes, I tuck it in. Nobody can tell.
• We’d like to get married, but I’ve always dreamed of honeymooning in the Mediterranean, and I’m not allowed to leave the state.
• Well, my boyfriend has conferenced with my other personalities, and he’s decided he’s not ready for a United States of Tara thing.
• That is such a lovely thing to hope for, but, you know, as soon as this wedding is over, it’s back in the box for me.
• I’m only 14!!!
• We talked about it, but since we’re half-brother and half-sister, it wouldn’t be such a great idea. By the way, don’t tell his mum. We want dad to break it to her soon.