#39 Marjana and her beard

As far as first wives go, mine ain’t too bad actually.

Yeah she growls like a crusty old lion with a sore tooth, she snorts like a hungry pig when I’m trying to watch tv, she snores like a gold medallist at the snoring Olympics, she always leaves the vacuum cleaner out as a trip hazard and yeah she does have that cunty bowel cancer shit going on, but I kinda dig her aye.

Wanna know what I reckon? Everyone’s fighting their own battles with some struggling with hard core shit and others struggling with over irrelevant shit but it’s how people perceive whatever’s happening in their lives that affects how we respond.

So when my first wife asked me to use my clippers to trim fluffy bits of her now no longer bald head, I asked if she wanted me to continue onto her face and trim her beard. She laughed like a snorting spastic.

Snorting spastics are some of my favourite spastics by the way.

Well actually, we both laughed because yeah she’s got a fluffy face that could easily be mistaken for ZZ Top’s Billy Gibbons but it’s actually quite calming to run my fingers through it, much like stroking the soft coat of our pissing cat or patting our gannet of a dog.

This may or may not be Marjana’s chin

But jokes aside, even though I’m a great believer in ‘don’t sweat the small stuff’ both my cook and I often need to remind ourselves of exactly that.

Does what we’re worrying about really affect the things that really matter and often the answer is no. On the occasions when the answer is actually yes then maybe drink more piss and eat more primo feeds or alternatively try something else that’s probably better for your health.

Basically though, this cunty cancer has cleared our vision somewhat to try and enjoy life without worrying about the small things.

The ol’ girl’s vertigo has come back a couple times over the last month and it’s a real cunt so we put in some strategies to sort that like going to see that brainy vertigo physio sheila and doing some funky exercises. It’s good to note though that one of Marjana’s super powers (eating apple cores) hasn’t been affected.

But we also managed to take some of our inner circle on a sailing excursion on Sunday where we all basically lived life and had one of the best days ever. Fuck it was an awesome day, man. Good for all and thanks needs to go out to Marjana’s work mates who gave her the voucher for her 50th birthday present from funds raised in a cake sale. Fucken good cunts I reckon.

The first wife had another CT scan on Monday and of course yesterday (Wednesday) was Chernobyl Day with the chemo juice now flowing through her veins till lunchtime tomorrow. With every scan comes a heap of trepidation as to what will the result be. Like, you know, is the chemo and all the sickness that comes with it working and actually worth it?

We’re thinking a big fat yes because there’s nothing I love more than having my first wife around to annoy the fuck out of me (see paragraph two) – except for maybe when she does stuff that doesn’t annoy me or I do stuff that annoys the fuck out of her.

If it wasn’t for chemotherapy she would be dead. And that would suck big time because I dig my first wife heaps. She gets pissed off but I often remind her that she’s the winner as she’s the only sheila in the world I ever chose to be my wife and she’s still around. So fucken yeehaa for that revolting chemo shit that makes her go real yellow. Yellow is a colour of alive as far as I’m concerned.

She’s actually a bit upset of late because she’s been putting on a kilo per week and I know ya ain’t supposed to talk about a sheila’s age or weight but I’m a cunt so this 50-year-old first wife of mine now weighs 69kg and is worried about how she looks. Your quote of the day is our real life conversation about it…

Marjana: I’m getting fat Brendon. I keep putting on weight, like a kilo every single week. Will you still love me when I’m fat like an Oompa Loompa, ljubavi?

Me: What do you mean when? Oompa Loompas are actually orange ya know and you’re already heaps yellow so you’re kinda already like one and I still love you now.

But anyway, we laughed and went for a 6km walk together with our old fat dog Bella so basically we were like a small gang of old fat cunts walking the street. One black, one yellow and one just a bald fat guts type colour.

Previously, Marjana would talk to her Mama as often as she could and when her brother Slobo was at home they would Facetime. Well with the help of our nephew Ivan, we scored Mama a tablet so she and my first wife can Facetime each other every day.

It’s getting better now but talk about laugh, man. Watching an old school Croatian woman try to use a device when she deaf and blind as fuck and I’m just talking about Marjana, so imagine both her and her ol’ lady in action.

Nah, it’s great to see the smile on both their faces when they yell at each other really loudly. Not yelling as in angry yelling. Just yelling because they’re Dalmatian and that’s how they talk.

Dalmatians also love to talk with their hands too so I often have a little snigger to myself when they’re yelling at each other and trying to use their hands at the same time and realise they’re restricted because they need their hands to hold the tablet to see each other.

I love the joy these conversations bring to my first wife every single day.

Chatting with Mama and Marjana’s two brothers Slobo and Nebo

We aint real brainy out these ways but we’ve just worked out why my back is rooted. It’s from giving the first wife too many cuddle because seriously man, check out these action shot pics with and without the model…

Finally the results from the first wife’s latest scan… It’s basically status quo with the cancer still very much there and mostly remaining the same size, bar one lymph node that’s grown. We would’ve loved for our Oncologist who I’m not allowed to call a gnome even though he looks like one, to say a miracle has happened and it’s all gone or even that it’s shrunk but hasn’t happened yet. I was once let into a Grateful Dead concert for free by cops in the States, so I for one believe in miracles.

Never too proud to pray to God

On a positive note though, you, me, my first wife, our kids and hopefully nobody else you know woke up dead this morning so fuck yeah.

Easter in church showing thanks and appreciation and also asking for many things including a certain cunty cancer to fuck off

These words of wisdom were brought to you by making the most out of a cunt of a situation and of course the result of fine hops.

