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  • Writer's pictureFrank T Bird

It's Thursday, And I'm Doin' Dem Dishes

I’m sweatin’ like a greasy peach


And I’ll be honest

I just got back from the shop.

I’m in the middle of a few commitments, like not to wank or eat yeast and sugar n booze until April 2024.


And the benefits far outweigh the short-term pains. But those pains, they’re fucking immediate, and they’re fucking hostile, always shoutin’ in yer face like Hulk Hogan, jostling yer into wrapping yer tiny hands around dem enormous golden balls just one more time.


But fuck it.


Some bastard like Tim Ferret or one of those said that it takes three months to develop any habit. N I’m up fer it. But, a month in, I already feel like my bollocks could use a good rinsing and a good hanging out on the washing line.

N yeah, it is only wankin’. Yer can still have sex. N, when yer married, yer get sex on tap, innit?

Absolutely. If yer one of those sixty-year-old leather couples who have expensive sex dungeons n film their dogging expeditions for Youtube n that.


But it’s not like that in my house

An I promised myself a long time ago that I would never be one of those pathetic Gollum husbands who beg their wives to touch their gonads even though their wives would rather stick their tits in a Nutribullet.



So I have to take my mind off things by meditating deeper than usual or shaving my feet, or doing general household chores such as washing up.


N yeah, I hear yer cries.

What’s that Frank? You don’t normally do the dishes, you sexist pig?

N yer right. I would be a sexist pig if I didn’t do the dishes but left it all to my wife

But as it happens, we have a young Iraqi slave boy called Ballab who does all the household chores. So I ain’t no sexist pig. Take it back, you fucker.


Anyway, Ballab is away visiting his family in Tasmania. So I’m left sitting here, sucking down a seagull shit protein shake and staring at the mass of crockery with its neon stains and accompanying cutlery.


There are the glasses with their stuck-up attitudes, always demanding to be washed first.

They’re the Hollywood fuckers in their tuxedos drinking Cristal and thinking they’ve got it made till they get stage nine cancer of the left arsehole and end up sittin’ up in a rich hospital bed with all the trimmings wondering how the fuck they could have wasted their damn lives.


Next, come the plates, those massive fucks

None of the other crockery demands such wide wash circling. And yeah, they’re relatively easy to rinse, but in terms of real estate, they’re like the middle-class pricks who think it’s alright to own a portfolio of properties while fuckers freeze their thumbs off on the filthy streets.

Fuck you, they say. I’ve earned my portfolio through shrewd investing.

Of course, you have, you poor bastard. And let’s not forget your shrewd inheritance from Aunty Francis with the femitash and the giant beanbags who made all her money during the Vietnam War by selling her used knickers and tampons to lonely GIs and hippies.

How do I know about Aunty Francis? Well, it doesn’t matter. Let’s just fucking move on, Okay?


The cups are the actors who haven’t quite made the Hollywood grade

They’re the B and C list wankers who haven’t had enough fame to realise how fucking empty and torturous it is. So they demand attention wherever they go.

Do you know who I am? I was in an episode of Homeland once, you fucker.

That’s right. I’m talking about you, cups, you round bastards. Look at me. I’m a fucking cup. I’m better than you.

Fuck you, cups.


I’ve always had a method for the cutlery

I leave it to soak, then rush them through the speedy wiping process (SWP) at the end. It mostly works except when they’ve seen the sheer horror of something cheesy. That’s when you get those bits of wet cheese stuck between the fork prongs.

Those cheesy bastards are like your local MP — seemingly helpful but with the cheese of self-interest stuck between their cold metal ear prongs.


At first glance, they seem squeaky clean, ready to slide into your mouth without complaint. But inside, they’re always wondering about that next promotion, or how to get the cash to pay for the Mongolian Jacuzzi as part of their holiday home extension, or how to knock off the secretary that sucked them off at the Christmas party before their wife finds out.

I think that’s everything. Get in touch if you have any questions.

I’m draining the sink and mushing the water around now. I’m looking for that last creepy teaspoon that always lurks behind the pack like that member of your meetup walking group who needs a shit.


And now the only question left is ‘to dry, or not to dry?’


The same question often comes up during intercourse at retirement homes.

And yeah, that does happen a lot, apparently.


Yes, I’m talking about old people fucking now, although I’m not entirely sure why

It mostly happens between residents —their encrusted forms passionately raining down skin like an iron chef rubbing two nori sheets together.


Although I’m sure the staff often have a pop when things are a bit austere at home, ya know? Why wouldn’t yer if yer worked there? You’re horny. They’re old and horny. It’s like — 


Look, it’s not easy giving up wanking for a year okay? This is what I meant about Hulk Hogan jossling with yer golden balls n all that. You know what? I’ll go back to the question:


‘To dry or not to dry?’


The answer is almost always ‘too dry,’ but in this case, it’s ‘not to dry.’


I don’t have time for that shit.


I’ve got to write this article and get down to visit my grandma at The Edgecliff Retirement Home for ex-working whores. I’ll see ya later.




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