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Sunday Afternoon.
I slept most of the day. Depressed from the previous night's shenanigans, I wasn't in the mood for Spike, or any of his shit. That's why I punched him. I don't know what he did the night before, but I can tell you now he wasn't close to getting some action off a hot broad like I was. Curious, I asked Spike just what he got up to after I left him for someone better. It wasn't that I gave a shit, I just needed some way to whittle away the hours, and thought falling asleep on the couch listening to that dickhead would be a fine way to spend Sunday evening.

Monday morning came soon enough, and there I was waking up on the couch, Spike lying prostrate next to me, hand near his prostate.
Lounging in the loungeroom, still reclined on the couch, inhaling the warm, curiously fragrant aroma wafting from my sweaty sleeping pants, I was jolted into action by a patient, effeminate knocking at the door. Neglecting to put a shirt on, I opened the door to a mousy, red-haired girl who introduced herself as Steph, and let herself in. After making some rather inflamatory comments about my hairy gut (obviously a girl unaware of the components of a real man), she sat on a still unconscious Spike's lap and played with his face until he awoke. Hoping she would fart on him, I kept an eye on the two as I fixed myself up a mess of Stagg Chilli. I figured she wasn't about to let one off any time soon, so after I finished my breakfast I went for a walk. I thought Surfers Paradise was boring at night. It's a lot worse during the day, trust me. There was some band, my best guess a Christian one, playing at the beach. The lead singer must've thought he was Michael Hutchence or something, prancing around the stage like a tosspot. It was pretty funny when someone threw a thong right at his face, but other than that it was a fairly painful experience.

Realising the shocking truth that I was two nights and a day into schoolies without getting drunk yet, I resolved to do something about it. That is... get drunk.
So who's dumb enough to give me free booze? Ahh, of course! The Jivin' Jesters themselves, Greg, Bill, Steve, Nick, Ryan and Jake.
Jake was still a little tender after the previous night's incident, but he still had the bravado to sink a few Goldies with the rest of us, and even let me get stuck into someone else's alcohol. The Goldies went down like a good cyclist: fast and smooth. Full of new found vim and vitality, we were all in the mood for some lovin'. Greg, Bill, Steve, Nick and I all went upstairs to some ladies' room, whereas Jake wasn't comfortable leaving the beer fridge so he had to make do and instead raped Ryan.
The ladies upstairs were hardly 'ladies', even under the most lenient definitions of the term. Greg, Bill, Steve, Nick and I weren't about to waste our drunkedness on three dodgy chicks and a midget, so we hightailed it back downstairs to see how Ryan was holding up.
Opening the door to find cushions ripped, the cupboard doors off their hinges and the roof covered in an exotic, unidentifiable fluid, we could ascertain Ryan probably wasn't in the best of shapes. A crumpled, shivering mass in the corner is how we found him, Jake standing over him, panting. He mustn't've heard us come in, but as Greg scuffed his shoe on the tiled floor, Jake's wolf-like eyes darted across the room in his direction. Holding his hands up, a very drunk Greg invited Jake to do his worse. Taken aback by this invitation, Jake's behaviour changed. He became more gentle... more like a puppy than a predator. Hardly resisting Jake's carnal advances, Greg solemly allowed him to do as he wished, and returned (to my best estimation) every good favour.
Now in a fully-clothed, symbiotic conjuction on Steve's bed, I could see why both were doing this: for the practise. Routinely changing positions, I could see both of them sternly discuss the advantages and pitfalls of each new postion they tried, as Nick took notes and drew crude diagrams. Myself, also in need of some practise, and also inebriated to the shithouse, excused myself into the fruity yet not quite homosexual tryst. Giving Greg a well-deserved breather, and giving the insatiable Jake some 'fresh meat' to play with, I showed the boys the original, the ever-elusive, the highly pleasing, 'Volcomstalker Manoeuvre'. I don't like to brag, but I'm sure the exhausted Jake had no trouble sleeping that night.

Finishing off a few more Goldies before I left, I thanked the boys for an exciting and educational day, and rushed of home just in time for M*A*S*H.