What's the first thing you do when you get home from work?

[Diuretic]

I thought you folk had dingos or roos or toads and all got drunk and threw some shrimp on the barbee after work ...are you telling me the T.V lied to me.... again..?

Sorry, let me just go back and correct myself.

I climb down from the horse and hand him over to the handler and warn him not to put him away wet. I walk up the driveway (fifteen kilometres of dirt road, I'm an idiot, I built the stables too bloody far from the homestead) and I'm greeted by my pet dingo Mauler. I chuck Mauler a piece of raw meat I picked up on the side of the dirt road between the stables and the homestead, I'm not sure what it is but it looks vaguely animal-like. Mauler doesn't care and starts chewing on it with dingoistic pleasure. Through the front door without opening it, no need, it's hanging off the hinges, I'll get around to fixing it. Straight through the house to the back yard and the two fridges under the verandah. The beer fridge is full, I'll fix that pretty shortly though. Grab a can of beer and open it and chuck the foaming ale down the parched throat (you try walking fifteen bloody k's up your driveway in bloody summer). To the food fridge. Empty. No wait, there's a packet of prawns. They're not supposed to stink like that are they? I mean, they're in the fridge. Check the use by date. Last year. But not too bad, it was pretty late last year. She'll be right. Fire up the barbie and squirt a bit of oil - shit, wrong oil, that lot came from the oil change I did on the truck last week. No, it's okay, it's still got a bit of viscosity in it, that's do, at least the prawns won't dry out. Right then, time for another beer.

It must be your convict ancestry that makes you neglect fixing the front door.

Nope, no convict ancestry here (all my ancestors got away with things) but I am a carrier of the Lazy Bastard gene

 

[Diuretic]

This week I've been going for a X-country ski with a pack of dogs,

Do the dogs use four skis or two?

 

[del]

Sorry, let me just go back and correct myself.

I climb down from the horse and hand him over to the handler and warn him not to put him away wet. I walk up the driveway (fifteen kilometres of dirt road, I'm an idiot, I built the stables too bloody far from the homestead) and I'm greeted by my pet dingo Mauler. I chuck Mauler a piece of raw meat I picked up on the side of the dirt road between the stables and the homestead, I'm not sure what it is but it looks vaguely animal-like. Mauler doesn't care and starts chewing on it with dingoistic pleasure. Through the front door without opening it, no need, it's hanging off the hinges, I'll get around to fixing it. Straight through the house to the back yard and the two fridges under the verandah. The beer fridge is full, I'll fix that pretty shortly though. Grab a can of beer and open it and chuck the foaming ale down the parched throat (you try walking fifteen bloody k's up your driveway in bloody summer). To the food fridge. Empty. No wait, there's a packet of prawns. They're not supposed to stink like that are they? I mean, they're in the fridge. Check the use by date. Last year. But not too bad, it was pretty late last year. She'll be right. Fire up the barbie and squirt a bit of oil - shit, wrong oil, that lot came from the oil change I did on the truck last week. No, it's okay, it's still got a bit of viscosity in it, that's do, at least the prawns won't dry out. Right then, time for another beer.

It must be your convict ancestry that makes you neglect fixing the front door.

Nope, no convict ancestry here (all my ancestors got away with things) but I am a carrier of the Lazy Bastard gene

cousin!

 

[KittenKoder]

Sorry, let me just go back and correct myself.

I climb down from the horse and hand him over to the handler and warn him not to put him away wet. I walk up the driveway (fifteen kilometres of dirt road, I'm an idiot, I built the stables too bloody far from the homestead) and I'm greeted by my pet dingo Mauler. I chuck Mauler a piece of raw meat I picked up on the side of the dirt road between the stables and the homestead, I'm not sure what it is but it looks vaguely animal-like. Mauler doesn't care and starts chewing on it with dingoistic pleasure. Through the front door without opening it, no need, it's hanging off the hinges, I'll get around to fixing it. Straight through the house to the back yard and the two fridges under the verandah. The beer fridge is full, I'll fix that pretty shortly though. Grab a can of beer and open it and chuck the foaming ale down the parched throat (you try walking fifteen bloody k's up your driveway in bloody summer). To the food fridge. Empty. No wait, there's a packet of prawns. They're not supposed to stink like that are they? I mean, they're in the fridge. Check the use by date. Last year. But not too bad, it was pretty late last year. She'll be right. Fire up the barbie and squirt a bit of oil - shit, wrong oil, that lot came from the oil change I did on the truck last week. No, it's okay, it's still got a bit of viscosity in it, that's do, at least the prawns won't dry out. Right then, time for another beer.

It must be your convict ancestry that makes you neglect fixing the front door.

Nope, no convict ancestry here (all my ancestors got away with things) but I am a carrier of the Lazy Bastard gene

Wow, many of us are related here it seems, I have the Lazy Bitch gene myself.

 

[Agnapostate]

Blaze it. Watch Family Guy. Plan my eventual revolt. And cook.

 

[Diuretic]

I got relations here - that's bloody excellent!

"Slackers of the world unite! You have nothing to lose but your guilt complex at not getting around to it!" (Whatever "it" is).