Saturday, October 25, 2014

Pinky's Arch Nemesis



I hate the old bat who lives in that house across the road. 

She’s a vicious, bigoted hag. 

I know things about her. Secret things. Things she’d rather not be made public. 

I watch her every morning when she sidles out to the recycling bin with her wine bottles, looking up and down the street to make sure no one is watching. I see her tip the bin ever so slightly so she can slide the bottles in without her neighbours hearing the clashing jangle of glass against glass; evidence of her excessive habits. 

But I see all.

I wait patiently across the road from the house knowing it won’t be long now. Soon she’ll be out the door again on her way to work. 

Idiot Cat


She’ll pour the cat’s food into its bowl on her way to the garage. The stupid cat sticks its head in the bowl before she’s finished dispensing the Friskies and gets biscuits emptied all over its daft head. The biscuits scatter all over the veranda tiles but the old witch is oblivious. Her focus is on getting to work on time. She’s usually running late after wasting time on her laptop and watching Kochie and Sam on the telly instead of putting her war paint on.

As soon as she disappears into the garage I’ll make my move. Sometimes the senile old biddy forgets something and catches me sneaking up as she goes back into the house to retrieve her lunch or sunglasses. She threw a rubber thong at me one day, screaming abuse like a demented harridan. The thong almost clipped me but I was too fast for her, ducking and swerving: my signature moves. I can’t begin to imagine what the man walking his dog past the house thought.

Voodoo!


In the past few months she’s tried to intimidate me with voodoo but I’m street smart now, having left my drought stricken homeland years ago. I've wised up to the punitive urban lifestyle my tribe has been forced to live in. I've assimilated; a
lways alert to danger. 

It’s a dog eat dog world in the city.

Ah. There she goes puttering down the road in her canary yellow Suzuki Swift. 

Garish.

Tasteless old crone. I might have to leave my calling card again this time. I love to sit on the telephone wires and laugh when she swears like a navvy as she hoses it off the veranda.


Now Sylvester, the tables have turned… Tweety wants his breakfast.


Igor the Fudging Ibis