I live in the suburbs
I live in the suburbs. That’s nothing special. Just about everyone in Sydney lives in the suburbs, with the notable exception of homeless people, who live in the ‘streets’, and wannabe gangsta types who live in ‘the hood’. I imagine ‘the hood’ would be pretty crowded. I often wear a hoodie. There’s just enough room in the hood part of it for my head. Which is confusing in and of itself. Perhaps they only live in my head, which is itself in ‘the hood’. It would explain my many and carried mood swings.
Anyhow… I live in the suburbs. I’m surrounded by blocks of flats and smug pieces of shit who can afford actual houses. They constantly rub my nose in my inability to save enough money to buy my quarter-acre block by watering their gardens with giant Methuselahs of expensive imported French springwater (sparkling, of course), while laughing gaily as their wives back their shiny new Audis over their infant children in the driveway. I hate them. They remind me of Ann Coulter. Smug fucks who know that they’re doing the wrong thing, but don’t fucking care.
Anyhow… I live in a flat. In America, they’d call it an apartment. If I owned it, and I lived in America, they’d call it a condo. Somehow, ownership of an apartment magically transforms it into a condo. This, to me, makes no sense at all. It’s a flat. Or a unit. You’re a unit. Just for reading this, you’re a unit. Unit!
Anyhow… some smug Audi-driving fuck who lives in a stand-alone house near me has a big enough backyard to have a chicken coop. I’m assuming it’s a chicken coop, because at all hours of the day and night, I can hear a rooster. It crows incessantly, except when it stops. It sounds a bit like Robert Page, back when he used to swill vodka and scream a lot. It also sounds a bit like someone trying to start a small Japanese car with a crook starter motor. Or bad sparkplugs. I hate small Japanese cars. They remind me of small Japanese people, and I feel sad that so many Japanese people are so small. Honestly, they’re tiny. I had a friend with a Japanese girlfriend once. He met her online. She moved to Sydney, and lived in his room for a year. She was so small, she was invisible. But a steady diet of Australian food fattened her up. Even so, it was about four months before she was even visible to the naked eye.
Anyhow… I live in a unit in the suburbs near some houses where someone keeps a chicken coop with a sad-sounding rooster that is, at this point in time, utterly devoid of Japanese people. The unit, that is. I have no idea if the chicken has any Japanese people. It might, oyu know… they could live in the chicken eggs. You know… because they’re tiny. They’re like the Borrowers. In that they constantly steal things. And are small.
Anyhow… My unit is near a house with a rooster that crows at all hours. 1am – Cock-a-doodle-dooooooo, it goes. Over and over. Crying out into the darkness of the night. “I am a rooster, and this is my turf”, it screams. There are no other calls to be heard. It is the Alpha Rooster. And I hate it. But I have a plan. Oh yes… I have a plan. I live very close to a KFC outlet. The smell that KFC produces is maddening. It smells so good, but you know – you just know – that no matter how hungry that wafting scent of chicken fat and MSG makes you, if you put even a solitary morsel of the Colonel’s Secret Recipe in your mouth, you will instantly gain massive amounts of weight. They should feed it to Japanese people.
Anyhow… I’ve hatched this plan. Much like a chicken hatches an egg, I hatched a plan in my unit near a house with a chicken in the suburbs who cries through sheer loneliness, a mournful crowing. Like a bird with an aching beak. A bird unhappy that it’s doomed to go through life with beady eyes. Little, beady eyes and a cold, black heart. The plan is fiendishly simple. The plan is this: I will snatch the rooster. I will steal an Audi. I will drive the rooster to KFC, and deposit it – crowing mightily, through the drive-through window. I will proclaim loudly that I see no signs at all saying that KFC doesn’t accept BYO. I will be arrested. I will blame it on the odour of KFC. And I will walk away scott-free.
Because everyone lives in the suburbs. And everyone knows what it’s like to look at the greener grass and wish wistfully that those fucking idiots next door would realise that the suburbs are no place for a chicken.
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