An Ode to Airwolf

Camp Ass Cobra (amidst the Bluegums) was deserted, save for Dane and I. Dane, deep in concentration, was applying some green lines of face paint. I was trying very hard to remain still and to keep my face from breaking into a line-ruining grin. It's gotta be said, there's a lot of pressure involved in applying paint to a face. I learned that later, applying but ONE pink line to Ferg's cheek. I quickly bailed and handed the reigns to Dane. After all, it's not like you can just control+Z that shit. It's a face. 

In any case, that was the happening occurring on Saturday evening at Golden Plains 2013; Dane and I readying ourselves for battle, and for attacking the party zone. I'd already put on my Obnoxious Dress, and our Battle Helmets were ready to go. All of a sudden, we hear stumbling footsteps behind us. 

"Oibro. You're like, fucking, the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." 

He sat down in the chair opposite us. Tall, lanky, covered in dirt, wearing only runners and very, very, very conspicuously torn underwear. His eyes and a slew of scrapes along his legs spoke of a long, long day of getting very, very fucked up. 

He stared at Dane. An unfocused, Getting On It a little too hard kind of stare. 

"Bro. I'd fucking, I'd suck your dick." 

"The fuck...?" 

Dane attempted to stifle his laughter. "Hey man. What're you doing?" 

The lanky boy spat onto the ground. It was a globby, mouth-so-dry kind of spit. "Do you have any boys clothes I could borrow?" 

"Uhh. Nah, sorry." 

"Oh, come on man. Just like, a singlet or something. I'd suck your dick. I've sucked like, four dicks." He turned to me. "Do you have any boys clothes I could borrow?" 

"Nah, man." I replied, snorting with laughter. "I just brought dresses." 

He stared me down, as if just noticing that I was there. 

"You're pretty fucking hot, bro. I'd finger the fuck out of you. I'm serious bro. I'd fucking, smash you." He turned to Dane. "Bro, your bitch is pretty hot. Is she your bitch, bro? I'd fuck up your tits. I'd fucking, fuck them." He tried to spit onto the ground, but it landed on his chest and dribbled down. He was gross. 

Meanwhile, Dane and I were in various stages of hysterical laughter. Cause here's the thing about this particular guy. If you can imagine anyone, anyone else saying the truly ridiculous, mostly disgusting, probably offensive things this kid was saying, you'd most likely tell them to fuck the hell off. You'd be insulted, offended and more than a little bit disgusted.

This kid though, was just a dumb kid who'd had way too much of whatever he'd been having. Even when he admitted he needed "boys clothes" because the cops were looking for a guy in a dress (him) because he and his friends (already kicked out) been selling drugs and being general douche-canoes of a nuisance (I'm paraphrasing), he was little more than kind of scummy and very hilarious. Almost endearing. Aw, kid. You'd think. You're alright, even if you're gross and there's a giant hole in yer undies.

He peppered his speech with globs of spit spat onto the dusty ground, and with exclamations of "OIBRO" or "FUCKIIINNG". And I tell you what, I have never met a more instantly quotable person.

"I get into fights but, fucking, I never win bro."

"You cunts got any goon?"

"I'm a honey badger. Honey badger don't give a shit. I'm RELENTLESS."

"Bro. Bro. I'll tell you a story bro." Pause. "So I was fingering this chick right, and she said I was shit. So I was like, 'fuck you bitch', and fucking, I left." Pause. "Do you guys like spiders?"

"Seriously bro. Do you have any boys clothes I could borrow?"

"I'm not kidding bro. I would smash the fuck out of you. Fuuuuuuuck."

"What happened to your leg?"
"I kicked someone's goonbag out of their hands and I fucking, fell over bro."

"What's your name, mate?" Dane asked.
"AIRWOLF."
"Airwolf?"
"AIRWOLF-AROOOOOOOOOOOO!. I'm a HONEYBADGER, I'm fucking RELENTLESS I DON'T GIVE A SHIT."

