I had just graduated and felt like the cement ceiling of the universe had hit me on the head. What on earth do you do AFTER graduating if you studied something that has now become the arch nemesis of your very being?
So, like the rest of the bumbling idiots who just kind of wonder around after their degree, in search of part-time, temporary, contract, per-hour, non-permanent work…the die-hard rumour of Cruise Ships came up as the solution of the angels.
Oh 6 months away on the glorious seas of hope as you work 7 day weeks, 16 hour days and have to be eternally jolly to the obese tourists belly flopping their way through the lobbyists. Fuck you cruise shits. Fuck you. Now I know!
Back to the funnier side of cruise ship genocide, I applied through some totally illegit dodgy company working out of offices smaller than my dildo cupboard. First instinct? Stop right there. Leave with hands in the air, drop wallet and run as fast as possible in any other direction. But no no no, suicidal cat-curiousity-girl, let’s just go in and see…
A ridiculous interview about my parents’ relationship, my epiladied legs and what size tampons to use, I was the pathetic victim who paid a whoppingly large sum of money just to be waiting to be on the waiting list that gets you on the waiting list that gets you on the list. I think a mob of dead mafia gangsters runs this business of Cruise Ship Hiring with their cold dusty souls.
With my sick sum of moola, I must now go to the doctor for a full check up as the cruisy woozy ships take no prisoners, no ex cons, no people who’ve ever had a slight cold, a bruised arm, a breakdown or any form of any ailment EVER. They even asked me when the last time I cried was and why, just to test what kind of emotional strength I have. I wasn’t going to tell them that watching Oprah with my monthly devil often induces a deluge of salty works. I am strong like cow.
The night before my test, I went to my bad-influence friend to hang out. She’s the girl I blame for everything and anything that I have done wrong in my life. We drank, we ate, we got high, we watched South Park, I passed out as usual.
At sparrow’s fart the next day, I arrived sprightly for my full check up, grateful to not be a cigarette smoker, morbidly obese or Chinese, I was absolutely confident in my health, wealth and happiness. In the queue, the lovely secretary tart asked me to piss-in-a-cup ready for my inthpection. Squat, Aim, FIRE!
The white coat woman looked like a family-sized suitcase that was desperate to hold in a 4 storey house under her blouse – an eruption was imminent. She beckoned me in, wearing a lipstick colour that only attractive people should experiment with as a joke at a Halloween party. Perhaps she is a temping nurse? Or the slower mentally frozen sister of a doctor? No, this is it, this woman who looks like she has the qualification of a squirrel is going to be fiddling with my bits.
As I walked through the doorway, my peripherals picked up feint writing in the distance, ‘We test for infection, illness, acidity and drugs’. Ok! Cool! I am good with all of those, I have paid my large sum of money to be on the waiting waiting-list list and I am healthy! Yeah!
Oh.
Oh dear. Is weed a drug? Is marijuana, grass, pot, cannabis a DRUG??
Ho – Lee – Shit! Holy shit fucker!! Oh my Jihad! WHAT HAVE I DONE!!!???
I had walked in looking and feeling fantastic. I felt like Belle from Beauty and the Beast in her trip to town, greeting everyone and singing, with my trousers accidentally tucked into my panties. As I digested the information on the distant sign, I had to act faster than President George BJ Bush on 9/11.
As she told me to have a seat, I burst into tears. ‘I have to tell you something, I really don’t know what to do *sob*…last night *gasp*… I went to a friends party *gulp* …and my friend was smoking a rolled tobacco cigarette and I don’t usually smoke cigarettes, but I felt like I was under pressure. *Close eyes so tears can fall hard and fast* …P..P..Peer pressure can be so difficult sometimes, especially at my age. So I took a few drags and…and…’
She got up off her chair, a minor workout for our house-boat lardlady. She put her arms around me, offering me some water and comforting me.
‘And…and…a few minutes after I’d had a few drags, I started feeling so sick *sniff* and I had to lie down in my friend’s room *swallow* and I really don’t know what happened, I started vomitting and I was sooo dizzy. *Short crying breaths* I think, I think someone spike…*breakdown in tears* …spiked the cigarette!! I didn’t knoooow waaaaaaa, I didn’t *choke* know!!!’
The woman’s shaven moustache shadow was now right in my face and I was converting all of my hysterical laughing energy into wailing tears. With my head in my hands, sobbing snot, hiccough-breathing, the woman starts rubbing my back saying, ‘It’s ok, shhh, it’s ok…’ She continued with, ‘it definitely sounds like someone spiked the cigarette. You poor thing, thank god you’re ok. You’re very lucky, you’re ok, but I hope you’ve learnt for next time.’ Wiping my face with my sleeve, I nodded and agreed to everything she said with a poor-me puppy-look.
Then she told me she was going to get my test results and that I must just breathe and relax and that she’s sure everything will be fine.
She came back in, trying to position her double-decker arse on the desk in front of me to create a ‘personal’ vibe. ‘The test has come back positive with dagga. Now, it’s come back with quite a strong sign of it which means that the cigarette must have been laced heavily with it. We’re very lucky it’s not a harder, more addictive substance.’
I started crying again, ‘Oh my god! I’ve never even touched a drug in my life. What must I do? How long will it take to be out my system?’
She looked at me, with tiny eyes that were somewhere on top of her base-caked chunky cheeks, ‘It’s ok. It’s our little secret.’ She smiled and marked off a big NEGATIVE to the drugs section on my form and I was fitted with an immaculate bill of health. Then I realised that this woman may be large, but she was beautiful and stunningly voluptuous, she was perfectly proportionate and glowed with goodness and warmth and kindness, like she was exactly who you’d want your kids going to Nursery School with. She was an angel, with wings and a halo and the tummy of a cherub’s mommy. I will call her Angela and dedicate my fluffy pillow of happiness to her. I love you Angela!
She gave me a big hug, where my hands got lost in the folds of her glorious angel fat. As she said goodbye, she looked at me and told me what a wonderful young woman I was and that I should really think about the type of people I was hanging out with.
I nodded sniffling and smiling at her sweet face of love, ‘You just never know who you can trust these days.’
Aim. Shoot. Score.
