Well technically the title to this blog is incorrect.
This gift isn’t from me to my first wife but from my first wife to her first husband.
And what a gift it was!
It’s a gift of weeds from Livno, Bosnia and Hercegovina from back in July 2017.
Unsure as to what particular plant they are from but if not the thought, then the first wife’s cheeky evil little smile was very much appreciated.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
Don’t ya just love it when ya buy ya first wife wedding anniversary presents like these beauties and they’re already wrapped.
I killed two birds with one stone here in my efforts to make her happy… not only did she receive these cool presents, I also saved money on wrapping paper.
Another good use of the word ‘killed’ is that I haven’t been, yet.
Woodstock's blog 