McBogan is BACK! No bullshit this time round!

Mate, I know what you’re gonna say...

WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN, SHANE? IT’S BEEN TWO FUCKIN’ YEARS, EH?!

That’s what me mum said when I rolled into town a few days ago, anyhow.

She also added:

"Fish fingers for dinner tonight, and don’t go thinkin' you’re getting more than two, ya bloody sponger. Did you pick up anything Duty Free or what? You know I like Red Door by Elizabeth Arden."

And, no, I forgot the Elizabeth Arden, but I did buy Dad a carton of smokes only to find out the old man has quit, discovered the joys of oxygen, and started joggin’, for fuck’s sake! So, aside from dipping into the family's protein coffers of Birds’ Eye fuckin’ frozen marine life, it put me into the bad books even more when I shouted:

"TA-DA! Here’s two hundred of Dr Winfield’s finest for ya to suck on down into ya tar-laden decrepit old man lungs, Daddio!"

So there I was, wavin' em round like a fuckin' magician to show my all-round benevolence of coughing up the dough for a carton of smokes when I'm flat fuckin' broke, and the old man said:

"Shane, you mongrel, if you ever bothered calling home you'd know I quit 18 months ago. You’ve been here two minutes, and already you’re giving me the absolute shits. Sit down, watch A Current Affair, and learn somethin’ for once, will ya?"

Reformed smokers, eh? They’re the fuckin’ worst, I tell ya, mate! I never said that to Dad, but.

So let’s back-back a little.When I say ‘rolled into town’, I mean I fuckin’ walked half the way home, didn’t I? From the fuckin’ airport! Tulla-fuckin'-ma-fuckin'-rine. Mate, you know the one! See, what happened was, I flat-out refused to pay the Citylink toll to the taxi driver because he wouldn’t take the backstreets like I fuckin’ told him to.

"Listen, mate," I said all plaintively and shit. "I might look like some continental prick on account of living in Europe for two fuckin' years, but make no mistake, this is me old stompin' ground, eh? The McBogan knows his way around, mate! That's for fuckin' sure! Forget this paying for Shittylink bullshit, cos that's what it fuckin' is, or I'm fuckin' walkin, I am!'"

And so I was!

So, where the fuck have I been, Mum? Oh, and you blokes. Cos I’m not really sure whose askin’. What a fuckin’ question, eh! Both in an Existential sense, and the real fuckin’ deal!

I know, you're out there wailin' like a fuckin' banshee:

EXISTENTIAL? McBOGAN! HAVE YOU GONE ALL PHILOSOPHICAL ON ME FUCKIN’ ARSE OR SOMETHIN’?

Well, I didn’t spend two years in Europe for nothin’, did I? And, as those buxom barmaid birds on the right-hand side of the page might indicate, it was like Oktoberfest for twenty-four fuckin’ months.

Orr-fuckin'-right!

So, what happened?

See, one arvo two years back, I woke up, watched Bold and the Beautiful, got pissed off that it was a fuckin’ repeat, AGAIN, and thought to meself:

"E-fuckin’-nough with this shit! It’s time the McBogan became an international bastard. What have I been doin’ with me life? Sweet fuckin' all, mate, that's what! I’m fuckin’ outta here, aren’t I?!"

And the answer was 'yep'.

So, the McBogan went down to the Department of Foreign Affairs, or wherever the fuck it was in some building in the city, got his fuckin’ passport, sold the Commodore to some haggle-happy cunt who wouldn’t know a good deal if it smacked him in the fuckin’ head (as I kindly advised), and fucked the fuck off, didn’t he?

Or do I fuckin’ mean ‘I’?

AGAIN!

That fuckin’ Existential shit coming back to bite me on the arse. Am I ‘he’ or am I ‘I’ or am I fuckin’ ‘me’? That’s what two fuckin’ years in Europe will do to ya!

Fuck me, I’ve gotta go lie down. I put on a load of washing like Mum asked, so that’s me done for the day. And, while I’m there, lying down, I might think about how to get me hands on a new set of wheels. Time to get this party started, eh?!

You know, in a few days or some shit. When I can be fucked.

End of fuckin' story.

Orr-fuckin’-right!