Sunday, June 11, 2006
Fly, my pretties! Fly, avenging army of the night! So this afternoon I was flicking through one of the two entertaining local newspapers, the Melbourne Leader, and I happened to spot the following classified ad.
And I couldn't help but imagine that when you get this guy over to your house to get rid of possums, you answer the door with a cup of tea still in one hand, and there's nobody there and you go, "Hello? Hello?" for a while, and then poooffft! he appears, wearing a cloak that is flapping majestically even though there is no breeze.
And you go, "Are you the possum guy?"
He looks disdainfully at you and says, "I am the Possum Master."
There is a little pause. And then you kind of suck your breath in through your teeth and go, "Okaaaay, well I have some possums screeching and fucking in my roof. And one of them gnawed a hole in the wall and I thought there was a big furry spider on the wall until I realised it was the possum's fur sticking through my wall. So what are you gonna do about that? Huh?"
He stares at you for a while, blinking occasionally. You start to think perhaps he is retarded and you ought to have gone with Joe's Pest Removal, but just when you're about to repeat yourself he rouses from his stupor and walks into the middle of your front yard, where he stretches out his arms and says,
"Come to me, my pretties! Your Master commands you!"
And as you stand there, still holding your cup of tea, possums begin to emerge from your roof and cluster around the Possum Master. He arches his neck and emits a loud and dreadful possum hiss as his brushtailed minions coil around his ankles and shin up his legs to cling to his belt and perch on his shoulders. He cradles one in the crook of his arm, stroking it with tender malevolence in the manner of a Bond villain stroking a cat. The possum stares right at you.
"Now fly, my pretties!" bellows the Possum Master. "Fly, avenging army of the night!"
You see a shadow in your neighbour's front window and feel a little embarrassed to be the host of this spectacle. But the possums heed their Master and scamper obligingly down the street. Who knows where they go. At least it's not your house. The Possum Master strides off down your driveway.
"But how do I pay?" you call after him.
"I shall invoice you," he flings back over his shoulder.
You get the invoice and the bastard has charged you $560 plus GST. But you pay up. Oh yes you pay up. You heard what happened to this one guy who didn't.
And I couldn't help but imagine that when you get this guy over to your house to get rid of possums, you answer the door with a cup of tea still in one hand, and there's nobody there and you go, "Hello? Hello?" for a while, and then poooffft! he appears, wearing a cloak that is flapping majestically even though there is no breeze.
And you go, "Are you the possum guy?"
He looks disdainfully at you and says, "I am the Possum Master."
There is a little pause. And then you kind of suck your breath in through your teeth and go, "Okaaaay, well I have some possums screeching and fucking in my roof. And one of them gnawed a hole in the wall and I thought there was a big furry spider on the wall until I realised it was the possum's fur sticking through my wall. So what are you gonna do about that? Huh?"
He stares at you for a while, blinking occasionally. You start to think perhaps he is retarded and you ought to have gone with Joe's Pest Removal, but just when you're about to repeat yourself he rouses from his stupor and walks into the middle of your front yard, where he stretches out his arms and says,
"Come to me, my pretties! Your Master commands you!"
And as you stand there, still holding your cup of tea, possums begin to emerge from your roof and cluster around the Possum Master. He arches his neck and emits a loud and dreadful possum hiss as his brushtailed minions coil around his ankles and shin up his legs to cling to his belt and perch on his shoulders. He cradles one in the crook of his arm, stroking it with tender malevolence in the manner of a Bond villain stroking a cat. The possum stares right at you.
"Now fly, my pretties!" bellows the Possum Master. "Fly, avenging army of the night!"
You see a shadow in your neighbour's front window and feel a little embarrassed to be the host of this spectacle. But the possums heed their Master and scamper obligingly down the street. Who knows where they go. At least it's not your house. The Possum Master strides off down your driveway.
"But how do I pay?" you call after him.
"I shall invoice you," he flings back over his shoulder.
You get the invoice and the bastard has charged you $560 plus GST. But you pay up. Oh yes you pay up. You heard what happened to this one guy who didn't.
