Decided to jump a rattler to Parra, me, and apart from the usual parade of bogans, Shazzas and an increasing number of salad dodgers the trip wasn't the usual sardine tin experience it could have been.
Because out west, there isn't an equivalent of the Freo Doctor, rattlers become more like your average terrapin unit. The Silver Slug services are hot enough for cotton frocks and plastic handbags; many of the mountain people would accuse us plains people of being pivot heads and polers.
I went to EB in search of a PS2 game (Katamari Damacy) and this morphia at the counter, I don't know where she got her mullet from but she had a head like a busted sofa and a body like a burst sausage, anyway, she had more front than Myer and as little decorum as a cut snake.
All I wanted was to chuck a pineapple on the counter, get in and shoot through like a Bondi tram but for some reason she was up and down like a Mark Foy's lift to her manager, who in due course tinkled maybe a baker's number of the plastics; got the machine to spit out some white slime and I was on my way.
I tried to leave but she wanted to phernudge the point, Ms Kerfoops obviously had more complaints than Sydney Hospital so I left it at that. This gubba burnt the reddie and Harry High-tailed it out of there.
Bunnies to that!