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Wednesday, February 18, 2015

Why aren't they called Cockatoo Smugglers?

I was having a quick, condensed, twenty minute conversation with some colleagues in our staff room the other day and I won’t name who it was because one of them recently threatened to sue me for alleged defamation on my blog (hi Shazza). Two of them were male colleagues and the other was Lee-lee.

For some reason; I think it was the impending swimming carnival, we were discussing budgie smugglers, banana hammocks, lolly bags, DTs (aka dick togs) and whatever else they’re called.

“I can tell you an embarrassing story about budgie smugglers!” I said.

Four forks full of microwaved leftovers clinked down on plates and four sets of eyes stared at me in unadulterated fascination.

“What?” hissed Lee-lee. “Tell us, Pinky!”

Lunch time in the staffroom is pretty boring.

“Well…” I tantalisingly drawled, enjoying my fifteen seconds of fame. “It was when my kids were little and having swimming lessons. The swim coach wanted to talk to me about their progress and he was standing there dripping wet in his budgie smugglers and I had a fleeting glimpse at his bulging manhood.”

“What? You mean you looked at it?” choked J.B. one of my male colleagues in absolute disgust.

“I had to!” I squawked in my own defence.

“You had to?” he echoed with barely disguised contempt.

“I couldn’t help it!” I said. “It was like my eyes were drawn to it! You know when someone has a mole the size of a twenty cent piece in the middle of their face with hairs sticking out of it and you can’t help staring? I didn’t want to look at it!”

“So what did he do? Did he catch you looking?” asked an enthralled Shazza.

“Yep, he knew I’d glanced at it alright. He just sort of stopped talking for a few seconds and sneered at me in distaste, then kept talking about Thaddeus’ doggy paddle style.”

“And what did you do after that?” asked O’Reilly.

“I think I blushed, and very soon after that changed swim schools,” I replied, picking at my chia seed health bar thoughtfully.

I’ve never forgotten the incident which occurred about twenty years ago. It still makes me cringe in shame.

The trouble with budgie smugglers is that there’s only the sheerest of nylon between the pulsating thing enclosed and the outside world. It’s impossible to maintain eye contact when you’re talking to a man wearing nothing bar a nylon tissue standing two feet away from you without peeking and I think this is why women hate them so much.

We don’t want to look but we sort of have to. It’s not nice but it’s true.

It’s a similar thing when you’re talking to someone who’s cross-eyed and you don’t know which eye to look at so you just stare at a spot in the middle of their forehead because you don’t want to inadvertently address your concerns to the eye that's not really looking at you.

Anyway, at the end of the day I think the little chat with my male colleagues was beneficial because they both wore board shorts to the swimming carnival yesterday, praise the lord. 

Either that or they’re now afraid of me.