Get me to the end of the fucking week already! Seriously, I’m on leave from Friday and this week is dragging its feet more than a 16 year-old Footscray girl in a pair of Ugg Boats walking around Highpoint Shopping Centre in a pair of Adidas trackpants, dart in her mouth, cackling loudly on a pre-paid phone to some equally awful human being somewhere else in the Western Suburbs. If I could press a fast-forward button ala Adam Sandler in the highly forgettable movie ‘Click’ to the point where I’m at the end of the week, I’d hit that button faster than Oprah Winfrey greedily consumes a double cheeseburger.

I hate to be a Grinch, but I really can’t get into the Christmas cheer currently doing the rounds of my office (and I’m sure every other office in Australia).

Co-worker – “Hey Casey, you’re tall, you want to help put up some tinsel to decorate the office?”

Me – “Fuck off.”

I don’t want to drink eggnog, I don’t want to eat a roast turkey, I don’t want to wear a shitty knit jumper with a munted looking reindeer on it & I don’t want to listen to Kris Kristofferson dialling in fucking Christmas carols for the 1000th time. Keep all of it to your fucking selves, alright?

Some fucking kid near my house must’ve got one of his Christmas presents early, because yesterday evening I was awoken from my afternoon nap (how fucking old am I?) by the unmistakable sound of a remote control car whizzing up and down the laneway behind our house. For a moment, I contemplated lobbing a Molotov cocktail at him and watching him burn to death from my bedroom window while pumping ‘Light My Fire’ by The Doors on my stereo, but thought better of it (perhaps a slight overreaction, but the little fucker did wake me up, so what do you expect?)

Really, I think I was just a little jealous at the dude for having a remote-controlled car. They truly are kick-ass. I have fond memories of racing my little open wheeler through the long grass at home, its small electric motor howling angrily as it cut a swathe through my backyard before rocketing onto the cobblestones and around my dog (who had no fucking idea what was going on). I don’t know what ever happened to it or why I didn’t get another one. I guess they’re something you grow out of… right?

I used to collect basketball playing cards growing up. I’d save my pocket money, do odd-jobs around the house, mow the lawns etc. just to save up enough for the next deck. After a while, my dad decided he’d start collecting cards as well. Try and compete against an adult with an adult’s salary as a 12-year old. It’s fucking impossible. I’ll never forget the feeling of complete powerlessness as I watched dad unwrap deck after deck of Fleer Ultras, completing his set in record time. It’s still tucked away in a cupboard somewhere.

Well, time to get my own back. I’m buying the fastest remote control car available and retrofitting it with a bandsaw. I’m going to drop it out my window and cut that little fucker’s Tamiya piece of shit in half while ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’ by The Rolling Stones plays enthusiastically in the background… Innocence is no match for experience, or a disposable income.

Merry fucking Christmas!

/end communication