Sometimes there are stories that must be shared for no other reason than, who would believe it otherwise.
Let me paint a picture: We were sitting around at the pub, like flamingos at a watering hole, and surprise, surprise, the conversation turned to junk in trunks.
Sorry to disappoint, but we weren’t talking about bulging Speedos. We’re talking instead, about the place in your car that gathers life’s detritus, the boot, or trunk as it is known in the Americas.
By now, a group had gathered at our table, with the drag queen serving at the bar putting in her two cents’ worth. She said the only thing in her boot was her Minge Masher. Fearing that was some kind of industrial strength dildo, she whipped it out from under the bar. It turned out to be a little hand held to relax her overworked feet.
You have to keep in mind the open nature of Australian conversation, and the honesty and gusto with which points are made.