Reads: 150  | Likes: 1  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 1

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic

What I have to endure.

Autumn: Toilet Destroying Madwomen

Summer is waning – it is early March and the days’ reach low to mid-thirties. However, the mornings are glorious and I enjoy sitting on my veranda reading in the cool breeze and quiet contemplation. Sometimes my cat joins me and watches the passing cars with trepidation. People rarely pass by, although this morning an absolutely stunning young woman walked by with her music machine plugged into her ears, wearing black tights and skimpy top. I’m getting too old to be subjected to the sight of gorgeous athletic young women strolling by. It’s not fair.

Speaking of unathletic, unattractive older women, Nell was over yesterday – she was out of booze and baccy. So am I now and one of the few pleasures remaining to me is smoking cigarettes with my morning tea and coffee. Coffee and cigarettes. I’ll have to learn to abstain like Koestler’s character Rubashov in Darkness at Noon, which I am currently reading. Every time I try to give up smoking a madwoman turns up with cigarettes or tobacco within a day or two. At least Rubashov faces certain death at the hands of the State and Party by page 211; I could linger here suffering for years, constantly annoyed by madwomen and local miscreants, and Rubashov is a fictional character, unlike Nell.

My former next-door neighbour, Ted, brought some red wine over the other day, which included a bottle of sparkling Shiraz. I finally got around to chilling it and Nell, who drinks anything, helped me consume it. I don’t feel too good today. Nell had a drama out in the bathroom and had to leave suddenly yesterday. I don’t even want to try to imagine what happened, but she was pretty pissed. The last thing in the world you need is an overweight, alcoholic lesbian sitting her fat arse on your toilet. No wonder the fucking thing leaks! It’s not fixed to the floor properly any more. I’m expecting her to knock it over completely before too long and I’ll have to call out a plumber. Jesus!

“What happened to your bog, Poet?” I will be asked.

“A drunken fat-arsed madwoman destroyed it.”

“I hope you’re insured against that eventuality.”

“I’ll claim it was an act of God. He hates me and sent a Madwoman over to destroy my dunny.”

“Good luck with that, Poet. It looks to be about a thousand dollars’ worth of damage.”

“A thousand dollars! Can I legally shit in the backyard?”

“I don’t think Coolamon Shire Council will allow that, but I can put in a seppo for five grand.”

“Five thousand dollars!” I cried. “Where am I going to get that much money?” I asked rhetorically.

“Well, you could always get a job.”

“A job! If I got paid twenty dollars an hour it would take me 250 hours to earn five grand, and I’d have to give up eating, drinking, smoking and womanising.”

“All of which are insidious vices you can do without. You could always beg for leftovers down at the retirement village if you get hungry. Try scabbing cigarettes out of gutters and hotel ashtrays. You’ll save a fortune, and if you need cheap booze there’s always meths. My uncle Eddie swore by the stuff and he lived to the grand old age of thirty-eight, and they didn’t have to bury him.”

“What? Was he cremated?”

“God no! He was so well preserved in methylated spirits they put him in a museum with a sign that says: ‘Methyl Mummification’. He’s a major attraction, but you can’t smoke within two hundred metres due to his flammability. My advice is to forbid mad drunken women from sitting on your bog.”

He drove off in his white ute seeking suitable remuneration. I stared disbelievingly at my severely damaged dunny.

“Why does God hate me so much?” I shouted to the heavens, which was followed by a very long silence.


Hopefully, she won’t come over today, but I’ll hide out at the library for a while just in case. She is far from winsome; I don’t know why God hates me so much and continues to send big-arsed madwomen to my location. If there is a God and he can in fact turn a tree into a cow, why can’t he fix my fucking toilet? It’s hardly rocket science.

Submitted: June 06, 2020

© Copyright 2021 Craig Davison. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments:



Well, I really enjoyed your tale of woe, you made me feel I was (sitting) there!
Thank you

Sat, June 6th, 2020 1:48pm


Tales of woe are funny. I'm listening to Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata on the Classical music station and that is funny in its own way. Thanks for your positive response to my facetious misery. I don't think anyone leads a life more blessed than me. I am lucky. I am a writer who lives in solitude. Love the face mask, by the way. I should get one too, but hey, I'm a recluse.

Sat, June 6th, 2020 10:09pm

Facebook Comments

More Humor Short Stories

Other Content by Craig Davison

Poem / Song Lyrics