My poor friend Sparky had been dumped by his girlfriend following the “fun lol” incident. Super Dave and I decided to take Sparky to the bar to take his mind off his woes.

Unfortunately, none of us had much money. The barman was not pleased when Sparky paid for our rounds with a pile of quarters. I suspect Super Dave had been ‘fixing’ Pepsi machines with a screwdriver again. We sat at the bar in a cloud of gloom, sucking on lemon slices to extract the very last drops of rum and coke. What a crappy evening.

Suddenly, Super Dave let out a squeal like a little girl on a fairground ride. He leapt from his bar stool and rushed towards some tall, tanned dude who had just walked into the bar.

“Sparky! Sparky! Take a photo! Photo of me and Billy!” he squeaked as he magically produced a camera from nowhere and thrust it into Sparky’s hands. Sparky rolled his eyes.

“I recognize him. He’s that actor guy off the TV. Big deal.” murmured Sparky as he spat his lemon on the floor and pointed the camera at the grinning pair. “Honestly, call acting work? That idiot spends all day getting his hair done, then he rattles off a few lines and gets paid a shitload of cash…” his voice trailed away as he spotted the row of free cocktails lined up on the bar for Billy actor guy.

And then Sparky too was gone, pushing his way up to Billy, shaking his hand and giving him that “I think we could do business” look. Oh no.

Sparky spent the next hour duping Billy into thinking he and Super Dave were talented local actors looking for work. Phone numbers were exchanged and descriptions of recent performances were invented. Billy promised he’d help the boys get some work. Apparently his director friend was looking for help with a costume drama he was filming by the waterfront. Some kind of cool pirate adventure movie, a big name star – a great opportunity for talented actors looking for serious roles.

Sparky and Super Dave were ecstatic. If Billy recommended them, the director would be sure to hire them. The boys spent the rest of the night schmoozing with Billy, racking up a huge drinks bill and leaving the bar with stars in their eyes. Don’t worry, Tiggy would pay for the drinks with her credit card. She’d figure out a way to pay it off somehow.

* * *

True to his word, Billy got them the job. I couldn’t believe it. Sparky and Super Dave were going to be movie stars! This director must be desperate. Immediately I began my campaign to ensure I got access to the set. This movie sounded big. Maybe Johhny Depp was in it? He did a lot of pirate stuff. I wanted my picture with Johnny Depp. I’d paid for the drinks that night, it was the least they could do for me.

Sparky and Super Dave were more concerned about the number of ladies present on set. Dressed as swashbuckling pirates, they’d have no trouble picking up young starlets who’d pay for their drinks and do a bunch of other stuff with them too. Super Dave was even pondering getting his hair cut.

The morning of the boys’ first day of shooting, I rushed to the waterfront to wrangle my place on the set. I’d even put on some make-up, just in case Johnny was there. I had to battle my way through a large crowd of excited schoolchildren. Get out of my way you little bastards, I hissed. I’m with the cast.

The sea of bobbing brats parted before me to reveal the spectacle of a great pirate battle. Two giant fluffy rats dressed as pirates were throwing punches at the director. A large purple dinosaur dressed as a cabin boy was running around, shouting “Get these fucking idiots OFF MY FUCKING SET!” Didn’t look like much of a swashbuckling adventure to me.

A giant rat stumbled towards me.

“Tiggy! He fucked us over! Billy fucked us over! Friggin’ kiddies’ dinosaur movie!” squealed a voice from inside the costume. “Sparky’s gonna kill him! Fuck, I can’t see!” the rat squeaked as he tripped over the lighting cables and was pounced upon by two security guards.

Cover your eyes, kids. This pirate adventure was about to get bloody.

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I collected my mate Sparky and his trucker buddy Super Dave from the airport following their deportation from China. After going on the run from the local police, the idiots decided it would be a good idea to stow away in a container ship bound for Shanghai. Their illegal residency was rumbled when Super Dave committed a tourist faux-pas during a visit to a sacred shrine. Apparently getting drunk and sitting on an ancient temple roof singing Nickelback songs is somewhat frowned upon by the Chinese authorities.

Mandarin Miss

Sparky not only brought back a suitcase full of fake DVDs and trainers, but he also brought back a girlfriend. May Lau was petite, graceful and blissfully unaware of Sparky’s criminal record. But it wasn’t for me to ruin her romantic dreams. Not that I could explain anyway, as she spoke very little English. Sparky’s command of Mandarin only stretched to items on Mr. Chang’s Noodle House menu. Love would find a way somehow.

