|not understand funny stuff, only humour. Canucks and Yanks may not understand anything at all. Don't change a thing and she'll be right, mate!|
The ace little town of Dusty Tickbush is just down the road from Wongawol and Hooker Creek, bit off the beaten track but nice if yer playing by Rafferty's rules.
Around about 1853 Dickie Snarks went for a slash and never come back, so his mates went looking, dint they. 'Cos he dudded them for fifty bickies. They finally found him about a billion klicks from Bourke, him and an abo banging away like a dunny door in a wind you know, and...
Fuckall, what was the question again?
It's dry as a dead dingo's donger out there innit, so the public library's got a reefer full of Crown Lager and Victoria and the librarian will pass yer the church key when she ain't pounding down her own.
Well there's the lavvy, the highway, and Mucker's Shrubbists. That lavvy, now, it's got neo-Cretin architecture with a carved-marble representation of a ram's dag over the stained-glass windows.....Naw we're gulling yer it's just bleeding boards stood on end.
Mucker's, however, has typical native shrubs as well as some rare tropical species that the canny collector of botanicals will find of extreme interest if he ain't so knackered he goes arse-over-tit coming through the gate. Bromiliads, tree ferns, rare orchids -- Mucker's collection rivals London's Royal Botanical Gardens in its eclecticity.
Aw, we're flashing yer the brown-eye again. They got no shrubbists in Dusty Tickbush.
If you go into the lavvy then just behind the door there's a freezie that generally has some Fosters in it. So's you can crack a tube as yer perching on the thunder box. Fucking posh, innit.
Yer yanking our chain ain't ya? Fuckall industry!
There's raising flies, watching the dust blow, and riding the town bike...that's the bloody industry they got in Dusty.
Well, there's the branding station. But that's the bum nuts.
Now if yer bloody skint and yer gullet's dry as a arvo in the Gibbie then there's always a few pints to be had just past the black stump...
Oh, all right. You caught us out. The authors of this article are not really Australian. Like many average Americans we are just trying to spice up our fantasy life by pretending to be sunburned, virile Ozzies living in the exotic Outback.
We are sick of living in a $4,500,000 faux-adobe hacienda in Rancho Palos Verdes overlooking the Pacific. The daily drudgery -- telling the houseboy to clean the swimming pool, flying to Miami for a two-day conference and then heading to Bolivia to put down a commie rebellion...it's just not worth it anymore!
The Real Dusty Tickbush
The real Dusty Tickbush is...our fantasy.
It is the one place on Earth where we do not have to worry about Angelina or Jennifer jumping into our triple-turbo Mitsubishi and taking sexual advantage of us. It's the only place we can forget to pack our 9-mm machine pistols and our sub-miniature satellite telephone, our poison-gas pen and our twin Javanese call-girls.
Only in Dusty Tickbush can we forget that not only do we suffer from extreme wealth, we also work as a super-secret agent for the most powerful and sophisticated organization in the world.
...Yes, Walmart. We work for Walmart.
While we may appear to be nothing more than an acne-scarred stockboy with a pathological stutter, we are really a secret agent who fantasizes about Australia and who is only posing as a stockboy.
Any Day Now...
Soon we will take off our Walmart apron, strap on our machine pistols and grab our cyanide pills, and fly our personal X-15 jet to Singapore with $500,000 in our wallet for expenses. A Chinese ninja Triad plans to kidnap Dick Cheney's pancreas and blackmail America, and as Walmart's Agent #1 it's up to us to foil the plot.
Meanwhile we have to restock the Paper Goods aisle, and we will continue to dream about escaping the stressful life of a secret agent and moving to Dusty Tickbush, Australia.