Pokémon Goes Out of Control

Remember when we’d stalk the streets and pile into parks searching for Pokèmon? When the cops would ask you what you were doing hanging around outside a stranger’s home at midnight and you could explain that you were just on a quest? Or when a slim chance of catching a Vaporeons was worth stopping traffic and risking your life for? Good times.

But as popularity for the app wanes, Pokèmon have gone from being the most hunted species on the planet, to a damn nuisance. They’re fucking everywhere. The last remnant of sad Pokèmon master trainers are said to be outnumbered 7000-1.

Parks (‘GYMS’) have become breeding grounds, and our streets are at risk of being overrun by these pests once thought cute and fun. And now our native wildlife are suffering. Poor street rats are being forced out of their natural habitats behind Chinese restaurants. Not to mention, the damage being done to our property. Just recently, a car in Brooklyn was set a blaze by a rampant Charizard.

But it doesn’t end there. While walking my dog this morning, I happened to step right in Pokèmon poop. Sure, it may be invisible to the naked eye, but it’s safe to say it was probably there. I mean, let’s face it, based on the sheer numbers of Pokèmon roaming around, we’ve probably all stepped in their shit. Go on, check your shoe.

My question is: how long before a mother claims that a Diglett took my baby?  What we must do is simple. We need to dust off those cobwebs from our Pokèmon Go app (or re-download it in most cases) and take action! But this time, we gotta catch and kill ’em all.

 

 

 

The Staff Only Door

I recently returned a pair of sneakers without a receipt. A sign above the store counter read: No Receipt. No Refund! But I persisted. Unsurprisingly, the sales assistant was reluctant to speak to their manager. I’ve worked in retail before, so I couldn’t blame her. But I was not leaving with these hideous sneakers my sister thought would suit me.

I knew what I had to do. I had to pull out the age-old line that sends shivers down the spine of anyone in retail. You know the one: ‘The customer is always right.’ Nobody knows where the fuck this came from or how it became sacrosanct. The sales assistant was furious, but conceded defeat. After a heavy sigh, they stomped towards the ‘Staff Only’ door. Knowing that I was in for a long wait, I made myself comfortable on the stool reserved for trying these hideous sneakers on.

If you haven’t worked in retail before you probably can’t understand why it takes the sales assistant so long to return. What could they be doing back there? What’s going on? Let me explain.

The ‘Staff Only’ door leads to a small passage that links to a rickety bridge connecting to a flight of a thousand stairs. The sales assistant must climb the narrow stairway to reach a giant door that requires 100 correct variations of a password before it can be unlocked. Once inside, the sales assistant carefully runs their hand along the wall to find a hidden button that grants them access to a secret elevator. The elevator doors opens to an isolated platform surrounded by a vista of water. The sales assistant now must swim for roughly 5km before reaching a sandy bay. Crawling to shore, the sales assistant begins their trek through an amazon forest where they’ll be forced to defend themselves against an array of dangerous wildlife. Pending survival, the sales assistant heads towards the center of the forest to discover an open cave. Deep within the cave is a cavity no bigger than a fox hole. The sales assistant defies dimensions to squeeze through to the other side. Here they are met by two burly men wearing rubber gloves. An invasive inspection occurs. Once cleared by security, the sales assistant then crawls through a damp dark tunnel. Tired, sweaty and barely able to stand the sales assistant reaches a stale little office with cream walls. They gently tap on a door that reads: ‘MANAGER’. A voice yells ‘Come in.’ The manager sits slouched on a swivel chair throne. His collection of half empty styrofoam coffee cups clutter a cheap plywood desk. The remnants of a Subway sandwich sit beside his Dell computer. The sales assistant gulps: ‘I have a customer out there who wants to return some sneakers without a receipt.’ The manger spins around and proclaims: ‘No receipt. No refund! You know the drill.’ The sales assistant begins their long journey back to the store.

It’s been approximately 8 minutes since the sales assistant first left me standing there. A long a time to keep a customer waiting, sure. But knowing what the sales assistant’s just been through I’m actually surprised they’re back so soon.

‘Well?” I asked, what did the manager say? The sales assistant wiped the sweat from her brow. ‘Sorry, we don’t refund without a receipt.’

I didn’t want to do it, but I did. ‘Can you ask them if they’ll do an exchange?’ The sales assistant now dead in the eyes, says ‘I’ll check,’ and slunks back towards the ‘Staff Only’ door. I’m prepared to wait.

Introducing Chris Brailey’s Dream Peen

TIRED OF TUGGING THE SAME OLD STICK? DOES YOUR DICK MAKE WOMEN SICK? REST EASY, THE PENIS OF YOUR DREAMS IS CURRENTLY BEING DEVELOPED IN A FACTORY WEST OF CHINA*.

