My first wife chopped all her hair off today. Bit of a cunt of a day really.
Last night with hair
Kissing an almost bald first wife with a mask on is a little bit shit
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.
A potential outcome
Racing stripes
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.
Even then she managed to smile
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!
Making bald pretty
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.
Better hair times on Straddie
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.
Scarecrow hairdo
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.
Comparing whose got the baldest head
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.
Once upon a time
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.
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.
She hates it when I do this to my hair
Cant deny the spastic
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
I woke up on the morning of my first wife’s seventh chemo session with her standing over me doing the ol’ Kathy Bates thing in Stephen King’s film, Misery. I kinda felt for James Caan in that moment.
I actually think she thought it was more of a Sleeping Beauty moment. You know, just before the prince kisses that sleeping sheila awake. I ain’t so sure though.
Anyway, it made me think back to when she recently bought me some flash new jandals but when I tried them on they were uncomfortable as fuck making me walk like a spastic. A very slow spastic.
Even a first wife with fully fledged bowel cancer and shit could catch me in them should I ever try to escape. But I ain’t going anywhere wife because if there’s one thing Croatian sheilas are good at, it’s their hunting prowess (and cooking, looking pretty and being a good little nagging first wives), so I wouldn’t like my chances.
Only partially got through scraping the window clean
Been over a month since I last blogged here and I’m seriously gunna have to work on my time management so these posts aren’t the watered down paraphrased versions like this one is… Especially when extreme hair loss, Christmas and New Years fall within that month.
But here goes…
To accommodate Christmas, our oncologist who I’m not allowed to call a gnome even though he looks like one, gave the first wife an extra week off chemo. He’s a good cunt like that but it wasn’t because it wasn’t needed. It was more to coincide with holidays so my cook wasn’t all fucked up for Christmas day.
That’s what first wives get when they ask first husbands to write their Christmas cards
Problem was though, the ol’ first wife’s blood test showed her immune system was lower than a league player’s interview skills, so chemo was postponed yet again making it a whole month between sessions. Sounds awesome, unless of course she needs the chemo… which she does.
Remember back to how she first identified this little cunty thing called cancer? She had swollen glands in her neck that have since shrunk. Not as much though as the oncologist who I’m not allowed to call a gnome even though he looks like one, would’ve liked.
Disclaimer: Marjana wanted me to remove the gnome comments but I couldn’t hear her so added this line to show her disproval. For the record though, I ain’t saying he’s not good. He’s awesome in fact… it’s just that he reminds me of a gnome. I like gnomes too though remember and I remind her of a bald spastic cunt so go figure.
On a positive though, her vertigo has finally fucked off thanks to some funky moves with some switched on vertigo physio sheila. That vertigo’s a real cunt of a thing man that really made this hill we’re climbing a lot steeper. The video at the end gives an insight into the effect it had on my first wife, even with only lying down or getting up.
Thinking her brain has been a bit spastic of late and yeah yeah yeah, I get that it’s probably from hanging with me too much but Marjana kept fucking up appointment times and dates, including one with our surgeon Peter. He’s a real good cunt though and I sorted a sneaky little work around with him without her knowing because some of my cook’s workmates had arranged a surprise Christmas party for her that ended up being the same time as she was supposed to be meeting Peter.
Surprise Christmas catch up from the first wife’s workmates
We had our surgeon meeting and then coincidentally bumped into a bunch of the first wife’s workmates for a great arvo. Being the wog that he is and not wanting to miss out on a party, even our local hero surgeon Peter came down for a meet and greet.
A bloody great little afternoon had by all
Sitting as though upon a King’s throne
We’ve had some good times of late including a very nice weekend at Mooloolaba with some good mates, Biggles and Lexi. We partied, drunk heaps of piss and ate heaps (well one of us did).
First swim for first wife since her op
Like sands through the hourglass, so are the winds through Dilan’s mullet
The Biggles
We hope y’all enjoyed Christmas as much as we did. Fuck, it seems so long ago now aye.
