Funbags

It was new day in the football firmament and Brendan had finally managed to get rid of the chick he’d been doing that evening/morning.

Why did they always want to hang around and stuff? Sure, if they could kick he’d take them out in the park and they could boot balls back to him as he practiced his set shots but every time he suggested that, they just put a finger to their lips and said something like:

“Why don’t we stay inside and have some fun, baby?”

Nah, he’d think to himself, I’ve already rooted you. And I’m gunna root a different chick tonight. Why would I want to root you again? What I want to do is practice my set shots and that. So normally he called them a cab and promised them he’d meet them at a café on Lygon Street in an hour for coffee and cakes.

Then, when they got there, the owner of the café, who was good mates with a few famous Carlton supporters who worked in the nightclub security industry, would tell the young lady that it would be in her best interest to not make contact with Brendan and to most certainly not go to any media or newspaper.

The newspapers. They were sitting on the grass outside his house as he watched the cab carrying Narelle or Chantelle or whatever her name was drive safely away. He picked them up and brought them inside.

He sat down with a glass of milk and a few slices of white bread. Dieticians be fucked. If one of them could come round and teach him how to work the toaster, then he’d the toasted brown bread they recommended.

Then to the papers. He was glad all that Dingogate stuff was off the front pages. It was just some bullshit about some country called Israel (what a stupid name for a country!) dropping a nuclear bomb on some other country. Boring.

Brendan hadn’t understood what the fuss about the Rebecca/Caroline video was about anyway. He’d seen it. It was two chicks getting it on. He alone possessed hundreds of videos where girls did that and more. Loads more. Things you wouldn’t believe. And not just with each other. With blokes, sometimes loads of blokes. And carrots and ice cream and chairs and he even had one with a spiny ant-eater in it. Two chicks just going for it for 15 minutes was nothing.

He turned the pages of the paper. A few pages in there was a picture of a touring African American chanteuse wearing a remarkably tight fitting top of sorts.

Christ, thought Brendan to himself, would you look at the funbags on her?

Funbags. Dirty pillows. God’s gift. He loved them. Geez, if he had a set of his own like that, he’d never get into trouble in a club or with sheilas again.

He’d just sit at home and play with him. Might even make it easier to take chest marks.

He chomped down on another slice of white bread, softening it up with milk until it formed a viscous liquid that slowly dripped down the back of his throat.

This is what is must feel like for chicks when they swallow, he thought, running his hands across his worringly flat chest as he did.

Now why was he doing that? Why did it feel so, so, flat?