by David Thorne
After a lengthy discussion between the four kids in which every feature of my scooter was analysed and ridiculed, including the fact that it had my name on the seat so it must be mine, I suddenly felt need to defend the horrible thing and stupidly said “yes, but it’s good at jumps.”
Riding indian file together to the Humps & Bumps after being told to “prove it then, Postman Pat,” we pulled up at the base of a huge hill and the kids pointed to the summit. The jump was basically a huge track going down the side with a smaller hill at the end acting as a ramp. Riding to the top, I tightened the plastic strap inside my construction hat, and looked down.
Grasping the possibility that there was at least a chance of coming out of this unhurt and earning the acceptance of my peers, I edged forward and threw back the throttle as hard as I could - snapping the antique piece of tin holding the throttle to the handlebar, and locking it on full. Holding on with every limb tensed like steel, the scooter tore down the incline, hit the ramp at the bottom, and broke in half.
My body, carried by momemtum, flew over the handlbars, cleared the ledge of the ramp, and flew twelve feet before landing and rolling several times in the dirt. My helmet, which had blown off half way down the hill, rolled to a stop a few feet from me. Dazed, I lay on my back staring up at the sun glimmering through the leaves of a gum tree, listening to the sound of four mini-bikes disappearing at top speed into the distance.
Noticing a throbbing pain in my left leg, I looked down to see my shin bone sticking several inches out of a large gash in my skin, halfway between the knee and ankle. Ignoring earlier advice from my father about getting back on a bike after a fall, I began to drag myself home by sitting up and pulling myself backwards a few feet at a time.
Approximately fifty feet from the crash site, I crawled over an ants nest and had to roll again, but only twenty minutes later saw the family car driving towards me up the dusty track. Apparently Ashley had ridden to my house and told my parents that despite all four kids trying to convince me otherwise, I had attempted and failed a stunt and broken my scooter. He also visited me in the hospital and, even though he called me Postman Pat for the next two years, we became friends.
My father collected the broken scooter and attempted to repair it by welding the two halves together but it caught on fire and was delegated to the back of the shed never to be seen again. Which I was quietly happy about.
As a token replacement birthday present, I received a Slip’n’Slide which I wasn’t allowed to use due to my leg being in a cast but I did get to watch Ashley and his friends using it from my bedroom window.
Also, a week after getting my cast removed, I used the Slip’n’Slide for the first time and, after a massive run-up and standing slide that cleared the entire length of the bright yellow plastic, I continued along the grass into a hedge, and a branch punctured my scrotum.
Opinions are like nipples, everybody has one.
Despite mentioning cats in only three articles in my previous book, around ninety percent of the emails I receive ask the same two questions; "Did Shannon ever find her missing cat Missy?" and "Why do you hate cats?"
Firstly, yes. Missy was found in a neighbour's hedge that evening. It was about the fifth time she had gone missing and has escaped several times since. Secondly, I don't hate cats. I just don't want them sitting on my lap or rubbing against me lifting their tails so I have to look at their bum holes. If I owned a cat, I would make it wear pants. My partner Holly wants to buy a cat but I have told her that if she gets a cat, I am getting a leather jacket like the one Evel Knievel wore.
Apart from making the occasional joke, which I assume at the time will be taken as such, I would never condone cruelty, violence or tormentation towards any animal. That's what red haired children are for.
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From: Ella Johnson
Date: Tuesday 31 May 2011 2.04pm
To: David Thorne
Subject: Book
I've perused your website before and must admit I laughed at the story about the police officer. I work in a bookstore and when your book came in as stock, I made the mistake of browsing through it. While some of it was mildly amusing, you crossed the fine line between dark humor and psychopathy.
It's quite jarring to go from laughing at drawings of spiders to reading your fantasies about torturing and killing cats. This ruined the book for me. Animal cruelty is a mental illness and usually the first sign of a sociopath. Serial killers torture animals when they are young. It's my most fervent opinion that you need to find a highly skilled psychiatrist post-haste and I have left a review on Amazon warning potential buyers.
Ella J
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From: David Thorne
Date: Tuesday 31 May 2011 3.28pm
To: Ella Johnson
Subject: Re: Book
Dear Ellla,
Opinions are like nipples, everybody has one. Some have firm points, others are barely discernible through layers, and some are displayed at every opportunity regardless of whether an audience has stated, "I am interested in your nipples" or not. Cats have nineteen.
As people can only provide unbiased opinions about things they have no interest in, your zealous fervor regarding cats is understood but misdirected.