Initially we were home with just our devil spawn and this was mega important for the first wife because Christmas and family should never be taken for granted. We’ve never really taken it for granted and always appreciated the occasion but this year we weren’t even sure the ol’ girl was gunna have another one. So to say it was appreciated is somewhat of an understatement.
One happy first wife
We then headed to cuzzies Jason and Lisa where we… you guessed it; partied, drunk heaps of piss and ate heaps (well one of us did). Again appreciating the occasion, the company and an over abundance of shit that made me even fatter and even more of a spastic cunt.
A nice little suckling pig on the spit
Fuck it was yum
Facetiming cuzzie Kimberley in Germany
Come boxing day we still weren’t quite fat enough so thought fuck it, lets have another Christmas party with some other good cunts who just so happen to be our neighbours we partied, drunk heaps of piss and ate heaps (well one of us did).
Christmas Day continuations on Boxing Day
New years eve was more of the same with another couple of good mates Parso and his mrs from the land of kilts and funny sounding people.
Sorry if this blog has been a bit of a weird catch up one but the next one will be a little more up to date situationally on my first wife’s predicament.
Before that though I do need to acknowledge my boss Chris for nominating me for the 2019 – 2020 Redlands Police Officer of the Year award. He’s a good cunt himself whose going through some funky health shit of his own right now and could’ve actually won it himself if he was in fact nominated.
For those that don’t know, I actually won the award and it was an awesome moment. I wasn’t going to raise it here but have done ‘cos life as we’ve been reminded is about living and appreciating the fine things it has to offer between times that aint so fine. For me, winning that award was fantastic but seriously man, the highlight was that my first wife was there to witness it. That for me was a beautiful thing… even if it was during Movember and I looked like a spastic cunt with a revolting moustache.
Snapped when when my first wife wasn’t crying
Finally, a massive shout out to my other boss Darni who has had my back big time since I’ve been off work. Thank you heaps to you and the team who’ve been carrying me of late. Y’all a bunch of good cunts, I reckon.
So I thought I was woken up this morning by someone pouring a bucket of water over my head, but instead of water it was my first wife’s spit. Apparently I made her laugh as she was in the process of kissing me and when I told her that her spit is yum as fuck, she snorted and spat snot or spit on me again. Fuck it’s good to be loved aye.
She’d actually woken me up earlier to be honest because although she (allegedly) let me sleep in she failed to mention the fine print that while I slept she was going to leave our bedroom door open and use as many of our loudest appliances as she could. If she could’ve moved the washing machine and dishwasher closer I’m sure she would’ve but it didn’t really matter anyway because during any real quiet periods she’d do things like drop a cricket bat on her foot and scream loudly in pain.
In case that hadn’t done the trick to wake me up she then came back to bed and sat next to me while I slept. She then did her good Catholic girl thing and prayed to her God who, until then I wasn’t aware was actually deaf because why else would a nice Catholic girl pray so loudly right next to me. I’m sure God knows sign language so kinda hoping the cook can pick it up too which may help with my sleep somewhat.
‘You’re an idiot’, she reckons
‘A funny idiot though’
But anyway, it ain’t about me so back to this recovering sick sheila blog update…
Apologies that it’s been over a month since I last updated y’all but as far as slaves go, I reckon I’m amongst the most rooted in the history of the world. Rooted from doing renos and shit; not rooted like slaves were back in the olden days.
While on the subject of slaves I would like to mention that as far as slave masters go my first wife would be classed as ‘Level Expert’ if ya go by how much work I’ve done.
I’ll gunna have to do a few catch up blogs but first up a positive to report. The ol’ girl had a CT scan a couple weeks ago that showed the cancer has shrunk somewhat so that gets a full on ‘Fuck yeah!’ from us.
Cancer’s a cunt, man and this has without doubt been the worst thing that’s happened to us as a family since she hunted and collected me way back in 1996. But she ain’t dead yet and neither am I, and nor are our kids or any of you reading this so here’s another ‘Fuck yeah!’. Not that she’s gunna die any time soon but when good people die that sucks big time (thinking of you right now Keiley).
As I write this, my first wife is sitting next to me pinging up her Chernobyl poison and giggling at some messages she’s reading from her friends.
