The Cancer Chronicles – Page 6

#36 Skinheads, scans and an anniversary

I think me and the first wife been having a war of words of late.

She’s told me I’ve turned into a fat cunt a few times and I’ve told her that her ass has got fat. Flat but fat. When she reads this I’m gunna claim a typo between flat and fat by the way… nah fuck it, keep it real and call it how it is, I reckon.

On a positive though, I’m still alive.

Healthy option (not just beer, but filtered beer) drinks break between tennis sets.

Couple of other positives are my first wife now checks her curvy bits out in the mirror with more precision and the fact she ain’t exactly a skinny little bitch is actually a good thing.

If you only look through one eye honey, it doesn’t halve the size

Not that I don’t love skinny sheilas ‘cos I do… well not like concentration camp skinny or muscle man sheila skinny ‘cos that shit’s fucked up and yeah I’m a spastic cunt but not mental spastic (um, well actually..).

But anyway, during those early cancer days when she was all fucked up following surgery, my cook lost so much weight she looked sick as fuck. Not ‘sick as fuck’ as in teenager talk for ‘cool’ but you know, sick as fuck like maybe she had bowel cancer type sick.

So now that she’s built up a few extra kilos as a buffer she’s good to go and even started exercising again, as have I.

With our two bald heads, we’ve been roaming the mean streets of Cleveland together like a couple of skinhead gang members. Even take our own ravaging dog for good measure. Our dog’s called Bella and she is of course black as fuck, ‘cos although we may look like scouts from Trump’s Proud Boys we also want to show we’re inclusive ‘cos our black dog’s life matters. For anyone wondering, our cunt of a cat is only partly black.

Siamese twins of the Smashing Pumpkins mould, with a third tit for good measure

Some of you would’ve seen that we had our 23rd wedding anniversary a few days ago where the first wife wrote heaps of soppy shit and I did my equivalent by taking the piss out of it.

But in all honesty, a few months ago we weren’t even sure we’d get to celebrate another wedding anniversary together so fuck yeah! Although she pisses me off heaps… quite a few heaps actually, I’m happy to have reached this little milestone together with her and counting a couple years warm up, it’s actually 25 very loooong years together. Longer than she’s been alive, I might add.

Hungry before feed and walking off fat after feed

So I took the ol’ girl out for a flash as feed at the most expensive restaurant in the whole wide world. Drove into the city not even sure where we were going to eat but ended up at La Vue and thank fuck you cunts donated to that GoFund me page because it cost me nearly every single cent of it to feed the hungry little hippopotamus and her growing bum. It was an awesome feed, ambience, service, food presentation and company so well worth it by the way. Although we ate heaps and each came out about 10kg heavier it was still way easier to walk home as I’d lost more than that weight in my wallet.

Just on that GoFundMe page at https://gofund.me/0e62aea0, we were going through it again yesterday looking at the comments and who had donated and everyone that donated to it or in person are still very much considered real good cunts and appreciated.

Wednesday just gone was supposed to be Chernobyl day but for the second time now our oncologist; you know the one I’m not allowed to call a gnome even though he looks like one, postponed it because my first wife’s blood test showed her immune system was down. Apparently it needs to be over a magical number of 100 and hers was like 85 or something. I reckon it might even have something to do with all the energy she’s putting into growing her bum.

Not only did my dishwasher sheila have her fortnightly blood test this week but she also had another CT scan to see the current extent of her cunty cancer.

For those that don’t know, people fucked up on cancer get scans all the time including CT or PET scans and probably even other ones too. So far, Marjana has only had CT scans which still require some funky shit to be injected into her veins to show things clearer. She hasn’t as yet had a PET scan which they do if the CT scans don’t show shit properly… I think?

Because my clothes folder had issues with vertigo they also checked her brain in the scan.

Irrelevant to this post but we turned into old fogeys and got us an air fryer

So the outcome of the scan probably deserves to be started with a quote I reckon…

Me: Did the scan on her head show an increase in nagging?

Oncologist who I’m not allowed to call a gnome even though he looks like one: Nah, that’s her baseline.

But it looks like the cancer hasn’t grown.

It also looks like it hasn’t exactly shrunk either which is a little bit of a cunt actually.

Our oncologist who I’m not allowed to call a gnome even though he looks like one, said that although the size of the tumours are pretty much the same there’s a chance that some of the mass that’s showing may actually be scar tissue that hasn’t broken down and dissolved back into her body.

