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Putting on a pair of stripy pants, checking out my bum in the mirror, taking them off again to go to the toilet, then putting them back on, I looked at myself in the mirror again: Mammas, you better lock up your daughters. Especially if they're sluts, 'cause tonight, Bronson makes no excuses for his sexy behavior.
I was decked out to the sexy max: Blue and white vertical striped pants, a red and purple long sleeved shirt with plunging V-neck line, a caramel coloured beret and a gold belt-buckle with the word 'BEEF' stenciled out on it. However, looking back, I can see that wearing pink sandals was bit of a mistake.
Fully pimped out in my sex gear, I went on the hunt for some stray kittens.
"Yo baby, kinna git some FRIES wit' dat SHAKE?" I shouted out to one girl who obviously wanted my children.
"Girl, you so hot I could cook a roast beef in yo draws!" I shouted to another.
"Hey sugar, I done thought I was incapable of getting an erection until I lay my eyes down on yo' sweet li'l candied yams over dere in dat dere pai'o'pants youse in! Chaguuum!!!!" I gruntily dribbled to another.
Damn dere some fly bitches on the Gold Coast. Thing is though, hardly any of them have any taste. After a good sixty minutes of adopting a 70's pimp persona and shouting ribald clichés at good looking ladies, I lowered my standards a bit and started shouting at anyone.
"Momma Raqueem like yo' style sugar," an afroed young, fair-skinned lady purred at me after a particularly disgusting slur, "why don't ya'll shake that spongy little ham sandwich o' yours down to my place so we can git down?" Well, rarely am I to turn down an invitation.
Ten minutes later, Raqueem and I were chillin' in her pad, maxin' out to some Marvin Gaye.
"Damn baby, this place is p-p-pretty bawhoring," I said, sitting back on the couch after the tenth rotation of 'Sexual Healing'. Even after downing a three mugs of vodka, two Woodstocks and a thimble of lighter fluid, I was still finding it hard to ignore the filthy overtones of Mr Gaye's ode to the holistic benefits of frequent copulation, despite my blurred vision and temporary incontinence.
"Well sugar jus' lemme place my head on yo' shoulder, and then we can jus' walk out o' dis ol' dump and pump up some shiyat on da streets," replied Raqueem.
After a zig-zagged and often hand-assisted walk to Cavill, we looked around and around for something to do. Kebab shops, pizza shops, stupid shirt shops - all teaming with pound upon pound of sweaty young flesh. One girl's flesh looked particularly young, and for some reason I assumed she'd want me to touch it. Going in for a hearty handful of backside, I slipped or something and ended up pinching her archilles.
One point for Bronson.
Or so I thought. Looking up, beyond her purple panties and ample bosom, I saw a confused, horrified face. Next to that face was another: equally confused, yet pissed off. Oh, and with a whispy moustache.
"Look mate alright you toucha me woman again I fuck you up, understand mudderfucking, 'kay mate?" It said, palms spread out, facing me. "Eh you look sick mudderfucking, what this bitcha do to you eh?" He said, pointing at the equally fucked up Raqueem. "Eh mate! You lika beef, 'ey?" he excitedly asked, noticing my gold, stenciled belt buckle. "My fadder, owns a butcher, best beef you get. Like taking bite outta byootifoo women, brilliant mudderfucking. Beef, yah?"
I'm not sure what made me do it, but for some reason I turned my back against everything I believed in and disagreed with the ethnic cliché.
"Beef? Beef? Blech!" I said, before getting up and spitting on the ground. "I'm a pork man, always have been always will be! Ooo I love getting a hold of dead piggy meat, taking out a huge bite, letting my saliva perform the first step of digestion whilst my tongue articulates the flesh into a swallowable bolus," I continued, "Ah yes, I'm hungry for piggy meat right now! Kill a pig! Death to piggies!"
Then, two cops showed up behind me.
* * *
One count public drunkedness, one count drinking in public, one count of commiting a lewd act, two counts abusing an officer and half a count of public indecency.
Little did I know that I had my fly undone the whole time, but I got off lucky with only half a count, because as the cop said, "there's only half to count." Whatever that meant.
And so it was, I spent my last night at schoolies in the Gold Coast lock up, my last sexual conquest the rubber gloved man in room 36.
Well, not exactly...
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