It’s a hot Aussie day
The outdoors is crawling with beetles, mozzies and those big ass flies with like 75 different names.
A wombat waddles across the road beneath the harsh sun, and nearly gets fucking crushed by a car. There’s not a cloud in the sky.
Inside your house, an orange chihuahua called Dingo in honour of the native predator pops a squat and shits on the piece of timber on your living room floor (a coffee table was too much effort). The ceiling fan is on full speed, not that it actually does anything.
Suddenly, your mum enters the house, and gasps at the literal colossal sized shit on her (literally) shitty coffee table. She immediately demands for you to clean it up.
You complain “But Mingo is your dog! You should clean it up!” No one ever says his name right. You’re sipping on water that’s unsurprisingly still warm from when it came out of the tap.
“I don’t think so, Tim!” She says. Your name is Alice. “Your grandparents are coming over tomorrow! Do as I say.” As you stand up, you notice that one of the bricks that holds up the strip of timber has fallen, and it now acts as a kind of seesaw.
‘Cool,’ you think.
Just as you go to get the paper towel to clean up Mungo’s shit you see him race toward you with a ball, ready to play. Before you can yell “MUNGA!” At him, he leaps onto the side of the timber without the shit on it. It shoots straight upwards toward the ceiling where your ineffective fan continues to spin. It’s at this moment that you realise:
The shit’s about to hit the fan.