The Cancer Chronicles – Page 4

#43 On your Marks, get set, Laser Eyes

Been a while since I last blogged but I got me a good excuse for at least a couple of those weeks that felt very much like a dream.

This blog ain’t exactly a Cancer Chronicles post but it does cross over so bear with me please while I try paint you a picture of some strange times of late.

With cunty cancer having played a massive part in our lives over the last year, one of my oldest best mates I don’t see often enough offered to fly over from New Zealand and shout me to State of Origin II. With the Australia/New Zealand bubble recently open that was now a real possibility.

I’m like ‘Fuck yeah! Keen as!’ and my first wife is like ‘Yes, of course you can go and enjoy, you handsome young devil you,’ and I’m like ‘Fuck yeah!’ again and louder.

I don’t like spending too much time away from my cook nowadays but figured a night, or even two at a stretch could be accommodated.

Now, I call my mate Scotty but his actual name is Michael, Michael Scott. He’s got a couple of bucks this fella; or at least enough to shout me to a footy game with the inevitable gallons of grog that come with it. He’s a good cunt like that. A bald good cunt.

For confusion’s sake I’m gunna call Scotty, Michael. You’ll see why soon.

The plan was Michael pops over for a few days, we drink some piss, watch some footy and he heads home leaving me with a slight hangover.

This was the first wife’s good week with chemo not till the Wednesday after Sunday’s game. Fucken beauty plan, I reckon!

These blogs are now read in many countries around the world so very quickly, for those outside of Australia and New Zealand, State of Origin is an annual three match rugby league competition between Queensland (QLD) and New South Wales (NSW). This year’s second game was a Sunday evening event at Suncorp Stadium in Brisbane, Queensland.

Now let me briefly take you back a little further to help put what comes later into perspective.

About 18 years ago both my first wife and I played a part in Michael’s wedding when he married some spunky young sheila called Marie. Marjana being the very best beauty therapist the whole wide world did the bridal party’s makeup and me with my skill-set, well not only was I Michael’s best man but I also got locked in a pub the night before the wedding with a couple other innocent fellas. We had to drink heaps of piss till we managed to escape sometime before sun up on the wedding day. That shit tends to happen in New Zealand, but anyway that’s another story all together.

Michael and Marie Scott lived happily ever after and had a couple of sprogs along the way. Sometimes though the ever after isn’t a forever after and they split the sheets going their separate ways. Without going into their personal lives too much (yeah right), Michael is currently sheila-less but Marie gone got herself a new man. Now I ain’t never been one to judge but it needs to be noted that her new fella is also called Michael. You know how hard it is to find a new man with the same name as ya old man? Well, I don’t but I imagine it really cuts down on the selection pool so well played Marie.

My mate Michael and his vein arrived in Brisbane and called me into the city a day earlier to get on the piss. Not wanting to let my good mate down I did as requested and met both him and some other cunt called Tappy that he was drinking with.

Now Tappy ain’t exactly an ugly cunt. He’s one of those dudes that’s got real good hair which basically means he’s got more than me. He seemed like a bloody good bastard too but amongst these fellas we tend not to highlight one’s finer traits. So a few sips into my first beer I looked him in the eye and told him ‘Fuck mate, you’re a bit of a fat cunt aye.’

We all laughed like fuck. Well, two of us did.

But this set the tone and I although I thought it impossible, Tappy’s guts grew larger with every beer we drank.

Michael’s a fit looking cunt but unlike Tappy, he’s as bald as I am but without my fat guts. He ain’t the ugliest cunt I’ve seen but he sure ain’t the prettiest and that’s a positive when ya need to take the piss out of ya mates.

After a dozen or so beers Michael mentioned that his ex-wife Marie was also going to Origin. She was shouting her (not so) new man Michael for his 40^th birthday and that they were gunna be in and out of Australia for less than two full days… like 46 hours or some shit.

I phoned the first wife to come meet us for dinner and Michael, Tappy, Marjana and I met Marie and Michael (the new improved model) for a choice as Asian feed in Southbank with the inevitable flow ons involving hops and grapes in liquid form. Was a primo night.

The following day was Origin. My first wife dropped me into town, kissed me, wished me luck told me to eat often and drink heaps of water.

I met Michael and Tappy at a pub and a little later in came Marie and Michael #2. By this stage we’ve got a few beers under our belts and we’d yell out ‘Hi Tappy’ whenever we saw a fat cunt with hair that walked past, we’d yell out ‘Hi Scotty’ when we saw a bald ugly cunt walking past and of course I often heard ‘Hi Woodstock’ being yelled loudly whenever a fat bald cunt walked past.

