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GLARSED!

Be careful up there:

Student 1: "I was in the Trendy Bar last Saturday. You know, the bar a few doors up from the Glenferrie? No? Anyway, I was up on the roof, in the open air part where the smokers go, sitting at one of the tables with my girlfriend and a mate when I felt a bit itchy in the arse. I wiggled, but that didn't make any difference, so I reached around for a scratch, and fvck me if there wasn't a piece of glass stuck in my date. Big fvcken bit, about three inches. It had gone right through the new Calvin Klein jeans my cheese had bought me for my birthday, right through my undies, and sliced me another crack. Fvcken blood everywhere. My mum reckons she can fix the jeans, but I chucked the boxers out. Big fvcken piece of glass. Right in me arse. Didn't even notice it had cut me. Fvck."

Student 2: "Yeah, really. Same thing happened to me about a month ago. Six stitches."

There followed an interesting conversation on arse related injuries. I suppose, when you think about it, with all the people going to all the bars in Straya, there must be a lot of people sitting on broken glass.

Comments

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1.

Your arse is glass.

2.

I once found myself with a sore ass and a pair of Reg Grundies covered in blood.

But I also woke up in a park, Todd McKenny style.

3.

Australia is the glarse end of the world.

4.

Cue Deb Harry:
Once had a lager, at the bar
Soon turned out, had an arse of glass ...

5.

Adds entry to data base - another reason to steer clear of Glenferrie Road Hawthorn at night.

Reminds me of a verse from a Les Murray poem:

The first mate's name t'was Ripper
He was a crafty little nipper
Put powdered glass in his arse
To circumcise the skipper

6.

Adds entry to data base - another reason to steer clear of Glenferrie Road Hawthorn at night.

Reminds me of a verse from a Les Murray poem:

The first mate's name t'was Ripper
He was a crafty little nipper
Put powdered glass in his arse
To circumcise the skipper

7.

Neat trick, Franky. How did you get a double post 10 minutes apart?

(Me not a pendant.)

8.

There was a young blood from Glenferrie
Who went out one night to make merry
But he parked his arse
On some loose glass
And now he's longer so cherry

*bloody rimshot*

Thank you, thank you. Try the veal, it'll be here all week.

9.

i remember when it used to be safe to go to bars, even trendy ones.

nowdays, you either get your drink or arse spiked.

10.

There was a young buck on the fuel
Who went to the pub in jeans cool
When he sat on a chair
An itch made him aware
That a shard left him scarred, ain't life cruel

11.

Hawthorn's a puzzle, Ponder. An up-market suburb with nasty nightlife.

12.

The Hawthorn problem in concentrated around Glenferrie Rd and Burwood Rd with about 5 or 6 pubs, bars, clubs of various degrees of lack of differenciation all clustered within staggering distance of each other with the train station about centre. And guess what - its outside the CBD 2am lockout "solution"

13.

An evening drink,
Such havoc wreaked.
A sharpened shard,
His torso tweaked.
We make no cracks,
About our cloven brother,
But bid him turn the other cheek,
And the other, and the other.

14.

On matters testicular,
Let's be particular:
Don't glass your balls (plural):
Its worse than an epidural.

15.

When going out drinking and eating,
and smoking, and meeting, and greeting,
The good folk of Hawthorn
Have often their jeans torn
By dangerous booby-trapped seating.

16.

Some classic comments here! Well done to all poetasters, and the nice comment about drink spiking. My final word(s):
Irritating itch in intimate interior.
Stubborn stains on stylish strides.
No glee in a glassed glute.

17.

TonyT - Perhaps your man was sitting on the glass ceiling.

18.

Second go:
...
The doctor shook his head sorrily,
As he said, "I don't mean to be quarrelly,
"But what were you thinking?
"Last time I went drinking,
"Beer in glasses was introduced orally."

19.

Francis, just to be pedantic - apparently there is some kind of closing time at a couple of those Hawthorn pubs. My son has informed me it gives the 'jocks' time to kick up a shindig outside because they are too lazy to go elsewhere and too drunk not to fight. It's like 'gimme back my pub, my parents are rate-payers, awwww'.
Nice limericks, guys.

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