The Cook's Toolkit

The Cook's Toolkit
The Cook's Toolkit by Clever Pumpkin.


The romance is over: Edward & Bella twenty years on. My short story Daylight is now available as a free download.

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Monday, February 28, 2011

Police & Sex Dolls: Up Against It

I used to know a plumber (yes, the same one; the guy should have been a stand-up comedian) who, when relating an incident to a lady, would substitute the expletives he assuredly expleted at the time with the term, Well, I nearly had kittens!  This came to light one day when, wide-eyed, straight-faced and earnest of expression, he told me of popping the capping from a roof only to have a trapped possum jump out at him.  He looked me in the eye and said, Well, I nearly had kittens! and of course I'd pee myself laughing thinking about what he must have said at the time and how different the story would have been at the pub: Mate, I popped the f*****g roof and this f*****g bloody possum –  I f*****g kid you not, mate – f*****g jumped out and I tell ya I couldn’t decide whether to have a f*****g heart attack mate or whether to s**t meself right there and then, mate.  What are you f*****g laughing at, mate? – this great smacking muscled plumber could look me in the eye and declare solemnly I nearly had kittens! with a perfectly straight face.

I’m useless when it comes to keeping a straight face.  In one of my jobs we used to have spectacular rubber band fights, straight out of a swashbuckler, with these outsized rubber bands that were used for – God, what were they used for?  They must have had a legitimate purpose other than our rubber band fights – I think they were used to keep technical manual originals together; anyway, the thing about these outsized rubber bands was they’d give you a goodly thwack in the back of the head.  I was already at a disadvantage; my male co-workers having better aim than I (greater hand-eye co-ordination achieved through a lifetime of male peeing, I suppose, though many a bathroom floor could attest differently), anyway, disadvantaged though I already was, whenever I tried to sneak up on them, I invariably gave myself away at the last minute either by giggling, or by doubling over laughing, banging my head loudly on the petition concealing me.  And then I’d go down in a merciless hail of rubber bands. 

My desk faced the window.  Sometimes I’d become aware of a figure in the glass standing behind me, which enroute to the tearoom had stopped and not moved on, and I’d look up to see my co-worker – one Romann Kudinoff – standing stock still in the classic shooter’s stance, feet wide apart, rubber band stretched to the limit, poised to shoot.  I’d look up, gasp, and be too bloody helpless with laughter to defend myself.  Again, I’d go down in a head smacking hail of rubber bands, laughing myself stupid even as the thwacks to the back of my head brought tears to my eyes, and sometimes hitting my head on my own desk on the way down.

Like I said, I’m useless when it comes to keeping a straight face, and lately I’ve been wondering how the police manage it.

During the recent floods, a couple of eastern suburban bogans (ah yes, Ringwood, where being seen means walking barefoot around Eastland car park, VB in hand, with a pit bull on a rope – the eastern suburbs Easter Parade) decided it was a jolly good idea to ride inflatable women down the swollen Yarra River.  (Ah, Jesus help us, I was researching the term inflatable woman when I encountered this Wikipedia entry.  Oh for the love of God, if this is a high-end inflatable woman as the caption suggests, then I’d hate to see the cheap and nasty version.  At least she's wearing knickers.  Ah! That's probably what makes her high-end.
High-end inflatable woman

and by the by, in Finland, inflatable women, a.k.a. sex dolls, a.k.a. love dolls, a.k.a. blow up dolls – I’ll leave that one alone – are known as Barbara.  Don’t say I never tell you anything meaningful.)

Anyway,  The incident prompted a warning from police that blow-up sex toys are "not recognised flotation devices.’” 

Now how the hell do you learn to say something like that with a straight face?  And what do they really say, behind closed doors at the police station?

Ah bugger it.
What is it, Senior Constable?
The f*****g media want a statement about those two bogan dingbats riding the rubber sheilas.
I think you’ll find they were silicone, Frank.
Well someone knows their sex dolls, Doug.
Don’t look at me – I’m allergic to latex.
Really?  That why you had to find out about the silicone shags, then?
That’s enough you two.  Whose turn is it to make a media statement?
Frank’s, Sergeant.
Ah f**k it.  Thanks, Doug.
Stop bitching, Senior Constable, or you’ll be patrolling without bullets in your gun tonight.
Yes, Sarge.  Sorry, Sarge.
What are you going to say?
How about, “Blow-up sex toys are not recognised flotation devices?”
I don’t know, Frank – they do have places you could conceivably insert oars.

How do they do it?  It must be something they learn at police school.

Now, ladies and gentlemen, because stupidity is not illegal, you’re going to have to learn to say certain things with a straight face.  Repeat after me.
(As one) Yes, Sergeant!
Police warn it is not a good idea to poke a venomous snake with a sharp stick, even if 12 cans of VB are telling you otherwise.
(Sing song) Police-warn-it-is-not-a-good-idea-to-poke-a-venomous-snake-with-a-sharp-stick-even-if-12-cans-of-VB-are-telling-you-otherwise.
The penis is not a nutcracker.
The-penis hmmppfff!
Right, James – no bullets in your gun for the first six months on the job.
Oh, Sarge…
Smiling now, James?
No, Sarge.
Right.  Repeat after me.  The penis is not a nutcracker.
Nor can it be used as a battering ram  to open the front door when you’ve lost your keys.
Particularly not after 12 cans of VB.
No, sir, you are NOT Tarzan.
Blowing up a condom does not constitute a breath test.
The anus is not a glovebox.
The-anus hmmpfff! 
No bullets in your gun for twelve months, James. 
Oh, Saaaaarge…

Imagine how much more entertaining the world would be if only police were allowed to say what they really think.

I warned the offender to desist but he kept coming, so I cracked his thick head with my Whacker-Stopper-2000 then gave him a belt of my Arsehole-Be-Gone spray, your honour.

I have no idea what got me started on this.

By the way, according to one Senior Constable Wilson, “The fate of the inflatable dolls is unknown.”

Yeah, right.  Pull the other one, Senior Constable, pull the other one.

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