He paused for a little bit, to consider his surroundings. By then he was wearing a crown of flowers I had, and was sporting a definite semi-boner. Dane had finished my face, and painting his own face. Airwolf was staring at my chestular area, which was a little disconcerting.

"What size are you? C cup?" He stared some more. "D cup?"
I laughed. "Fuck no. B, bro."
"You coulda fooled me, mate. I'd fucking, fuck your tits up. Give me half a chance, I'd fuck ya." Airwolf paused. "Do you have a wide-set vagina and a heavy flow?"

With that, Dane exploded into hysterical, red-faced, crying, gasping laughter. Oh man. This kid. Fucking, Airwolf. He threw Dane's face paint into the bluegums. It hit a car. Sat back down, and hit himself in the dick with the stack of cups he was holding. He asked me again about my status re: wide-set vagina and heavy flow. He talked about relentless honey badgers. He accidentally spat on my boot, then licked it up. He licked my boot, covered in a day and a half's worth of dust, spilt beer and assorted scum.

"My mum does"

I don't think I've ever seen Dane laugh that hard. And I haven't laughed like that in a really, really really long time. If nothing else, Airwolf gave our abs a fucking workout. Thank you, Airwolf.

Eventually, the rest of Camp Ass Cobra returned to the site, right in time for cocktail hour to commence. They greeted Airwolf warmly, thinking he was a pal of ours, but almost immediately saw his ripped undies, his semi-boner, and his more-than-a-little-fucked general aura.

"Hi there" said someone "How're you going...?"

"Oi you motherfuckers got any goon, cunts?" 

If that's not an amazing opening line, then I don't know what is.

It's around that time that it became clear young Airwolf was outstaying his welcome. Dane and I had enjoyed a good ol' lol, but the jokes were getting repeated ("Why did the chicken cross the road? TO GET FUCKED UUUUUUUP!") and he was on a very, very different wavelength to the rest of the Ass Cobras. 

"What happened to your clothes?" 

"The cops are looking for a guy in girls clothes. Seriously, you got any goon?" 

He looked at me, as if rediscovering the fact that I was even there. 

"Fuck bro, give me half a chance and I'd finger the fuck out of you. I love black chicks." 

Black chicks? 

Everyone burst into peals of laughter. Young Airwolf obviously misinterpreted said laughter, because he felt the need to repeat himself. "Seriously! I'd go ya! I love black chicks!" 

It was shortly after "black chicks" that Airwolf was told by Ferg ("If you want me to fuck off, just tell me!" "Okay. Time to fuck off.") to take his leave. It wasn't before Airwolf had the chance to hurl "Fuck you, bitch!" at just about everyone in attendance, or before he had the chance to remind everyone of his "huge semi-boner". 

Man. Reading back on this, I realised how utterly gross just about everything he said really was. And it was! But there was something about him that made you want to pat his hair and tell him to have a nap. Maybe it's because I know all too well the vague memory of having engaged in some insulting word-vomit during a festival rampage. Maybe? I can't say I've ever been hunted by the cops while in drag, telling everyone within sight to get fucked, cunts. 

It wasn't just me though, because on our way back to the Supernatural Amphitheatre, Ferg turned to Dane and I. "Was I too mean to him? I felt like maybe I was mean." See? That's what I meant when I said, this kid was disgusting, awful, rude and really, really scummy but gosh-darn it if you just didn't end up hoping that he ended up getting home okay and that he ended up finding some boys clothes. Jeez, I can't say I usually act so friendly-like to someone who so RELENTLESS-ly offers to "finger the fuck" out of me. 

In any case, that was the last we saw of Airwolf. As we drove out of Golden Plains the following morning, I almost half-expected to see him lying in the middle of a paddock, or walking down the road to Geelong, yelling at cars "OI MOTHERFUCKERS YOU GOT ANY GOON, CUNTS?"

AROOOOOOOOOOO!

Being Smelly, Glorious Victory

Or: Sometimes it's the smallest and stupidest realisations that feel the most significant. 

Kings of the D-Floor

Once upon a time, there were two dashing knights. They were Sir Nathanael, of the Western Deserts, and Sir Reb, of the questionable social skills and the land of llamas.

