Old man at bar: I saw you at the races today!
Me: I don’t think so.
Old man: Yes, I did. You were serving chips.
Me: Actually, that’s impossible, because today I was at home playing Goldeneye.
Friend: I can’t tell which one of you is the bigger loser right now.

Friend: Why do they always put the fat girls behind the bar?
Me: I don’t know, but every bartender in here just heard you say that.

Me: Do you guys take EFTPOS?
Bartender: No.
Me: Do you have an ATM?
Bartender: No.
Me: What kind of a strip club doesn’t have an ATM?
Bartender: There’s one just outside.
Me: Good. I’ll withdraw giant wads of cash on my way to a strip club with better facilities.

Me: Some guy at Bada Bing called me fat.
Ryan: Think about the start of that sentence. Most girls who start a sentence with, “some guy at Bada Bing” end it with “date raped me” so I’d say you got off lightly.

Me: I don’t know what to do about this weird chick.
Ryan: Skelty, this is all I’m going to say: once, a guy threw a lemon tree in my bed while I was asleep in it, and I never saw him again. Know what I mean?

Ryan: When I was a kid, I dated the hottest girl in school. It was right before she got anorexia, when a girl reaches her absolute peak of hotness. Like when she’s still eating, but right before she gives up celery.

Me: I saw an infographic on semen today. Did you know there are 20 calories in a load?
Ryan: That would explain why that girl I hooked up with on the weekend was so fat.
Me: And did you know that sperm can live inside a woman for 5 days, or on a toilet seat for 3 hours?
Ryan: What about on a girl’s face?

Matt: My roomie is on her way with a friend.
Ryan: Is her friend hot?
Matt: Kind of.
Ryan: Dude, I can’t talk to a hot girl right now. I’m about to eat pudding.

Me: One of my friends bought an egg.
Matt: What’s that?
Me: It’s like a vibrator, but you can put the whole thing inside you.
Matt: Like a sexy tampon?
Me: No.

Matt: *laughs*
Me: Did you just remember one of my jokes?
Matt: *dirty look*

Matt: Do you want a lift to work in the morning?
Me: No thanks. My only exercise these days is walking to work. And fucking.
Matt: Wow.

Matt: I like a girl with a bit of meat on her bones.
Me: Think very hard about what you say next.
Matt: I mean, I like you.
Me: Just stop talking.
Matt: But I was being nice?
Me: Shut up.

Me: Be careful with that guitar. It’s worth more than you…
Matt: *dirty look*
Me: …to me.

The best part about Sex & the City is at the end of every episode, when two of the main characters have an ambiguous conversation and the plot gains some very clever subtext that only intelligent people notice, before Carrie does a contrived voice-over that would make for a shitty column.

For example, Miranda and Carrie might be sitting on a bench outside an authentic New York cafe, pretending to eat cupcakes, and Miranda will say, “How’s yours?” and Carrie will reply, “Pretty good, Miranda….pretty good..” with a slow, mysterious smile, and the audience is left wondering whether Carrie was referring to the cupcake or her urinary tract infection….or both.

I once shared a house with an older guy who had gross friends. At least four nights every week, our backyard was full of drunk tradies telling boring stories. However, the following one did interest me.

Damo’s tale:

For my twenty-first birthday, my old man gave me a small box wrapped in blue paper. I unwrapped it and found an old pair of stubbies inside. I was a bit pissed off at getting such a shit birthday present, but then Dad said “Son, these are the shorts I was wearing when you were conceived. I was pretty drunk at the time, but I’ve remembered ever since, and I want you to have these.”

So now I wear them whenever I’m feeling sad, and the Conception Shorts remind me that I’m loved.

I also write down whatever I’m wearing after I shag a chick, just in case I ever have a son, so I can give him his own pair of Conception Shorts.

“Oh god, we were so fucked up that night…do you guys remember?”

“Nope.”

“I remember Chris getting laid that night.”

“Oh look, it’s those two fat chicks who sat on my bike! I’m pretty sure Chris went home and had sex that night.”

“And this one was at New Year, right before Chris laid some girl. Fuck, we were drunk.”

“Oh and there’s the time we ordered all the red bull and vodka jugs… Hey Annik, see what Chris is doing to that pool cue?”

“Wait, there’s the chick I used to hook up with who had leukemia… I thought I could make her feel better. Like, fuck the cancer out of her or something.”

“Did it work?”

“I don’t know, I broke up with her.”

“Hey look, it’s the biker viking party!”

“Oh yeah! Chris had sex that night.”

“Anal sex.”

When I was 19, my friend and I went on a summer roadtrip to Coolangatta to blow off some steam before going back to uni. We did all the usual touristy crap, got sunburnt and bought stuff from a 12 year old street kid in Nimbin, etc, and wound down on our last night by drinking vodka in a seedy bar up the road from our hotel. We got talking to some of the locals, and when we eventually made tracks, one of them followed me outside.

“Hey, do you want to come back to my place?” he asked.

“Oh, no thanks,” I said.

“Well can I come back to your hotel?” he tried.

“No, I don’t think so,” I said, “Not really. No.”

“I’m not going to lie,” he continued, “I don’t want to watch tv or talk or anything. I just want to have sex with you.”

“Yes, I realise that,” I said, “I’m leaving now.”

“Okay…” he said, “But you should know that when I get home, I’m going to think about you while I masturbate.”

The scene: my family is out for dinner at a cosy Italian restaurant for my brother’s 25th birthday. His new girlfriend is present. I have been forced to cancel my plans to watch Weeds under my doona in order to attend. I am bored. I have had 3 glasses of wine and I want to stir somebody’s pot. I actually like my brother’s new girlfriend, so I refrain from picking on her as I normally would. I know that I should also be nice to my brother, seeing as it is his birthday and I did not get him a present. And I leave my father alone, because he is my favourite person in the world. That leaves my mother.

Mum: So has anybody seen much of the Walkers lately?

Me: Yeah, I see Tim around the city every now and then, when he’s not hiding in his closet.

Mum: Oh, Annik...

Me: What? That kid’s more camp than a row of tents. Last week I saw two guys having sex in Hyde Park, and that was less gay than Tim Walker’s haircut.

Mum: The problem for Tim and other boys like him is that their faith is so important to them. They want to get married and have families like everyone else at church. But that conflicts with their involuntary desires to, you know…

Me: Fuck other men?

Mum: Yes.

Me: So if God intended for Man to be with Woman, and the Bible specifically states that homosexual practice is a sin, and the church frowns upon gays, then why did God create particular humans with these same-sex desires?

Mum: That’s one of the great mysteries of the Christian faith.

Me: No it’s not. It’s proof that the Bible is a load of horse shit, and every time you people can’t explain something properly, you just use some wanky cop-out excuse like “we can’t understand heavenly matters.” How can you add disclaimers to the entire human race’s ability to differentiate between possibility and impossibility like that? It’s a complete crock. You all disgust me.

Dad: Does anybody want dessert?

A few moons ago, one of my friends was undertaking a massage course. One night she decided to practise some newly-learned techniques on her boyfriend.

“Now, just relax your diaphragm,” she instructed.

“Diaphragm!” he said, “Only girls have those!”

Somewhere around my ninth year of schooling, I found myself at the library during a free period and sitting in a study room full of boys not studying. As is wont to occur at Christian highschools, the conversation rapidly turned from the canteen’s new lunch menu to masturbation.

“It must be so awesome to be a chick,” a certain young man remarked.

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“Well don’t you all orgasm every time you put in a tampon?”

“Actually, a vagina is a little more complicated than that.”

“Whatever.”