Well, it's been another hectic week at work this week with the usual head fcuks - SNAFU (Situation Normal, All Fcuked Up)
But ya do get used to it and roll with the punches.
The bloody phones were going berserk, and every fcuken call was an insignificant fcuken question including one from one of the boys who wanted to know where to get some fcuken Methanal from because he wants to race this weekend and the fcuken Shell depot has run out.
I told him to ring his Mum and ask her.
That pissed him off.
Then the family Doc (Dr Mike) rang and left a message on the mobile phone. (Cell)
He said that we need to talk face to face, so I started thinking that this could be serious, because I'd just recently had to get a turd sample analysed for the ol' Prostate test as a matter of course which you do as the years kick on.
I hate sh1ttin in those plastic containers, because no matter how careful you are, you always miss the fcuka.
Anyway, I rocked around to his joint this morning and asked him what the problem was, besides sex and finance.
So he took me out to his garage and showed me his 2 new aquisitions.
A BMW and a Ducati Monster with Learner Plates on 'em.
Well what's the fcuken problem Mike?
Story is that the BM has got better brakes than the Duke and he's a bit worried about it because his daughter is learning to ride.
No worries, chuck us the keys and a skid lid and I'll take the fcuka for a fang.
Well, I hooted the Duke into the first corner and it sounded and felt like there was a bowl of Kellogs Corn Flakes in the front hub.
So when I got back, we lifted the front up with an engine crane and the fcuken front wheel bearings were as dry as an Afghans underpants and rooted.
So Dr Mike owes me some good drugs next time the back's fcuked, and me freckle will live to see another day.