You might have heard the saying, “keep your enemies far away, and your friends not far away.” Well in my experience, the advice should be more like “keep your enemies far far away, and your friends wherever, I dunno.”
In my opinion, enemies suck. Yeah, I said it. To give you an idea as to how lousy they can be, here’s a list of some of my worst enemies.
Back when I was running for office, Vlad was my major political opponent, and he played dirty politics. One day when I was handing out flyers, he threw a handful of mud at me. During one of our debates, he poured manure on my head. And when I was meeting a sick kid at the hospital, he parachuted into the building and shot me with a super soaker filled with sewage.
But despite these incidents, I never sunk to his level. No, instead, I rose to his level. During one of his morning walks, I jumped out from behind a bush and pushed him into Dead Bog’s Creek. It didn’t exactly work in my favour however as he nearly drowned and the subsequent sympathy votes ensured that he won the election by a landslide. The fact he had really great policies, and that I had forgotten to actually register for the ballot, didn’t help me much either.
My political career may have died a stinky death that week, but I’m still proud of the good things I did during my time in politics, like when I pushed Vlad into into the creek, and when I laughed at Vlad after I’d pushed him into the creek.
Sinead and I owned rival cigar bars. My establishment, The Coughing Horse, was sophisticated, spacious and cool. Hers, The Smoky Dragon, was also sophisticated and spacious, but she had heating, so tended to get more customers. Until one day I turned the tables by getting a heater installed. She one upped me though by installing a sauna.
I responded by giving away free cigar holders. But then she gave away free cigar cutters.
So I started selling low carb cigars. She sold extra low carb cigars.
I sold vanilla cigars. She sold Neapolitan cigars.
I held smoking contests. She called the authorities and had my tobacco licence revoked.
Joke’s on her though because business got even better after I got rid of the cigar gimmick and pivoted to a regular old oxygen bar.
Chucky was my long-time comedy partner, for a few weeks in the 2010s. Together we were the comedic duo, McLach and the Chuckster. But the tale of how our relationship ended is more like a tragedy (half tragic incident, half dramedy).
One fateful Sunday arvo, we were booked to perform at the prestigious event Sludgecock Secondary Budget Fete, and had agreed to perform our classic Where’s My Pants? routine. If you need a refresher, the twist is that My Pants is the name of Chucky’s dog, but I think it’s the name of his cat!
As we stepped on stage however, Chucky instead launched into a new sketch he’d written, The Rum Skit, where he tries to pour me a glass of rum but keeps missing the glass. This was problematic for several reasons: we hadn’t rehearsed it, it was twenty-nine minutes long (our set was meant to go for an hour!) and neither of us had a glass or a bottle of rum.
We attempted to improvise by using an audience member’s hat as a glass, and a bottle of vodka instead of the rum, but it was no use, we had completely embarrassed ourselves in front of the three children half watching. We broke up immediately, even though we were so close to getting funding for our feature film McLach and the Chuckster Meet The Bride of Frankenstein (Chucky reckoned he could break into his uncle’s safe) but I guess it wasn’t to be. Maybe it was a blessing really, because our elaborate makeup, costumes and accent training was getting pretty expensive.
Ever since I was a boy I had a talent for naming things. Kittens, ships, records; you name it, I’d name it.
I was winning all the naming contests across town and cleaning up big time. And if I kept winning competitions, I figured I could drop down to part time hours at my janitor job.
Then along came The Namenator. He named himself that, which gives you an idea as to how amazing he was. Awesomely amazing.
For The Namenator, naming wasn’t just a way of living, it was a way of life. He had dozens of children, not because he loved impregnating women, but because of the thrill he got naming a human. He would order a bucket of popcorn every day, and name every kernel, each one more uniquely named than the last. And he had a dog called Mutt Damon, enough said.
One time I challenged him to a Name Off, but he refused, and asked me to leave his home. Frankly I was a little relieved because I had no idea what a Name Off would entail, and already had heaps on that weekend. But I called him a deadshit regardless, and kicked him in the shin a few times.
Glenn was a food critic, and he made his way onto my list by giving the restaurant I managed, Lava Larry’s All You Can Eat Funhouse, a negative review.
All his criticisms were absolutely ridiculous. He claimed the bacon tasted like cardboard (how does he know what cardboard tastes like, weirdo), the soup was hairy (we called it sloup, so checkmate, dickhead) there was a band-aid in the coleslaw (we didn’t have a first aid kit on the premises, so where would it have even come from, moron) the meatloaf made a horrible noise when he bit into it (I’ve had the meatloaf and I can tell you the noise isn’t that bad), and the water was crunchy (that’s technically true, but you get free refills so quit complaining, ya clod).
The review really hit me hard because I put my heart and soul into that establishment. I got there early every day to de-fungi the gingerbread, I legally changed my name to Lava Larry, and I personally installed the spider traps for our Mystery Macaroni buckets.
I decided to see how he liked it, and in that month’s menu, I published a review of Glenn: SHIT BLOKE, ZERO STARS OUT OF A MILLION.
Unfortunately not many people got to read that review because a few days later Lava Larry’s burnt down due to the gelati vat overheating.
Scrud was the school bully, who would frequently give me wet wedgies, hooley dooleys, nugget blasts, yellow bellies, Colombian wahoos, skunk knuckles, lickety splits, and one time he pissed in my backpack.
Eventually my fellow classmates and I decided we’d had enough of Scrud’s tormenting and spent several weeks working on an elaborate plan that we called Operation Bully Revenge. After we were all denied a gun licence, we had to rework the plan slightly, but we were still pretty proud of it: we threw tennis balls at Scrud and called him a fat fuck. He didn’t bother us much after that, because we all had to enrol in the Witness Protection Program.
Välhhura The Evil Wind Spirit
I lent her my Scrubs Season 4 box set and she scratched like three of the discs.