I started to realise that Michael #2 is a pretty good cunt actually. The fact that he also has a fat guts is a bonus in my eyes because it’s good ammo. Fuck yeah!

Made it to Origin and watched Queensland get a hiding. They sucked actually.

Couldn’t help them at all from where we were sitting but could help some poor security guard that was getting a hiding from some New South Wales fan that refused to be evicted for being a fuckhead.

I stayed with Michael at his hotel in the city and woke up not feeling too flash.

Now I can’t remember if it was Sunday night after the game or first thing Monday morning but New Zealand Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern closed the travel bubble between New Zealand and Australia. Basically a few COVID cases were popping up here in Queensland but more so with the Mexicans south of the border in New South Wales who were racking up quite a few cases.

This wouldn’t have been an issue if it was after Marie and her new prototype version of Michael… and my mate Michael had already departed back for New Zealand, but that wasn’t the case at all.

Parts of Queensland went into lockdown and pretty much sorted it but New South Wales didn’t stamp it out and for whatever reason Queensland was included in the bubble closure until at least Wednesday or Thursday.

So, now we had three pissed cunts stuck here in Brisbane without a place to stay. Two of ‘em are a divorced couple and the third is the take two version of the divorced ex-husband, Michael.

Michael (first model) and Marie share their kids week about and Michael (second version) has a similar set up with his ex and their kids so they had to call in favours from family and friends to babysit and also sort out other life happenings as they genuinely couldn’t get home. None of ‘em could. They were stuck.

With the greater Brisbane now in lockdown, Marie and Michael (prototype 2) hired a car for three days to explore north to the Sunshine (Sunny) Coast, but before leaving they drove Michael (old worn-out version) and I back to my pad.

‘Hey I know what,’ said I.

You cunts all seem to love drinking piss.

I definitely love drinking piss.

It just so happens I got me some kegs full of beer at home and also a couple other fridges that excel at keeping piss cold.

Why don’t y’all come stay with us till the bubble opens?

Fuck, it’ll be so much fun, man… You can all share the same bed but you guys gunna have to decide amongst yourselves whose sleeping in the middle. You can even top and tail for all I care.’

The response was pretty much a three-person choir in unison saying ‘You’re a cunt Woodstock,’ but they do know I come attached with the first wife and that she’s nicer.

Marie and Michael #2 decided to stay the night and head to the Sunny Coast the following day.

Now this may or may not come as a surprise but we ended up drinking some piss and Tappy and his fat guts even came out to add weight to it. After 84 beers he left and I haven’t seen the poor cunt since.

I cooked us a couple of feeds over the fire, one of which I fucked up big time and will forever be known for that you bunch of mongrel cunts, but the other shit turned out primo.

From memory I think the following morning the Sunny Coast was added to the lockdown which severely inhibited their exploration plans as technically they weren’t really allowed to travel even outside of Brisbane.

Rather than waste money on hotels and restaurant food every night, all three of them decided to stay with us until they were able to head back to New Zealand in a couple days.

The lockdowns and the travel bubble closure were extended and a couple days turned into a few more days and ultimately a couple weeks.

I made a point of making them always sit together when travelling… because I’m a cunt, that’s why

But do you think our homeless houseguests would take time out to not drink piss? Nah, bunch of drunken piss drinking cunts they are but no cunt has ever left our home saying ‘Geez that Woodstock cunt is a shit host and didn’t feed us well and nor did he drink much piss,’ so of course I had to play my host part.

Even the first wife was in on it managing to fulfil her wine drinking ritual of smashing a full glass of wine all over our stairs.

She was as much a part of the piss drinking, piss taking scrum at our place as the rest of ‘em. Well she was right up until she had chemo on the Wednesday. Things changed somewhat after that. Well for us they did (mostly the first wife actually) but for every other cunt, nothing changed at all.

There were endless days and nights of fun and laughter, always with heaps of piss that was only really interrupted once and it was by my first wife calling for help.

It was Thursday night (the day after chemo but still with chemo bottle attached) and I thought I heard soft whimpering. When I didn’t hear it again, I figured it was the tv… until she phoned me from downstairs barely able to talk but managing to vocalise the word ‘Help.’

The others had already gone to bed and didn’t hear shit. I rushed downstairs and find poor lil ol’ wifey lying on the floor unable to move and covered in spew. The spew wasn’t just on her either. Nah man, it was everywhere, all through our bedroom and ensuite and fuck did I feel like a cunt.