Well here’s to hoping because after all these Chernobyl sessions, spewing her guts up, flaming ass diarrhea (not linked to the fat bum syndrome apparently), nausea and even nagging it would’ve been good to get news that the cunty cancer had done the equivalent of a grown man’s cock in freezing water and shrunk to that of a infant boy’s size shlong and concaved somewhat, but nup.

Our oncologist who I’m not allowed to call a gnome even though he looks like one, said he was going to tweak her chemo concoction because it’s fucking her up a bit more than it probably should’ve. He obviously hasn’t seen her when she’s pissed off.

He said some brainy doctor words about taking out this and that in her chemo and I asked him if he could write down exactly what he was saying. But I also asked if he could write it in human writing so I could read it. In his defence though, he did try and that’s what counts right?

These sheilas from Marjana’s work gunna call me a cunt after I post this clip. It’s all about the chin apparently.

So another couple weeks spent alive since last post so this merlot is for you dear first wife for making it this far and still looking pretty on and beautiful on the inside and out.

#35 The first husband returns to work

At some stage I hope to cover off more about both our work colleagues and employers but not yet.

The ol’ girl ain’t in any state to return to work but I’m a little bit different. Yeah we may both be bald cunts but I don’t have that cunt of a disease and there in lies the difference.

So after a few months off work, I managed to find my uniform (appears to have shrunk around the guts area somewhat) and went back to work. At this stage only a couple days per week though.

Something in the universe was off centre though because it really was a cunt of a morning!

4:30am: Deep sleep interrupted by our internal fire alarm screaming hard out. Talk about freak out, man!

In that weird place between sleep and awake I jumped up out of bed almost as quick as that time our cunt of a cat pissed on my clothes.

With cock and balls and a big fat guts swinging and jiggling I ran around the house like a spastic trying to hold in a shit.

I didn’t need a shit though. Was trying to find a fucken fire, man.

The first wife had also jumped out of bed and if I looked like a spastic trying to hold in a shit, she was way worse. She’s blind as fuck and still had some of her hair then and looked very much like the love child of some fucked up orgy involving the Scarecrow in Wizard of Oz, Worzel Gumidge, Einstein and that Boris Johnson cunt.

I’m running around trying to smell smoke and look for flames while she’s just prancing around like a spastic and yelling shit.

Search downstairs for flames and smoke. Nothing…

Search upstairs for flames and smoke. Nothing…

Kodi was elsewhere but Dilan was home. Open his door and he’s still crashed out big time dreaming 16-year -old dreams.

Our fire alarms are all interconnected and are loud as fuck including the one in Dilan’s room going off. Obviously not loud enough to wake a teenager though.

For some reason out of the blue the alarm stops and I’m like ‘What the fuck, man!?’

Because we’re still half asleep I’m thinking if I go back to bed I can maybe sneak another hour sleep before getting ready for work.

Talk about being a dumb cunt alright.

Yeah I’m continually sniffing for smoke but my brain’s trying to relax and three minutes later just as my first wife calms enough to stop talking, well it all starts up again.

Repeat as above but this time I’m also looking in wardrobes and cupboards and even went outside naked as fuck, grabbed a ladder and climbed up into the ceiling for a gander.

And again it stops, then starts, then stops, then starts…

I spent the next hour pressing the reset button on the fire alarms trying to work out which one was causing it.

Keep freaking out thinking fire engines are gunna pull up outside our house with lights and sirens.

Those cunts looove their sirens but silly me I forgot they were firies and not cops so would be sleeping their nightshift away at that time.

Remove the battery from what I think was the main alarm going off and by this stage it’s time to start getting ready for work, fuck it.

I’m massively on edge trying to make me and the cook a coffee and expecting another screaming alarm at any moment.

Because I hadn’t been to work for fucking ages I had to find uniform apparel like epaulettes, work socks and belt and throw ’em all on our bed

The first wife sipped enough coffee to decide it was weak and complain about it.

Oh, I forgot to mention we’d changed the sheets the night before too.

So about this stage the coffee complaining first wife decided to spill her entire cup of weak coffee all over our bed.

There are actually better ways to deal with a weak coffee, wife

That screaming fire alarm had nothing on an angry first wife who found a number of most inappropriate words for a supposed lady to use, yelled at me blaming it on me because I made her weak coffee and put hundreds of belts on the bed.

Cancer may have taken most of her bowel but it ain’t taken her vocal chords, I tell ya.

When I left work for the cook and her cunty cancer I was acting sergeant but returning as a senior conny. Acting sergeant epaulettes are everywhere but senior conny epaulettes are as hard to find as strong coffee nowadays.