Apple core training video

# 37 The reaching of a milestone

Far out man, so much can happen in a month and heaps has since I last blogged. Hate doing these long catch ups as tend to struggle finding rhythm to make them flow from trying to fit heaps in. But that ain’t your fault; I’m the lazy cunt here, not you.

Because fuck yeah…

So what’s happened of late? A couple of Chernobyl days and the inevitable grossness that comes with it (including a chunder or two), I pissed off the first wife even more than normal and made her sad (not one of my finer moments I admit but I’ll cook you a mean as feed of scallops in exchange for your mercy, ljubavi), had us some doctor visits, some church visits and seen a man in a white cloak (a priest not a fucken straitjacket dude ya spastics), one child gained employment and another gained a title called ‘House Captain’ at school, a work visit and a little something called Marjana’s half century birthday celebration.

Anthony House Captain and his proud Mama

Wont go into all things but first up I’ll touch on the Chernobyl Days. As I pen this the first wife is catching Zs with both her drip feeding chemo bottle and our cunthead cat Pudding snuggled up to her.

Nobody knows better than a cat the positive effects on humans that cat cuddles, the soothing sound of their purring and that little kneading foot massage thing they do, has. And our pissing cat knows her mamma is a little bit sick right now.

Medicinal cuddles

Whilst on that note, not sure if any of you fellas heard of this thing called a cat litter box? Yeah, it has like sand and shit and does wonders for people dealing with cunty cats that piss inside on ones clothes. Quite and amazing invention really 😉

The chemo effects were knocking the ol’ girl around more than Jake the Muss so our oncologist who I’m not allowed to call a gnome even though he looks like one, has tweaked his warlock brew and taken out one of the key players; the cunty spew one apparently.

It’s a double edged sword though because although she’s no longer spewing like an unfit front rower at pre season training, we’re hoping the removal of such a key ingredient also wont inhibit her recovery.

On a negative note, that chemo piece of the puzzle usually takes a good 90 minutes to shoot up and with that now gone I’ve lost my blogging mojo. Along with the odd eyelid flutter and pat directed at my first wife I’ve lost a good chunk of genuine blog dedicated time. Might have to have a whisper to our oncologist who I’m not allowed to call a gnome even though he looks like one, about reinstating it. Hmmm…

Ol mate also allowed her to take an extra week off for her 50th birthday celebration. He’s a good cunt like that.

Took a little bit of effort to pull it all together but it turned into a fucking primo night. Was awesome to see those that turned up and the joy y’all brought the birthday girl by being there. Even if she didn’t get to spend much time with each of you, she seriously had a primo time and was on cloud nine for days after.

Woke up to a 50-year-old sheila this morning

Turning 50-years-old is a bloody good reason for a piss up I reckon and in this case even more so, ‘cos when this cunty cancer thing invaded our lives there was a time when we weren’t sure if my little Dalmatinka would live to be 50 years old.

But she did and like I told her this morning she’s so fucking spoilt because she’s still living, even though she’s now already past that goalpost. Might have to do what wives do to their husbands once they get ’em and change them, (move the goalposts that is 😉)

Photo courtesy of Kym Waldron

Apart from smashing out two bottle skulls and being reigning champion of our pee tree, my main party trick is feeding hungry cunts and I’d like to think that was accomplished quite nicely.

It’d be rude to not to mention certain people and specific gifts but I’m gunna be rude and not mention names because will leave people that matter out. But please take peace in knowing that each and every gift Marjana received was appreciated but not as much as your company on the night. Y’all deserve a ‘fuck yeah’!

Photo courtesy of Kym Waldron

For those that couldn’t make it, y’all just a bunch of cunts… but ya not really as we know you would’ve been there if ya could, if it wasn’t for things like work, international Covid travel restrictions and also attendee numbers also being restricted by Covid.

Heaps of thanks to all who helped before, during and after the party. Could not have pulled this together without y’all input. Anyone that helped is welcome to come around and drink some piss with me. My shout. Actually, fucken anyone is welcome to come around and drink piss with me whether ya helped or not.

How we felt for a few days after the party, deflated

A week before my cook’s birthday we tee’d up a visit to her work. Although she’s had untold contact with heaps of her workmates via messages, calls or visits, she hadn’t been to work since she was diagnosed with that cunty cancer. She was so looking forward to it and absolutely loved the visit and catching up with everyone. I ain’t never seen anyone so happy to go to prison.

Although I’ve been to prisons in my line of work I hadn’t actually been to Brisbane Women’s which is where my favourite vacumer worked, and the little tour was very much appreciated. Not only did I get to meet a bunch of Marjana’s workmates and guests of the Queen in their natural habitat but I now know what it feels like to walk the catwalk naked at a hens party.

One of my first wife’s mates asked how I felt about seeing inside the prison and your quote of the day comes from that conversation…

Colleague (asked via Marjana): How did Brendon enjoy his visit to the women’s prison?

Me: Felt like a chunk of meat.

Colleague: Hope it was a chunk of fillet steak he felt like and not chuck steak.

Me: A very soft tender piece of succulent meat that anyone without teeth could eat (you may have to visit to appreciate this reply).

Finally, if ever my Mrs needed evidence to prove I’m a dumb cunt, here it is. I made a couple more shelves, one that fit perfectly at the end of our hall and the other larger one was a left over piece to use elsewhere… Guess which one I [ut the legs on? #dumbcunt 😒

A somewhat handy but very much a dumb cunt

#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.

This fire alarm can fuck off, I reckon

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.

As beautiful toe as you would ever see

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.

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.

#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