She’s even trying to apologise for making a mess and I’m trying to tell her don’t be sorry and that it ain’t your fault and I’m sorry etc.

Fuck you cancer, you cunt of a piece of shit cunty disease. I hate you, man!

But managed to sort out Marjana the best we could and get through the night with only one more vomit.

Talk about a reality check, man. Switch off and have a good time Woodstock but not so much that ya actually switch off and not there when needed, ya dumb cunt!

We can’t tell how each chemo session will affect her as it’s often different but this time she got stomach cramps and it fucked her up for quite a few days. But she’s a trooper and tough as fuck, I tell ya.

Now I need to clarify here because I don’t want y’all thinking our homeless houseguests had overstayed their welcome, because they did not.

They’d all genuinely offered to move out but the first wife wasn’t gunna have a bar of it. She made it clear that if she needed time, she would just chill out in our room and although she can’t drink piss during this stage, they were to continue being the drunkards they/we are.

We all went through a few name changes over the period they stayed including variations such as Bald Ugly Cunt, Fit Bald Cunt, Fat Bald Cunt amongst others but and we ultimately settled on both Michaels being Mark I and Mark II and Marie being Laser Eyes.

Mark I and II are self-explanatory but Laser Eyes came about when Mark II hinted to his Mrs that maybe she should not open and drink that third bottle of wine and that maybe, just maybe she should go to bed. Everyone present was very happy that we weren’t Mark II at that moment because if her eyes were in fact real life lasers, he’d be the deadest cunt I ever met.

Resting those Laser Eyes between dirty looks

Mark I and Mark II got on okay before but they ended up spooning here in Queensland but they seriously bonded big time during this forced live in predicament.

Mark I loves the geegees and the TAB and took Mark II under his wing to teach him all his gambling bad habits and his spastic dance moves whenever he managed a win. Mark II fucking loved it. All of it.

Twinkle Toes

Mark I would smile knowingly at Mark II with a tag you’re it, bro, look when Laser Eyes would get all sheila-like and tell him to do something. It was a beautiful thing to see.

And whenever Mark I or I needed a place to shelter from the rain, we’d jump under Mark II’s guts and feel safe. Disclaimer: we couldn’t at the start of the stay because his guts was normal size but by the end of their stay there was room a plenty.

We went out for heaps for restaurant feeds and some may have got a little freaky as ol’ Laser Eyes’ surname is still Scott. So imagine the weird as looks when Mr Scott and Mrs Scott are being seated but Mrs Scott is all lovey dovey with Mark II who ain’t even a Scott.

Once things opened up slightly with COVID lockdowns we went on a few excursions including a great day at Mt Tambourine where it felt like my first wife and I were taking our kids on a cool little outing.

We all even managed to attend the Wallabies v France rugby test match. With it being rugby and not rugby league not even one of us got into a scrap.

After a few false starts and a couple of COVID tests each, both Mark I and Mark II; along with the sheila they have in common, ol Laser Eyes, all managed to make it back to New Zealand alive and much much heavier for their efforts.

I’m not sure what the airline thought when the seating would’ve been for two Scotts, one of which was called Michael but the other Scott spent the flight snuggled up to another Michael who wasn’t a Scott at all.

Laser Eyes feeding her two Marks

Our homeless houseguests are now back in their real world and I miss them dreadfully. They cooked and cleaned and paid for us every time we went out or had to grab more piss and it’s expensive for us to now have to live without them. Come back you deserting cunts! We both miss y’all.

Mark II walking off his KFC

Apart from Marjana having chemo and her spewy, crampy reaction to it, this was an awesome couple of weeks that we both absolutely loved. It was kind of an escape from our bowel cancer reality whilst still very much living it in the first person.

The Marks bonding over dishes and cooking

I’m pretty sure they enjoyed their stay too as by the time they left Mark II had changed the group chat name to The Very Best Tour EVER.

Finally, to finish on a couple of positives, the first wife is feeling all good right now. This one could be taken either way but Marjana had another CT scan before her last chemo and the result of that was status quo. It showed the cancer was pretty much the same size so although it hasn’t shrunk, it also hasn’t grown and when looking through these eyes people, that is indeed a positive.

And lastly, after returning to New Zealand Mark II proposed to ol’ Laser Eyes.

Therein lies the power and effect of living under the roof of Woodstock and his First Wife. All this while living a real life bowel cancer affected life.

Congratulations team!

Fuck yeah!

When you’re a spastic cunt, you’re a spastic cunt

# 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.

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.

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 😉)

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’!

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.

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.

#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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