Head upstairs to escape my coffee cleaning wife, put on my socks and repair my hearing.

I got a million pairs of socks in the drawers and only one of those pairs has a hole in ’em. I don’t need to tell you which pair I’d grabbed.

Kiss the first wife and go to work.

Good times man, good times.

and this is why I really write these blogs

#34 Brazilian head

My first wife chopped all her hair off today. Bit of a cunt of a day really.

Well, technically she didn’t chop it off as she got her hairdresser to do it.

Even with all my fine-tuned hair cutting skills she wouldn’t let me do it. Reckons I’d give her fucked up racing stripes, spots or some other funky shit. Just goes to show how well she knows me ‘cos that’s exactly what I would’ve done.

She did make me come and watch it though. You know, just for torture purposes to make me cringe and feel or freaked out and shit. Watching was probably just as bad, if not worse than doing the cutting.

In all honesty I guess it was always inevitable that my first wife would lose her hair but we clung to the fact that she had amazing very thick hair and the chemo the oncologist who I’m not allowed to call a gnome even though he looks like one, is giving her was only supposed to thin her hair but not to this extent.

Really though, who gives a fuck man, ‘cos even though she sometimes annoys the fuck out of me I’ve still got my first wife to naggety naggety nag and believe me, she don’t need no hair to excel at that.

She doesn’t even have an ugly head under all that head of hair she had, so there’s a bonus aye. Fuck yeah!

They say try before you buy but in the early days I never really had the guts to ask her to shave her head smoothe like an egg. You know, so I could see what her head looked like just in case she ever got a cunt of a disease, like maybe bowel cancer.

Were there tears today? Fucken oath there were! The ol’ girl shed a few, so did her poor ol’ hairdresser sheila and as for the bald cunt writing this, yeah maybe.

The quote of the day…

Marjana: My hair looked like I barely survived Chernobyl.

Me: Well fuck me wife, I don’t call ya chemo days Chernobyl sessions for no reason.

A few positives though…

We could probably pay off our mortgage in a year from money saved on hairdressing shit.

Won’t need to buy any more hair products.

I can take her hair products out of our shower and now have enough space for at least two, if not three beers in there.

With all the weak wispy clumps of hair now gone my first wife no longer pulling off that dead person dug up from a grave look.

If she didn’t sing like a cat whose being held by the balls, she could probably pass as a young Sinead O’Connor.

With her dance moves she could easily replace that spastic dancing cunt from Midnight Oil.

She can lay claim to being the baldest in our home. A title that I’ve held for ages and might yet claim it back.

I don’t have to go to the bathroom to look in the mirror and can just look at my first wife instead.

Hopefully she can get an acting job to replace that weak as shit actor Vin Diesel.

I won’t catch the cook sneakily crying when she’s brushing her hair.

I don’t have to lie to her saying I can’t even see the difference.

And let’s not forget the fact, she actually feels a lot better for it.

So yeah, a massive day for us man. But it could be way way way worse so all good and nothing to see here… unless of course ya looking for spastic looking heads.

#11 Gifts for my first wife

Latest from the ‘Gifts for my First Wife presents montage.

This wonderful gifts dates back to April, 2017.

No wrapping involved (unless you count the unwrapping of the old cloth and timber).

Yep, its a door she can walk through.

This door actually works both ways so she was able to walk inside… and outside.

Both our boys birthdays were shortly after this was gifted to my first wife, so think I may have even counted this as their birthday presents too.

#33 Spew session

As promised in the last blog, this subsequent follow up is a lot quicker than the previous couple have been.

The ol’ first wife had her Chernobyl session last Wednesday and it fucked her up big time, man.

She felt shit at the time when she was sucking in her chemo juice but survived it; partly because I was there with her and she figured if I can go through life being the spastic cunt I am, then she ain’t actually all that bad off.

These chemo sessions take a good three to four hours too. I use this time to write these blogs while she uses this time to watch me writing these blogs waiting with practiced skill for the most annoying times to interrupt #levelexpert.

Anyway, when we got home, my first wife was complaining (in this scenario I’m happy to utilise the word complaining as opposed to nagging) about how she feels all nauseous and shit.

Even asked for spew vessel just in case. A spew vessel is like a drinking vessel but kinda different.

I gave her an empty honey container I found on the bench. Half a litre one from memory. She’s not only a first wife, but she’s also a real short first wife; somewhat larger than a midget but not significantly so, so figured that’d be heaps big enough.

Fuck me was I wrong or what!

The only thing heaps big was her heaps big as chunder.

