Oh Fate, the evil temptress! After oppugning my vitriolic words on our welfare state, she graciously rewarded me with $324, for no discernable reason other than a thank you for finding work. Okay Fate in this instance is just Little Johnny Howard playing dress ups in ladies panties, but now I feel conflicted by that image, and how happy I am with the fact I just got $324 for nothing after ridiculing free handouts from the government. Does the absence of intent to misappropriate free me from guilt? I admitted to my $1,600 for 3 weeks of hardly working, and they gave me cash without having to resort to begging, or asking Mum to go guarantor. What gives?
And I had spent a solid hour with my useless Job Seeker diary, forging job applications from everyone I have ever known. Ex-girlfriends were knocking me back from fish 'n' chip shops, school friends were hampering my rapid ascent up the corporate ladder, and even past pets chipped in to keep me out of the work force. As long again was spent finding numbers in the Yellow pages so at least the phone number would be right should someone care to call and check up on my forgery. The kind lady behind the counter at Centrelink tried to send me on my way without even checking the diary, let alone closely scrutinizing it. After feebly offering it up, she flicked through it half expecting to see a tiny figure sketched in the corner of the page do a back flip on his bike and land on his head. Stamp, stamp see you later laddie-boy and be sure to come back next week as you'll probably get more money for nothing. Perhaps to encourage me to blow my cash on bundy rum and accidentally impregnant someone. What could I do with my $5,000 baby bonus?
As I write now, conveniently enough totally smashed as that seems to be the manner with which all things get done around here, I contemplate the task of getting up for my third straight day of labour. After a starting the first day by giving the pickers a stunning oratory display that I felt had Martin Luther King turning in the tree they scattered his ashes in to, the first day went amazingly well as they performed the tasks asked to implement a new way we devised to track the pickers. By seeking approval from the boss first, I garnered plenty of respect for such a bold and cunning plan. Plenty of derision also resulted from being such a butt kisser too. Take the good with the bad though, heh? Whoops, slight Queenslandism slipped in there.
Day two, or today, but quite a few days ago as you read this now, I worked with the keen eyes of my dear old Nana watching over my every move. Paddock two needed weeding and Adam and I were on a two man solo mission, or a duo mission, or two men going at it, or what ever, it was ours to weed. After the first weed came flying out of the soil, complete with the strawberry bush attached to it, I saw my Nana rushing over to save another bulb I had accidently 'weeded' out for her. A few more valuable bushes were sliced in half before I worked out how gentle my touch needed to be.
Then to break up the monotony of the first 10 minutes, Justin went past in a tractor doing a spray of some description. Boss man hadn't told us about the spray cause our lungs are not his concern, but Justin was concerned enough to tell us to at least cover our faces. Another round of growth hormones apparently. So, as I felt my balls shrink and my breasts grow through the day, I had to face the reality of super charged, Venus hand trap weeds growling at me as I approached them. Armed with a sycthe I took them out, but not without sustaining another round of blisters to match my foots colony of camel humps.
At the end of the day, a couple of barrel loads of weeds got dumped on the farms tip, a.k.a. burn off, a.k.a. environmental disaster waiting for my rage to report it. I was supposed to head town-ward, against my better judgement, and spend the governments generous donation on some tattoo equipment, another way to avoid going back on welfare in future. (Perhaps part of the governments larger plan.) Adam and I have decided to practice on each other. Surely so far beyond stupid that it is bound to make for great reading, if nothing else. Luckily enough, I don't mind having large chunks of black skin, as I chose a madman, the bassist from Rage Against the Machine, with similar tattoos as a role model.
A yet unmentioned but important part of our general increase in well being, was the firing of the most unstable of the farms employees. After a random guy called the boss asking for more of the stolen trays of strawberry's from Sir Punch-a-lot with the sissy throwing technique, he was pretty much fired on the spot. The anticipated confrontation with us who dobbed him in, never eventuated, and the job has been all the more enjoyable for his absence. Even the other questionably acceptable guys are proving to be harmless enough to have a laugh or two, without getting close enough to discover the depth of their redneck heritage.
Anyway, my apologies to those who were hoping that a travel journal might involve some degree of movement other than that induced by fibre, but circumstances dictate my life is to be here for the next couple of months at least. I couldn't be happier really. To the laughs such times will engender!