Dear Peanut Brittle

Dear Peanut Brittle,

People have always come between us. They’ve kept us apart for so long. As a child, my mum desperately warned me against you, and the dentist stopped us from seeing each other. Over the years you were difficult to chew, and yes, there have been times when I grew frustrated or annoyed when you got stuck in my teeth; but that tends to happen in a relationship. Anyway, don’t they say that all great couples go through hard times?

When I discovered you unopened in the cupboard today, I just simply had to have you. We didn’t take it slow, either; I ripped open your packet and jammed you into my mouth. My teeth were under prepared; they screamed in agony as I bit you so hard…

Remember the time you were at that party? The one with the chips and dip? Nobody knew who you were. You were all alone, but I knew. Except, there was that one kid, Stewart. He was curious, too curious. He walked on over to our table and stood between us.

‘What’s this?’ He asked.

‘You wouldn’t like it.’ I replied, bluntly.

‘It looks pretty nice.’ He said, leaning in.

‘Well, it’s not,’ I glared ‘why don’t you go and try some of those chips.’ I insisted.

‘No, I think I’m going to try some of these.’ He smiled.

That little shit. I’d never been a violent child, I just wanted to protect you, and keep you all to myself. My teeth had grown sharp from our time together, so I knew if I could bite into you, then imagine the damage I could have done to Stewart’s skinny little girly arm. Luckily, I didn’t resort to violence and came up with this instead.

‘You know what these are made of don’t you?’ I asked. He shook his head. ‘Peanuts.’ I said.

‘So what?’ He shrugged.

‘You’re allergic to peanuts.’ I snarled.

‘Am not.’ He frowned.

‘Am too,’ I replied ‘your mum told me.’

‘Am not’

‘Am too!’

Stewart looked around, but couldn’t spot his mother.

‘But, I guess you could have just one.’ I smiled.

‘What will happen if I eat one?’ He asked.

‘Well, I guess, you’ll probably end up dead.’ I replied.

So there we were, just the two of us hanging out at the party. By the end of the night my stomach ached, and my teeth were so sticky that my mouth was jammed shut. I’ll never forget it.

Love,

Chris.

Squash the Internet

Australian internet provider Optus have received thousands of calls over the last few days from customers complaining of a ‘broken internet’. Tech support lines have been jammed from Sydney to Mumbai since images of Kim Kardashian’s oily backside went viral last week.

A representative from Optus was forced to comment earlier today. ‘Checking out Kim Kardashian’s booty is not the reason your internet is broken.’ He paused. ‘It may just be a loose cable.’

Despite his refusal to blame the image for breaking the internet, he did admit that a ‘booty’ may cause, at least, some damage. ‘It is possible that the internet could be squashed by an image of somebody’s rear end; but in my opinion, it would need to be substantially bigger, and not as curvaceous.’

 

First & Last

I’ve never beaten anybody in a race. Well, post-birth that is. And if I hadn’t have won that race, I wouldn’t be here today. The first race any of us are ever in, and it could of (perhaps, should of) been my last. I managed to win the right to be born. I beat millions of other sperm in a race to the egg; which probably says more about the quality of the competition than it does anything else. I can only assume my one and only victory came down to a mix-up. Perhaps I jumped the gun and got off to a good start. I don’t know, but it doesn’t feel right that I’m here, especially after being defeated by a kid almost half my age at the swimming carnival earlier today. My high school P.E teacher seems to share the same assumption. She once lost her cool with me and blurted out in front of the whole class, ‘How fucking slow and stupid must the other sperm have been for you to be born?’ She’s no longer teaching at my school, which isn’t to say she was wrong.

That initial race must have really taken it out of me. Maybe I put so much energy into winning, that I’ve completely exerted myself. It would explain why I’ve felt drowsy and fatigued ever since birth. My mother had me on a variety of vitamins and tablets to combat iron and energy deficiencies as a child, however, none if it ever made a difference. It’s as though my body is still catching its breath. Or maybe it’s just resting on its laurels, content with that one taste of victory. And It’s not as though the victory of being born is something one can cling to, either. Life is like one giant green room filled with 6 billion others who’ve all won the same race. Everyone’s a winner, so it doesn’t even count anymore. It’s like defecating or breathing, we’ve all done it. So you can’t bring it up in conversation and brag about it, or put down the other sperm who lost and died doing so. Nobody living even remembers winning that race. That’s how many other fucking races they’ve won. Is it really impossible to recall life as a semen? Or have people deleted it from their memory bank to make room for all of the other victories they’ve had since birth?