Sparky had assured May’s parents he was a successful businessman. He would happily employ May and fill out her immigration forms, no problem. Sparky had also launched a new enterprise to make his fortune – party planning. One lesson his ill-fated spiritual retreat had taught him was that he could put on a damn good party. Flashing lights, pounding music and a bootlegged free-flow bar was all it took. And in the darkness of the disco, guests would never notice that the buffet food had been liberated from the convenience store dumpster. This new career was going to be a breeze, and May was going to help him.

While Super Dave was sent out to flypost the local community hall, May was given a dictionary and instructed to take down bookings. She’d get the hang of English in no time. Sparky went off to the local tavern to spend the afternoon networking with his peers.

Party On

Sparky called me a few days later with the exciting news that they’d taken their first booking at the community hall! The caller needed an event arranging for tomorrow night – it was short notice and May had indicated caller was distressed. Maybe he’d forgotten a relative’s birthday or something. May had cutely described the client’s requirements as a “fun, lol party”. At least she was picking up textspeak. Sparky and Super Dave rushed to the hall with a truck full of disco lights, streamers and illicit beer. Determined not to let his new client down, it was going to be the best party in town!

The following evening I went over to the community hall to witness the big event. Sparky had not been able to get hold of his client all day as his cell phone had been switched off. What a jerk. But Sparky was confident his client was going to freak out when he walked through the door. Sparky and Super Dave had transformed the dowdy venue into a hip nightclub complete with strobe lighting, baskets of huge balloons and the thumping beats of DJ Frigg, the local lesbian hip-hop artist. Sparky had excelled himself! May’s parents would be so proud of their future son-in-law. I nearly shed a tear.

And Sparky was right. When his client arrived at the hall with his guests he did freak out.

Not a fun, lol party.

A FUNERAL party.

Apparently May is now dating the head chef at Mr Changs’s Noodle House.

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My mate Sparky was delighted to hear his crabby old Aunt had died and left him a parcel of land in the valley. His happiness was soon extinguished after visiting his new estate. The land was wild and rocky; an old wooden barn stood decaying in one corner. The land was worthless. Sparky urgently needed to make some cash to pay his court fines. Short of striking oil, how could he turn his wasteland into a goldmine?

Sparky had an idea. After being ripped off at a dodgy hypnotism course at the local community centre, he realized there was money to be made from naive idiots trying to discover a higher level of consciousness. And in a way that didn’t involve weed.

What better way to part the gullible from their cash than a meditation centre? Instead of a costly trip to the Far East in search of enlightenment, overpaid yuppies could flock to Sparky’s barn, sorry, spiritual learning retreat and sit uncomfortably in the lotus position all weekend.

Sparky was confident he could learn the art of meditation by channeling the infinite wisdom of Google. Super Dave and I were instructed to spruce up the barn to make it look Far Eastern and, well, spiritual. Obviously with me being female, Sparky reckoned, I’d know about curtains and candles and that sort of thing. Thanks, Sparky.

Super Dave headed to the docks in his truck. The port was in lock-down after a shipment from China had sparked a formaldehyde alert. Containers filled with cheap soft furnishings from Shanghai were stacked by the dockside – no-one would open them until the fumes inside had dissipated. Unfazed by the risk of noxious chemicals, Super Dave set to work with a pair of bolt cutters.

Super Dave arrived back at the barn light-headed but elated. His truck was brimming with Oriental carpets, fairy lights and plastic Buddha statues. The barn was soon transformed into a twinkling haven of peace and cheap incense. I wondered if Sparky’s plan was actually going to work this time. However, common sense told me to get out while I could, so I wished the gurus good luck and sped home.

****

A month later I received a whispered message from Sparky on my answer machine. He said the meditation centre had been doing a roaring trade until a group of architecture students on a weekend retreat smoked too much herb, fell into the candlelit Buddha shrine and knocked it flying.

The old wooden barn had shot up in flames like a Chinese firework, sending young architects fleeing and the stench of formaldehyde-tainted carpets billowing into the air. Worse still, the smoke was infused with the aroma of eight kilos of burning weed.

As the smell wafted towards the local police station, Sparky and Super Dave had fled. They were now hiding in an empty container at the docks.

I haven’t heard from Sparky again. Either the formaldehyde finished him off, or he and poor Super Dave are halfway to Shanghai.

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I don’t know how I get involved in these things. My so-called friend Sparky rang me the other day as he had a problem. Sparky has many problems, but this one was a fluffy, squeaking problem.

