I knew there was something weird about Anaconda Adventure Store as soon as I arrived at the orientation day. They handed me an embarrassing vest to wear and made me march around the room chanting the bizarre anthem of the shop, which went something like, “Anaconda is the place/saviour of the human race/mountain high and river deep/Anaconda’s prices are quite cheap.” I came up with my own verse that went, “If you need gear for camping or stunts/don’t go to Anaconda ’cos they’re a bunch of…” but was cut off before I could finish it.
We were all there to set up and open the shop, so we had a few days of learning about Anaconda before going off on a two day camp. That’s where Darryl came into his own. Darryl was a 35-year-old drug addict who smelled like poo and had somehow scored himself a job as the store’s greeter, because everyone wants to get molested by a wheezing smackhead when they pop in to pick up a sleeping back and a pair of thermal underpants.
Most people went to bed pretty early on this camping trip, but me and Darryl and a few others sat up to get on the piss. I hit it hard, Darryl hit it harder, and by 11pm he was stumbling all over the place like Stephen Hawking wearing roller blades. After vomiting on the fire, he thrust a thumb into the darkness and slurred, “Is that the fuckin’ boss’s tent?”
Indeed it was. Well, to be accurate, it wasn’t just the boss of the shop, it was the dude who owned the whole company and was in town to oversea the set-up of a multi-million dollar store. So Darryl stumbled over to the tent, pulled his floppy cock out and pissed all over the roof of it. Poor ol’ Darryl didn’t have the brains or sobriety to urinate and remain upright at the same time, so mid-stream he lost his balance and tumbled onto the tent, tearing it in half (that’s Anaconda quality for ya!) and leaving the boss flapping around in a web of piss-soaked material.
Darryl got away with that, but he left Anaconda of his own accord a few month’s later when he moved on from smoking bongs and sniffing glue to injecting heroin into his eyeballs. I’d put money on him being dead by now.
The set-up of the shop wasn’t all smooth sailing. The biggest stuff up had to do with the thousands of flyers that were sent out to the good people of the Gold Coast to advertise the opening of the shop. It was all good except for the website printed in large letters all over it. It should’ve read http://www.anaconda.com.au. Instead, it read http://www.anaconda.com. That missing .au was important, because people who followed the printed address found not budget-priced tents and deals on kayaks that barely float, but high-quality photographs of black men with their large, snake-like penises doing irreparable damage to the vaginas of young, misguided white women.
But this is meant to be about me getting fired from yet another retail job, so let’s get back on track. I was porking this chick I worked with, and she was a bit of a goer. I think one or two other team members may have shoved their hiking poles into her dirty trench, which is fine. In fact, there were two blokes called Gary there, and the rumour was she got tag teamed by them in the loading dock (that could either be an actual area in the shop, or a euphemism for her pussy, so go with whichever one works best for you), and something like that just has to be true. I mean, you couldn’t back up an encounter with the Row Show with just one Gary, right?
So this chick invited me and a bunch of other people from work to her birthday party, and because her family was rich it was on a boat. I got fuckin’ smashed and almost fell into the choppy water off Stradbroke Island, and after that we all went to a nightclub, where I got even drunker and stammered like a retarded person at women who didn’t appreciate the attention. Stuck up bitches.
There was a fat girl at work who possessed an arse like the back of a truck, and she obviously thought I was drunk enough to not puke at the sight of her, so she started grabbing me on the dick and saying she wanted to make bang-bang and all that. I did vomit, but that was probably just because of the alcohol. Anyway, after she tweaked my donk for the 17th time, I’d had enough, and told her to, “Fuck off you fat, pizza-guzzling slab of shit,” and then promptly fell into a bin.
That’s fine, I’ve done worse. The only problem was that this fat, pizza-guzzling slab of shit was promoted to manager a few days later, and she took something of a dislike to me. Suddenly I found myself throwing sawdust on vomit and lifting really heavy things (although nothing as heavy as this chick, so I can’t complain). She tried to make my life hell, but I was drunk most of the time, so I didn’t give a shit, which infuriated her even more.
Finally, after a year, it came time for me to leave the Gold Coast and head back home to go to uni, so I put in my resignation at Anaconda. It was the right thing to do, even though my instincts told me to tell them toshove their shitty job and their shitty vest up their collective blurters. I had one day left, which should’ve been a fun day to say goodbye to people, but as I was getting dressed and ready to go, the fat bitch called me up and told me not to come in. Apparently I’d suddenly developed a bad attitude (in fact, I’d had it since the day I got there because it was a fucking retail job, and anyone who doesn’t have a bad attitude about working retail is a fucking idiot), but it was obvious that she just wanted to get revenge by cutting my final shift. I gave her some choice words, then she told me to bring my vest back and hung up. Red rag to a bull, bitch.
It was only 9am, but I got on the turps to celebrate my recent retirement, and after a few bottles of wine I came up with an idea for that bloody vest. I spread it out over the toilet and ‘did a Darryl’ all over it, soaking the fucking thing with my zesty urine. Once it was soaked I took it out onto the balcony to dry it off while I hit the wines again. A few hours later I chucked the piss-encrusted outfit in a plastic bag and hitched a ride out to the shop.
The fat bitch was waiting for me with a smirk on her face, and as soon as I got there she held out her hand and I took the vest out of the bag and gave it to her. “You’re fuckin’ banned from this shop,” she blabbered, while her tits smacked at her knees and her six chins wobbled in the spring breeze. “Teach you to be a fuckin’ prick to a decent woman like me. Now take your little dick and fuck off!”
With that she swung my vest around her mammoth shoulders and slipped it on, obviously as some sort of symbolic gesture of her victory. I could almost see the stink of piss coming off it, but she didn’t seem to notice, even though the customers walking past her were turning green and collapsing around her. A dog even started barking at her, and all the girls on the registers started laughing and slapping each other high fives when they realised what had happened. Finally the fat bitch tore off the vest and threw it away before kicking over a big stand of water bottles, all while I swaggered off into the sunset.
The Drunk and Jobless World Tour 