Sometimes I sit alone for hours trying to think back to that race. I try and recall the feeling of making it into the egg first, but it never works. Occasionally I’ll have a nightmare about it; I trip and fall allowing another sperm to get there at the very last second. Other times I’ll dream about the doctor telling my mum that there was a mistake, “The wrong sperm won.” He frowns. “You’ve got a loser on your hands, the rightful winner has been robbed.” The nurse adds. Unhappy with the result, my father applies to have the race rescheduled. The doctor apologises, informing my parents that unfortunately none of the other sperm survived. “You’ll have to start over and try again from scratch.” This news brings a smile to my father’s face. “No,” my mother says, “we’ll keep the baby, for now.”

I wake up in a cold sweat and out of breath, as if I’ve just finished the race. I wonder if it was it worth it? Being born, I mean. What’s the point of winning if you’re doomed to lose forever. I sometimes wish I would have let another sperm win. That way I wouldn’t be getting laughed at by this kid at the swimming carnival. Did I mention that he’s almost half my age! “It’s nothing to be proud of,” I blurt out, “I’ve lost to kids a lot younger than you.” What kind of comeback is that? I’ve only made it worse for myself, he’s laughing even louder. I’m drowning. I try and focus on the comfort of my ergonomic desk chair, my high-speed internet connection, and the release of Call of Duty Advanced Warfare waiting for me at home.

Y-MEN: Steve

No, not all mutants join the X-MEN. Some of us have desk jobs you know.

The Bump Into

We met inside Joe’s Coffee House. Well, technically, in the doorway of Joe’s Coffee House. She wore a bright blue dress with a decorative floral print (which, by the way, still looks amazing to this day). That morning, I was on my way out, and she was on her way in. I was still jittery after indulging in my second cup of coffee; she was flustered, and struggled to balance her awkward combination of urgency and clumsiness that I too saw in myself. Then it happened. We bumped into one another. She stepped right, and so did I. We both giggled. I smiled and she blushed. Then I went left, and she went left! I made the first move, and nervously apologised. She blushed some more, brushing the hair away from her face and said, softly – ‘It’s okay.’ Not wanting to hold her up (although, secretly hoping to) I stepped left once more, but coincidentally, so did she. We both excused ourselves simultaneously, stammering over the top of one another (which was cute… then) It was as if it was our destiny to bump into each other. Fate had brought us together, in it’s own romantically clumsy way. But after twenty thousand-odd left and right footsteps later, we’re still caught in the same doorway, unable to get out of each other’s way, not unlike an animated GIF.

As time went on Joe’s Coffee House eventually closed down and became a laundry mat, then a beauty spa, followed by a Thai massage parlour, a tattoo parlour, a Starbucks, a KFC, a tax agent, an adult store, and eventually another coffee shop. It didn’t seem to matter what happened either side of the doorway, we remained permanently stuck in our clumsy collision. She grew cold, irritable and sarcastically sinister, while I exchanged my smiles and charming mannerisms for demeaning mumbling slurs (directed mostly at myself). 

As unhappy as we were, our timing remained impeccable. She still shuffled left when I shuffled left. And when I went right, she wearily stepped right as well. Gradually, our apologies subsided to a mere sigh or grunt, then inevitably ceased to exist. Each time she brushed the hair away from her face, I quivered inside with rage. The awkward little nuisances we originally fancied in one another became one gigantic pain in the arse.

Still today, our doorway predicament often draws an audience of onlookers who sigh ‘awww’ in unison. Over the years we’ve featured on multiple news programs and even signed a book deal. The publisher thinks our story could be turned into a movie one day. She calls it ‘Hollywood’s first ‘Doorway Romance’. Together we’ve witnessed all types of things in the doorway. A couple of years ago when the cafe was still a KFC there was a robbery. They managed to escape through the open doorway with the safe and four hostages by walking right between us, without breaking our bind. KFC were so livid they attempted to sue us for neglecting our duty of rescue. The court hearing took place right there in the doorway, where we were forced to demonstrate our bind to the jury, as if we had a choice.

The latest coffee shop is currently undergoing renovations, the owner’s concerned that we’re going to get in his way. How ironic. ‘It’s nothing builders haven’t worked around before’ I told him. If something was to change and either she or I made an unexpected move and broke free, I don’t know what I would do with myself, to be honest. It’s been so long that I’ve grown comfortable, content even. My parents have been married 45 years and they can’t stand each other, but they persist. I guess it’s easier staying together sometimes, even when you have a choice.

When we’re alone at night we often talk about missed opportunities to travel abroad or the fact that we’ve never been intimate. As we grow old the chance that one of us may become too weak to stand is kind of exciting, thrilling even. We’ve even started placing bets on who will go first. She thinks it will be me, because of my arthritis. Hopefully, whoever goes first will still be young and healthy enough to travel, heck, even meet somebody else. As long as it’s not in a doorway that is. 

Our timing is so impeccable that we’ll probably go at the same time: dying in each other’s way. Come to think of it, that would be a fitting way to go. Romantic. A real Hollywood ending, the publisher would say. Like Romeo and Juliet, but nothing like that at all.