Agi Hammerthief wrote:laklak wrote:Y'all are missing the point here. "Humanism" in New South Wales is sex education. They're trying to keep the lads off the sheep.
fixed it for you
Australia, where Men are Men
and sheep are nervous.
You've quite obviously never been to Straya. The sheep are not nervous at all. On the contrary, they love every minute of the tender attention they're getting. I'm speaking from personal experience.
After I finished school in 1972 I was at somewhat loose ends. "What to do next, what to do?" I agonised at the Do Drop Inn. Some barfly overheard. "Get a job as a jackaroo," he said, "There's plenty of work available on the stations." "But I don't even know how to ride a horse." I replied. "Stone the crows and starve the lizards." exclaimed the barfly. "What rock have you been living under? These are modern times. Nobody rides horses any more. They'll give you a dirtbike to round them sheep up with, and when you get promoted to station manager you get around in a helichopper." Ohhhhh. Dirtbike. I love riding dirtbikes. And getting paid for hooning around all day on a dirtbike... what's not to like?
Finding a job was easy enough. Before the end of the week I found myself on a 20,000 hectare station 270 kilometres west of Wollongbarabranatta. Unfortunately, the reality of the job fell way short of my expectations. It's one thing to spend an hour or two pissing up and down the dunes at Kurnell riding a 450CBR. It's another riding a 250cc two-stroke that kept breaking down once or twice a day, eating dust, breathing in flies and getting encrusted by sand that attaches itself to your sweaty body ten hours per shift day after day. And the pay was lousy! Worst of all, the station was in the middle of nowhere. No sheilas within coee. Hooking into Wollongbarabranatta turned out to be a waste of three hours on corrugated tracks. The town, if you can call it that, consisted of a petrol station that multitasked as post office, a general store, 20 cottages, a pub and a road leading back to civilisation - eventually. Oh, and the general store got nailed up seven years earlier when the proprietor died, half the cottages had been abandoned, and the pub's clientele consisted of ancient ex-stationhands who had become too alcoholic to find their way out of this mess.
So, not a single sheila to be seen. As a source of fun and games Wollongbarabranatta was out. But what else is there? Anywhere? At all? I asked the station's cook, a sweaty fatso, well past middle age. "Fun? What fun do you have in mind?" he enquired. "Ah, um, I'm a strapping, young, hormone-infested lad, you know? Um, fun, you know, fun that..." I stammered when he interrupted me. "Right. Of course. Listen mate. After you knock off next Friday, scrub up and head for the top paddock. The rest of the boys will tell you what to do next."
The top paddock was not what I had hoped for. Instead of a bunch of nubile nymphs that had magically appeared out of thin air, all I could see were the other four jackaroos, the cook's helpmate and a couple of dozen sheep. "What's the go here? I asked. "Simple, mate," said Kev, you grab a sheep you like the look of and have your way with her."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Really. Go for it"
"You won't laugh?"
"Naw. We won't."
"Promise?"
"Yeah, promise. Now have a go, ya mug."
I grabbed a sheep and pumped her up good and proper. She loved every second of it. I could tell because she kept bleating at the top of her voice. That's what I mean about "not nervous". She loved it all.
Problem, though, was that everyone laughed at me. So much for the promise, but being a strapping young lad, hormones blah blah, I could not stop immediately. When I was done I asked why they broke their promise. Bruce pointed at my sheep. "We tried not to," and struggling to stop laughing, continued: "but you didn't have to pick the dead set ugliest one."