At no time have I ever "fantasized about torturing and killing cats." This is an assumption you have made and I am puzzled to its origin. Are you referring to the article titled David and his best friends spend a day at the beach? I have attached an excerpt.
Regards, David.
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From: Ella Johnson
Date: Tuesday 31 May 2011 4.06pm
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Book
No of course I'm not because you just made that up. There is nothing in the book about cats making you their king. I was referring to at least 3 articles that mention cats being tortured or killed. The text on the page you mentioned actually states:
"I once agreed to look after a friend's cat for a week but after he dropped it off at my apartment and explained the concept of kitty litter, I kept the cat in a closed cardboard box in the shed and forgot about it. If I wanted to feed something and clean faeces, I wouldn't have put my mother in that home after her stroke. A week later, when my friend came to collect his cat, I pretended that I was not home and mailed the box to him. Apparently I failed to put enough stamps on the package and he had to collect it from the post office and pay eighteen dollars. He still goes on about that sometimes, people need to learn to let go."
The thought of a cat being trapped and frightened in a box in the dark and slowly starving to death is what you call humor? Pathetic. You need to take a good long look at yourself and seriously consider seeing a psychiatrist for your own safety and those around you. I have no idea how you managed to get published by Penguin writing disgusting material that cleary illustrates a complete lack of morals and ethics.
Ella J
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From: David Thorne
Date: Tuesday 31 May 2011 4.57pm
To: Ella Johnson
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Book
Dear Ella,
I never stated the cat starved to death and you have simply assumed that it didn't enjoy the experience. Cats like being in boxes. Also, it was a fairly big box. I could understand your concern if it had been a shoebox but it was at least twice that size.
It is easy to take something written out of its original context and make it look bad; a few years ago, I was commissioned to write copy for an annual publication produced by Top Tourist Parks of Australia. After a print run of seventy-five thousand and distribution throughout Australia and New Zealand, it was discovered that I had left the letter v out of the word 'dive' and the introduction for a family beach resort activity read, "Die with your children. A n
ew world awaits." Apparently a child had drowned the year before so I admit it was bad timing but these things happen, there's no point carrying on about it.
Also, despite your opinion that I am without either morals or ethics, many of the articles in the book have an underlying message expressing the contrary. I have attached the article David and his best friends go to the movies, which clearly illustrates this.
Regards, David.
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From: Ella Johnson
Date: Wednesday 01 June 2011 9.32am
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Book
Obviously we have differing opinions on what constitutes acceptable ethics and offensive humor. I suggest reading some of Chelsea Handler's books. Her humor is spot on and while she can be a bit risque at times, she never crosses the line like your book does. You could learn a lot from her.
Fortunately, in my store at least, I am in a position to dictate where on the shelves your book is displayed so nobody will see it and I will also be sure to warn customers against buying it if they bring it to the counter.
Good luck with sales, you will need it.
Ella J
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From: David Thorne
Date: Wednesday 01 June 2011 2.14pm
To: Ella Johnson
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Book
Dear Ella,
Your efforts to protect both cats and customers should not go unacknowledged. If you have access to a printer and scissors, you could make yourself a little badge. Anyone can form an opinion but it takes a certain type of person to carry that opinion through to consumer censorship. In a million years, if mankind dies out and cats inherit the earth, they will probably build a statue of you featuring a cat nestled in one arm, a can of petrol in the other, and a pile of my books at your feet. Or one of you cleaning your bum with your tongue.
Unfortunately, your efforts to impinge book sales are not required as Penguin's marketing team seems to have the same strategy. I visited a Barnes & Noble store this morning, expecting to find copies of my book distributed throughout, but located only a single copy in the home and garden section next to Diana Kennedy's The Art of Mexican Cooking.
I left with a pop-up book about trains and two fridge magnets so I understand the concept of impulse buying, but targeting only those preparing for next year's Cinco de Mayo is a stretch.
In contrast, Chelsea Handler's book was displayed throughout the store and even had its own colourful cardboard display. Based on your suggestion, I had a quick flick through and owe you a debt of gratitude as I now realise what it takes to receive excellent reviews on Amazon from people like yourself.
Regards, David.
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From: Ella Johnson
Date: Wednesday 01 June 2011 3.27am
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Book
Last email as arguing with a moron is a waste of my valuable time and all you’ve done is display how ignorant you are. I doubt you’ve read anything by Chelsea Handler so what would you know. Nobody asked for your opinion anyway.