They had reached the end of a week of dragon slaying, damsel rescuing and "working for the man" (to use the parlance of the time) and found themselves "hanging out" (again, to use the parlance of the time) together one Friday night in the centre of the kingdom. Now, Sir Nathanael and Sir Reb didn't know each other particularly well at that stage, but they had heard rumblings and tales of the other's bravery and wit around the realm. So they decided to hitch up their steeds at Flinders Street stable and set off into the night to find a way to unwind after so many battles and missions throughout the week. 

The two knights sought out and found a local jester show and had themselves a few jollies. Filled with lulz, the two knights decided to continue on into the kingdom and enjoy some ale. After all, when there are no dragons to slay in the morning, why not sink some ale and talk of battles past?

So Sir Nathanael and Sir Reb clinked giant vessels of ale together and discovered very quickly that they shared a love of Justin Townes Earle (a minstrel from the North) and terrible jokes and also ale. Sir Reb knew Sir Nathanael was somewhat new to the kingdom, so decided to show him one of her favourite taverns. After all, new knights ought to know of the best taverns in the kingdom. And so, Sir Reb took the other knight to the famed D-Floor of Cherry Bar, known throughout the land for being conducive to Excellent Times.

As they entered, they could see the Party Times were at a minimum, but were undeterred. These two brave knights had conquered far more solo than a lacklustre D-Floor - who knows what they could do as a pair in battle?

Cherry Bar soon found out. Despite their gold pieces running perilously low, the two knights sank some more ale and upon hearing some rock n' roll tune from days gone by, Sir Reb dragged Sir Nathanael onto the D-Floor.

And so it came to pass that the pair discovered another shared skill and fondness for ridiculous dancing. They pretended to be animals, they flailed, they jumped around, they shimmied and twisted. Jazz hands were involved. Soon, having built up the requisite cojones for such a move, they jumped onto the stage and continued their truly stupendous display of uncoordinated Good Times and Excellent Moves. Even though the night was warm and the lights were bright, Sir Nathanael and Sir Reb did not care that their suits of armour were getting really fucking sweaty and slightly gross. Nor did they notice that as they danced and laughed, a crowd was building around them. A host of other maidens and knights and townsfolk joined them on the stage and on the dance floor. They had successfully Got the Party Started.

Buoyed by the validation from the crowd and the killer tunes being spun, Sir Nathanael and Sir Reb agreed unspoken to Upping the Fucking Ante. Nathanael hung from the rafters, trapping Reb in his legs. Reb danced with a sand bag over her head. Reb tried to hang from the rafters then realised she wasn't sober enough to be trying something like that. So they threw a milk crate around and spat bits of lime at each other. Nate was carried, victorious, over the heads of the townsfolk. As they began to dance a la Fantastic Mr Fox, a group of others on stage joined in. It was excellent.

Finally, Sir Reb jumped offstage to hit up the bathroom (after all, there had been quite a bit of ale involved). As she walked through the tavern, she noticed everyone looking at her strangely. Not in a "Oh shit, that knight just lost that jousting match", but more in a "Oh shit, that knight just fucked up that dragon" kind of way. Which was awesome. 

Sir Reb returned to the D-Floor, feeling victorious. She felt victorious until she noticed her shoe had broken, which was incredibly disappointing because she'd just purchased them from one of her favourite stores in the kingdom, Gorman. By that stage however, not even a fucked up shoe could dampen her mood so she boogied on with an almighty fucked-up-shoe-limp. They kept on ripping it up and crowd surfing and hanging from the rafters and pretending to dance like small marsupials. 

And so, at the end of the night when the two knights had sweated in their suits of armour a little too much (suitably gross) and they left the tavern, they walked up the lane to high fives and a bunch of applause.

Songs would be sung and tales would be told throughout the land, of the Bravery and Super Skills of Sir Nathanael and Sir Reb, songs and tales passed down through generation to generation. For that was the night they became Kings of the D-Floor, and that shit was Fucking Epic.

Hair