Chris and I recently caught up with my fam (or part thereof) for dinner. Growing up, Mum was always big on the sitting at the table having meals together thing. Nothing’s changed. It’s during these meal times that Mum generally said something inappropriate like “politics” or “I want you to all have salad”, Dad generally recounted an inappropriate story or joke and us kids generally used inappropriate language. Nothing’s changed.
As you can imagine meal times are fairly lively and have a minimum rating of M. This particular dinner was no different. The conversation made its way through several unrelated tangents, a decent range of politically incorrect and inappropriate subjects and a few well placed expletives, when it somehow ended up with Dad reminiscing about his time living in New Zealand when he was in his 20′s.
The story in question takes place in Rotorua on New Zealand’s North Island and home of natural hot sulphur pools, bubbling mud and a stench (from the sulphur) that would make South Park’s Mr Hanky feel right at home (Mum, Mr Hanky is a poo. More specifically a Christmas poo. Just so you know). Dad and a couple of his friends were lounging around in one of the hot sulphur pools having a few beers and completely disregarding the “do not drink alcohol or you’ll dehydrate yourself to oblivion” signs when he decided it would be a good idea to swim a few laps and completely disregard the “do not swim laps or you’ll lose all normal function of your extremities” signs.
Now, let me pause to say that Dad is a psychiatrist and as you would appreciate, to become a psychiatrist it is necessary to have some smarts about you. All I can put this story down to is the well known and ironic fact in the psychiatric world, that psychiatrists tend to walk a thin line between genius and dementia. I think you know where I’m going with this.
Anyway, after swimming about 20 laps he felt quite fine…and then he tried to get out of the pool. Apparently a crash test dummy made of raspberry jelly would have had an easier time of it such was the level of function he had of his arms and legs. In Dad’s own words, “I’d parboiled myself.” In between howls of laughter, Dad’s friends dutifully hauled his red, parboiled, sorry arse out of the pool. It took him some time to recover the use of his limbs which did prove to be a fairly large hindrance to the beer drinking.
Confucius Sami says; he who does laps in sulphur pool will sulffer. Genius I know. I am the daughter of a demented psychiatrist after all!
Related posts:
- Sami’s Days of Her Life – Part 3 During episode 1, our heroine (that would be me), suffered...
- Monday Funny – DIY The New Zealand Way A quick funny: Chick out thus New Zilund ed… ...
- Packed to The Rafters There’s a TV show running here in Australia at the...
- 10 Ways To Get Inspired Let’s face it, if you’re human, and I’m assuming the...
- Joy Rebel Wk – Laughs, Lessons & Microdermabrasion Last Wednesday I announced the beginning of Joy Rebel Week...