Best chemo companion blanket the nurse sheilas have ever seen
I think for everyone’s sake though, I need to reiterate the fact that English is her second language and all the times she’s replied to messages saying she’s getting ‘bold’ she actually meant ‘bald’. All you mates of hers who read those ‘bold’ messages must’ve thought ‘Onya girl!’ when really it’s more of a plucked chicken meme.
Two of the main reasons I married this sheila way back when, is because she had really good hair and bloody good knees too. My head’s pretty fucked up with my shit hair and with seven arthroscopies to date, my knees were always my rugby nemesis. So if I was ever gunna breed it’d be good for my kids to have good hair (for pulling chicks) and good knees (for rugby) because they got plenty of spastic whether they liked it or not.
It’s lucky for Marjana she had heaps of hair to start with because she’s loosing it quicker than those sheilas from the Hibiscus Coast lose their virginity. It’s actually a little selfish in a way (not the Coasty sheilas giving up the virginity quick as – nah you keep that tradition well and truly going I reckon) because so many other good people fucked up on cancer lose their entire head of hair quick as fuck due to the chemo they’re on, where as my cook’s chemo is only supposed to thin the hair out. To the untrained eye, it may not even look like she’s lost any but you can certainly find bold, I mean bald patches if ya scratch the surface and her puffy eyes from crying add weight to it being fact. If she didn’t have a complex before I think I just gave her one when she reads this. Sorry wife 😉
The result after every shower
One first wife’s loss is one first husband’s gain
Untold has happened since I last wrote but our lives have pretty much gone like this…
I wake up and do renos and shit, and cook and eat and drink piss and crawl into bed at the end of the day like some beat up old cunt who can hardly walk; pretty much because that’s what I am anyway.
Remove old kitchen and still installing new one
Part of new kitchen with built in wall
Remove window and build in wall
Removed old kitchen window and install new one
Remove sliding door and install new window on deck
Remove sliding door and install new one
Remove old window and install new
Who doesn’t love a trooper wife still wiling to be squashed into a car full of timber
Might not look like much but these renos fucked me big time and still ain’t finished
The ol’ first wife though will get all these lovely visits from her work mate sheilas who actually seem to be really nice and care and shit. She used to tell me they were a bunch of pain in the ass cunts at work who were feral and lazy as fuck liars and… oh actually, maybe that was the prisoners, sorry.
Work mate sheilas who most definitely aren’t feral lazy liars but are very much appreciated
Seriously though man, my first wife’s had heaps of visits lately and she digs ’em almost as much as she digs seeing me work like I’ve never worked before (except for maybe back in my ol’ man-whore days).
Most days over the last month have gone like this…
I work like an old decrepit slave.
Marjana socialises like a princess on a social dating competition.
I work like an old decrepit slave.
Marjana socialises like a princess on a social dating competition.
I work like an old decrepit slave.
Marjana socialises like a princess on a social dating competition.
Etcetera…
Another lovely gift
Your quote of the day comes from a chemo session…
Oncologist: Sometimes I can make it sound a bit worse than what it is.
Me: Oh, like a wife does when a husband leaves his clothes on the floor.
Check out her chemo affected veins, man
How can ya not love a hot Argentinean rugby fan who’s tit half falls out when she cheers. Need more of it I reckon.
I would like it noted please that although the latest All Black loss to the Wallabies at Suncorp was a direct result of my attendance, unlike when the French government sent secret agents to blow up Greenpeace’s Rainbow Warrior ship in Auckland, New Zealand, I did not have intent to carry out the act. It’s true, I do feel dirty and ashamed like a traitor found out but although there are similarities between that 1985 espionage attack I make full admissions from the outset, so there is no need for a fully fledged investigation to prove my guilt.
For what it’s worth New Zealand, I whole heartedly apologise for the role I played in that Bledisloe loss and for my actions bringing the All Blacks into disrepute by attending that test match and the subsequent result *bows head in shame.
With that admission of guilt out of the way, I can now touch on the fact that apart from the outcome, it was a fucking good night out with our family and some good mates.
Even though cunty cancer has changed our lives, it’s nice to still do normal shit together.