His trucker buddy Super Dave had a job to collect a consignment of 300 live guinea pigs from the airport and deliver them to the local University research lab. Unfortunately Super Dave tends to gets rather misty-eyed about cute animals (especially after a few drinks, as on this occasion). Fearing he was driving his furry passengers towards a life of misery and pain, the idiot pretended they’d escaped from his rig and instead drove them to freedom.

More specifically he drove them to my house. Sparky had already declined the doe-eyed delivery due to the major house renovations he had coincidently just started that morning. But I wouldn’t mind looking after them – he’d call me right away and arrange safe passage for the liberated pigs. Oh, great. What was I supposed to do with 300 guinea pigs?

Not one to miss out on a money-making opportunity, Sparky realized he could make some cash out of the little critters. According to the Ecuadorian guy at the gas station, guinea pig tasted just like chicken and was a delicacy in South America.

Sparky figured he could sell them at $5 a pop to the local World Cuisine restaurant as an exotic entrée. They would also make great barbeque food as they were perfect patty size. Super Dave was not having that – he didn’t liberate them from the lab just for them to end up being grilled to perfection.

Sparky went off to visit his local herbalist with Super Dave’s tearful pleas ringing in his ears. I warned Sparky to hurry up and formulate a plan – my basement floor was now a wriggling carpet of fat-faced furballs. And their numbers seemed to be increasing.

A few days later, Sparky returned with his foolproof plan. His herbalist told him that guinea pigs were used by Andean bush doctors to cure arthritis. By gently rubbing the poor creature on the affected area, the pain would magically disappear.

The herbalist reckoned he could flog the guinea pigs at local seniors’ homes, where he had a large customer base for his ‘arthritic healing herbs’. They could probably sell two pigs a time – one for each knee. And the old folks would have a new friend to stroke and chat to. It was all good.

Sparky’s $15 ‘One Pig and One Gram’ deal sold like hot cakes. Within a week, they’d sold out of the little critters. For once I was impressed. For my help, Sparky gave me $200 and a promise never to let Super Dave anywhere near my house again.

Now all I have to do is find another $200 to cover my basement cleaning bill. Thanks, Sparky.

Give a guinea pig some love and head to Humor-Blogs.com

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My friend Sparky has become a New Age spiritual guru. He apparently experienced a transcendental revelation after falling over a beer cooler at a barbeque. Coincidentally, that same evening his trucker buddy Super Dave offered him a cheap shipment of healing crystals that had materialized in the back of his rig. It was a sign, Sparky told me. If I gave him $50 he would revitalize my aura. Seemed like a bargain.

He brought round a box of sparkling crystals. I was to place them around the house and rub them when I felt my Ch’i take a turn for the worse, although I wasn’t sure what that felt like. The crystals were calming to look at as they twinkled in the sunlight. But after spending $200 on vet fees to retrieve one from my cat’s stomach, I decided to return them. Sparky wouldn’t give me a refund. He said the crystals’ energy was depleted and he couldn’t resell them. And one appeared to have teeth marks.

Trance

Sparky offered to re-energize my house using the Chinese technique of Feng Shui, which he had been studying all day on Wikipedia. He wandered around the house in a trance, sensing levels of free-flowing energy and identifying areas where it got stuck. I heard him make a lot of fuss around the refrigerator, but it turned out he was just making a sandwich to rejuvenate his Ch’i. It was very draining work, he said.

He moved all my furniture to face north, rearranged my wardrobe and asked if he could take the coffee table as it was adversely affecting the energy flow. And a $20 contribution would be appreciated; he would donate it to the local holistic herbalist. To be honest the house didn’t feel energized. I couldn’t see the TV from my north-facing couch and the lack of coffee table was adversely affecting my ability to put anything down.

Massage

Sparky sensed my chakra was misaligned and suggested some hands-on therapy. He was taking an internet course in Thai massage, learning the ancient tradition via a live feed from a Bangkok parlour. Give him a soft towel, massage oil (Canola oil would do) and somewhere to balance his video camera and he would heal me in no time. Super Dave was interested in learning too, could he come along and watch? I declined Sparky’s generous offer and gave him $20 to bugger off. He left me the number of his buddy’s telephone Reiki service and headed off to his holistic herbalist.

I went round to Sparky’s house today to reclaim my coffee table but he was out. Apparently he and Super Dave have given up New Age spirituality and are attending a Hypnotism training course at the local community hall. I’m not falling for that.

If he gives me $50 he can practice on the cat.

Massages are free over at Humor-Blogs.com

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