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From: David Thorne
Date: Wednesday 01 June 2011 5.24pm
To: Ella Johnson
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Book
Bill tries to buy cheese. Part 3
Ten reasons I probably shouldn’t be alive: Wilma Deering
During primary school, my favourite television show was a program called Buck Rogers in the 25th Century which featured a pudgy astronaut named Buck who is frozen is space while testing a new spacecraft and thawed out hundreds of years later when everyone wears really tight jumpsuits.
The series followed Buck’s many exciting adventures in which he tried to fit into 25th-Century culture, aided in his adventures by a robot named Twiki and his friend and semi-romantic interest, Colonel Wilma Deering, who wore a tighter jumpsuit than anyone else.
I liked Colonel Wilma Deering a lot. I have seen photos of her since and she isn’t much chop but there is no accounting for the logic of prepubescent boys. I had a poster of her on my bedroom wall and I’m fairly sure I kissed it a few times. I also grew fairly resentful of Buck as they spent a lot of time together.
Once, I used a cassette recorder to record myself saying, in a girl’s voice, “Buck and I are just friends, I love you David. I want to marry you” and sat there for hours looking at the poster while playing, rewinding, and playing the recording over again. Once, while occupied by my own thoughts during a school class, I called the teacher Wilma which was almost as embarrassing as the times I had previously called her mum.
As the concept of being frozen and later thawed seemed scientifically sound, I decided to undertake the process one night figuring even if Colonel Wilma Deering wasn’t going to be waiting for me in the future, there would obviously be a lot of other girls in really tight jumpsuits. Wanting to fit in when I reached the future, I donned my sisters shiny blue spandex unitard and waited patiently until I was sure my parents were asleep before making my way down the hall and into the kitchen.
Opening the refrigerator, I quietly removed the food and the shelves, sat inside, and swung the door shut. Bored and uncomfortable after five minutes, I got out, grabbed a cusion, flashlight and a Phantom comic, and climbed back in.
I am not sure if it was due to the lack of air or hypothermia setting in but I remember the shivering stopping and a feeling of warmth settling over me as I began to drift off, happy in the knowledge that the next time I opened my eyes, it would be to the sight of jetpacks, robots and tight jumpsuits.
It was then that I heard the muffled voice of my father, who had risen to use the bathroom and discovered the kitchen floor covered in food, muttering “what the fuck is going on here?” before throwing open the refrigerator door to reveal me sitting on a cusion holding a flashlight and comic book, dressed in my sister’s jazzercise outfit.
While one might expect most parents to be angered by this seemingly irrational type of behaviour, years of such had worn my father down to the point where he simply stared at me with a disappointed look on his face before stating “Stop being a dickhead” and closed the refrigerator door.
A few months later, I read somewhere that if you travel at the speed of light for a few minutes, when you slow down and head home after the experiment, you will find that hundreds of years have passed. Securing my father's portable generator to the rear book rack of my bike with rope and attaching the drive belt to the back wheel gear spindle, I sat on the bike and pulled the zip-cord. Unfortunately, instead of finding myself in the future, I traveled about fifty metres along the sidewalk at 200mph before finding myself in a bush. When asked by the nurse filling out the hospital accident report "Cause of accident?" I stated, 'time travel attempt' but she wrote down 'stupidity.'
I know you’re busy, so I made another form to fill out
I don’t like Microsoft Word. As a designer and Mac user, the only time I ever have to open Word is when some idiot sends me an attachment in Word format. Mellissa once emailed me a copy of an email as a word document. The word document contained a jpg screenshot of the original email. I am deleting Word from my computer after I finish writing this line.
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From: Mellissa Peters
Date: Monday 27 February 2012 9.38am
To: All staff
Subject: Form
Hi,
I know everyone is really busy this week trying to get the annual report layout done on time so I will get everyone their lunches this week and bring them back instead of everyone having to go to the shops themselves. There is a lunch order form attached in Word format. Just print it out and write down what you want and leave it on my desk. I’ll wr
ite in the price when I am at the shops and at the end of the week i’ll work out your total.
Thanks Mel
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From: David Thorne
Date: Monday 27 February 2012 9.47am
To: Mellissa Peters
Subject: Re: Form
Dear Mellissa,
While I appreciate your efforts to improve productivity by removing the only half hour repreive I get from rubbish like this each day, couldn’t I just tell you what I want and you write it down?
Regards, David.
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From: Mellissa Peters
Date: Monday 27 February 2012 9.54am
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Form
No because then I would have to write everyones down. It is quicker if you all do it yourselves.