My first wife even did better than a couple of the players red carded because unlike them she survived the entire encounter, and then some.
It was a massive day with visitors coming earlier including a local good samaritan I know through work called Alix from Night Ninjas. She came around with a home cooked feed to share with us.
My first wife ain’t drinking piss yet but I’ve got her back and am supporting the both of us in that task. For the record, I’m going great guns at it too. Level expert, even.
Too much yellow for my liking but at least Team WInslow are all in black
With COVID-19 as it is, social distancing at bars has changed the scene massively. So instead of drinking piss before the game in a bar outside the stadium where we talk rugby in such close confinement like locks in a scrum, we had to and drink piss and talk rugby in such close confinement like locks in a scrum, inside the stadium.
One of those people we did that with though was a real good good cunt who’d starred in a number of these blogs earlier on. Reintroducing our favourite surgeon, Peter Yuide. He’s got a weird as fuck last name that’s pronounced like ‘eyed’ (as in one eyed Aussie ref) but with a ‘y’ in front… well kinda.
Can’t wait to show you my scar, Peter
He doesn’t tend to catch up for beers with all his victims, or patients as he prefers to call them but I think there’s something about us being a spastic cunts that he likes (or at least my spastic-ness). So fuck yeah; we’re keen as to drink piss together at Suncorp.
Creating topics for the next blog
It was especially nice for my first wife who got to show off her scar again. In front of 30,000 people she done her equivalent of a bikie rootbag responding to a ‘show us ya tits’ chant from a bunch of pissed cunts. Only differences being nobody was chanting it and it wasn’t her tits she pulled her top up to display but the now famous scar on her guts.
In her ever innocent manner though, she did look at me and ask ‘Can I show my wound to Peter? Can I?’. Fuck yeah, of course you can honey!
Peter did tell my first wife that both her and her scar are looking really well and that was before he started drinking piss, too.
Unlike us in the cheap seats though, Peter being a fully qualified surgeon was in a corporate box with some other big wig surgeons. For the couple of you who told me ya missing my quotes in these blogs, I’m bringing a couple back in this one.
Quote of the Day:
Me: Where you sitting mate?
Peter: Mater Hospital have a corporate box and I’m in there with some other doctors.
Me: Oh that’s nice. I think we’ve probably paid for the whole thing ourselves with the bills we’ve paid so far. You’re welcome.
Suncorp team minus the two boys
Marjana just had her fortnightly blood test done yesterday and as I write this we’re in the middle of Chernobyl Day as she’s getting her chemo fill.
She’ll be having another CT scan next week to see how her cunty cancer is reacting to the chemo.
Some visitors over the last week (sorry forgot to take some other visitor pics)
If I didn’t already know my first wife was half deaf I’d think the chemo had affected her hearing. The other day she was singing along to that new AC/DC song ‘Shot in the Dark’ and with that comes your next quote of the day…
Marjana (singing): I shot the dog…
Me: What?
Marjana: I shot the dog.
Me: What the fuck, man. No, it’s Shot in the Dark.
Marjana: I wondered why they wanted to shoot a dog.
Talking about animals, we had a massive storm about a week ago and both our cat and dog were scared as fuck. Bella hates thunder like I hate political correctness and we found out Pudding does too as she literally shit herself, the little cunt.
It was in our ensuite and for those who recall my cat whispering ways when she pissed on my clothes and are now reading to see if I did the equivalent and shat on my cat…
No, I did not shit on my cat.
She made the effort to shit on our mat and not on my clothes and I kinda appreciated the effort she went to. It’s the little things in life, aye.
Actually, Pudding is going to star in another story very shortly but going back to this one under The Cancer Chronicles topic, I imagine these posts appear less and less about the dealing with cancer in the first person than previously. For us, that’s actually a fucken good thing ya know… and believe me, it ain’t all rosey and perfect and shit like these posts portray.
But we have to be as positive as we can and try to live a bit normal even if my first wife’s husband isn’t.
I wonder who this cat shit belongs to?
Unlike other mates and cuzzies our hail was normal size
Woodstock's blog 