She filled that up quicker than a dirty ol’ whorebag gets filled on a cold wintery night.

She didn’t want to stop there either though. No way, man.

She also didn’t like the colour of the floor so painted some of that too and the splatter effect she left on our coffee table chest thing was kinda retro-ish I guess, so wasn’t really all that bad.

A few minutes prior to all this, I’d hand washed the dishes including a few pots so I grabbed the biggest one and away she went again.

Here a spew, there a spew, everywhere a spew spew…

Kinda reminded me of that sheila in that Exorcist movie but my first wife’s head wasn’t on quite so backwards.

Also reminded me of my old rugby days where we’d sing songs prior to skulling heaps of piss, often ending with spew everywhere… ‘Here’s to brother Woodstock, brother Woodstock, brother Woodstock. Here’s to brother Woodstock whose with us tonight. He’s happy he’s jolly, he sinks piss by golly…. etc’, only this time there was no singing prior to give a decent warnin.

Meanwhile, I’m in sprint mode but really only at 3/4 pace because the floor didn’t really need any more layers of her vomit strewn about. Toilet flush, back with wet wipes to clean her slobbery face and shit… and repeat.

Our boy Dilan’s still just chilling in his room on his phone without a clue even as I venture into the bathroom to wash her first chunder bucket a bit… oh, and my arms… I washed them too.

I’m known as somewhat of a good host so often when mates come to visit they end up spewing because I’m rather generous in making sure they feel dehydrated. This was a bit different though because I didn’t play a single part in this spew session.

Dilan must’ve picked up on a vibe as a little while after my first wife had finished her guts syphoning session he came out slightly bewildered… “Did you spew, Mum?”

The look she gave him probably wasn’t her most motherly loving one.

When someone phones but you’re listening to music via Bluetooth and instinctively pick up the speaker to talk as if it’s a phone

The ol’ girl struggled through that Wednesday night feeling like a real shit cunt.

That didn’t change Thursday at all so she slept nearly the whole day and night.

Not only did she put any teenager to shame with tiredness by sleeping it also somewhat nullified the nausea and sickness she felt, so yeah, I get it.

Dilan’s taller than his ol’ lady but check out his spastic toe. Keep telling him he can’t go out in public with a toe that looks like a midget’s stubby cock.

Come Friday she had to head back to Chernobyl central because that’s when she gets the chemo bottle thing removed. Remember, she has chemo on Wednesday then goes home with a bottle attached that drip feeds into her over a couple days and has to be disconnected on Friday.

Like everyone else in Queensland, when we woke up Friday it was to reports that there had been a positive case to this new Pommy more evil strain of COVID and as of 6pm that night we were in lockdown.

Chernobyl central though had already taken steps which meant that I couldn’t accompany her in for her bottle removal session. Pissed me off because I was hanging out to tell her massive spew story. Oh, I knew she’d tell ’em but not with the passion or story telling ability that I have.

Instead of the short visit, this one also turned into a few hours because our cool dude of an oncologist who I’m not allowed to call a gnome, even though he looks like one, was kinda worried about her.

They hooked her up again giving her heaps more fluids which I think were cleansing shit, anti nausea shit, hydration shit and steroid shit… albeit, not the muscly steroids or if in fact they were they aint working real good.

There was talk of her going into hospital over the weekend where she could receive extra care if needed but we went back home Friday for more sleep.

Perfect timing for a three day lockdown because what do ya reckon she got up to over the weekend when we weren’t really supposed to leave home? Yeah man, more sleep.

I mentioned a few times about going to hospital and she’s like ‘No fucken way man. They gunna poke and prod me and there’s Corona virus and shit and you won’t be able to visit’, and I’m like ‘Well there ain’t much poking and prodding going on in this household right now wife’, and she’s like ‘But you cook so good’, and I’m like… well you get the picture. But we didn’t end up in hospital okay.

Not sure if it was a subconscious alignment thing but some of our neighbours came home Friday night and spent the weekend spewing and shitting themselves and to those guys, I say ‘Fuck yeah!’ Absolutely love ya work team. Great skills and appreciate your efforts.

But back to my cleaner sheila, as much as I can take the piss out of it all with these stories, the above is part of the real life effects of what this cunt of a disease does to good people like my cook, cleaner, vacumer, dishwasher, first wife and my love.

As of yesterday she’s feeling better though.

Fuck you cancer you cunt of a disease. Fuck off already!

The irony of this pic following a ‘fuck off already’ comment and especially considering the sign in the background behind this old model of a sheila

We might call J9 a raggety ol’ hag but we love J9 and her visits

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