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Some drive themselves, some get their mums to drive them, some fools even catch the train. To my knowledge, no-one has ever hired a limo to take them to schoolies, despite being documented in some stupid movie with the kid from A Country Practice in it.
And so it was, like my father and his foster father before him, I loaded up my bright red Datsun 200B for my trip down to Goldy. Loaded with clothes, dommies, Nachos-to-go, and most importantly Spike, we were set to tackle the highway.
What can be one of your greatest errors in long-distance driving is the wrong choice for who you choose as companionship on the long journey. Tip: If you ever have to make a long trip, or even a short stroll down to the IGA for some bread, don't take Spike with you. He's a stupid fuckwit.
Before we'd even pulled out of the driveway, he'd copped a corked leg after an heated argument over musical accompaniment for our lengthy trip. There's no fucking way Sum41 are getting played in MY tapedeck.
Spike saw reason after a good minute of sulking and clutching his bruised leg, and conceded that it was for the best if I got my way.
Billy Joel it would be.
I really must reiterate what an annoying fat cunt Spike was that whole trip, and still is to this day. He stole a condom off his little sister and kept showing it to me and holding it under his nose (it wasn't even scented). I admit that since I was driving I can't really be sure of this, but I'm sure I saw him rub it against his crotch whilst he was talking about how cool it would be to have sex with a real woman.
Then, I was delightfully informed of the sensual and practical advantages of wearing a condom whilst masturbating, as opposed to the old fashioned (and personally, more intimate) technique of dry member in dry fist. I couldn't take much more of this blasphemy, so I pulled over into the hallowed and respected highway trucker snoozer stopper: The BP Service Centre. The two hours of driving before us had certainly deserved a quick respite. And some chicken.
The purging of my bowels and the lovely Portugese Chicken at Nando's gave me the chance to clear my head (and colon), and tell Spike to stop being such a pervy little twerp. After Spike looked at the ground, dejected, he came in. He didn't see us, but Spike and I saw him. That's right, our old pal Matt Strain was there, at the BP Service Centre, also getting a large order of Nando's Portugese Chicken.
Man that bastard can clean a plate. In the time it took Spike to take a piss, Matt had consumed at least $20 worth of Piri-Piri style chicken wings, ruining his shirt and the one of his friend next to him in the process. He can't've been in much of a hurry, because after undoing his belt, he sat there for a good ten minutes, staring at the wall, my best guess on the brink of throwing up.
Sickened at the disgusting display of gluttony and greedy abondon before me, I promptly wiped the chicken grease and congealed saliva off my lips, nose and eyebrows, and headed towards the car.
Spike said a lot more stupid and boring shit for a while, until finally: our destination was growing nigh. As the towering monstrosities of Surfer's Paradise obscured our view of the horizonous beach, we knew we had made it. Spike and I clasped eachother's hands in triumph, and grinned as we awaited meeting our Golden destination: victory being our fuel, and excitement our radiator coolant.
As the Datsun drove over a long-dead cat, rendered cat jerky after countless cars before us, Spike and I saw a hot chick jogging beside us; bereft of an under corset of any kind, letting her sandbag-like boobies flop all over the place. After she had passed, I flashed a knowing smile at Spike. He smiled back. Without saying a word, I knew we were thinking the same thing.
My friend, this is going to be a great week.
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