Chapter 1 of 1000 - The Beginning and The End of Victor's Legacy

So.  A mate of mine told me I should start a blog, because he seems to think I have some kind of amusing wit about me.  Whether or not this is true, and whether or not he is just saying this because, a. He feels sorry for me because I am 30 and live by myself with my cat and have a huge anime collection; or b. He has genuinely had way too much alcohol in a short span of time, I figured it couldn't hurt and if it was completely and utterly ridiculous I could just delete it.  And then ban him from my house and from drinking my beer.  However as a disclaimer prior to beginning this, I am obliged to inform everyone just how hilarious he is, and how similar he is to Kanye West, despite the fact that he is completely not at all like Kanye West. It started with a ranty Facebook post that I'd put on a mutual friend's wall, while I was waiting for him to arrive home from the airport. Id originally planned to do something else prior, so didn't mean to have an hour to kill before his homecoming. Anyway, it seems my brain functions during boredom in a similar way to that which Jack Russell Terrier might function when given multiple doses of Speed soaked in red cordial. Throw in a four year old at Frozen/Disney Princess themed party after having consumed several raspberry cupcakes and you've got yourself a fairly accurate representation of my inability to 'quietly' and 'maturely' entertain myself. 

So now I have some kind of obligation to be hilarious on cue. This guy is gonna owe me a LOT of pancake breakfasts. 

I grew up in what you might consider to be a reasonably normal family, until you started asking questions. My mum and two brothers and I lived in Kingston, and had some pets. By pets, I mean four cats, some pigs, lots of chooks, and, at one stage, 22 guinea pigs. 22, I hear you say, and the look that most people get says to me, 'Oh that's sweet how she exaggerates her childhood memories.'.  No, motherfucker, I do not exaggerate when it comes to goddamn guinea pigs. I might have slightly warped memories when it comes to what my mother told me about splashing water over the side of the bath (my distinct memory was Mum saying, "the floor will rot and the bath will fall under the house and you'll have to bathe with the monster trolls from 'Willow'", but she disagrees), or about the fact that I only hit my brother with a hammer because I had a lapse of judgement and thought he was a nail, but I NEVER, exaggerate about numbers of things and especially not guinea pigs. 

Anyway, the reason for having so many little hairy bean rats was because of the until setup, which given the fact that my mother already had three of us kids, probably should have been foreseen to a degree. We started off with five guinea pigs. Not sure why, maybe we only had two and shit got real Tasmanian all of a sudden. Anyway. There was one male. His name was Victor. He lived and died by his name. A Victor of guinea pig pussy he was indeed. Victor not only knocked up his girly piggy, but then proceeded to knock up his daughters. Not sure why we kept three females, as well as the original mother and father, but well, it was the 80s. Shit was cray, yo. 

So while Victor was playing piggy style with anything and everything he could get his claws into (I have a feeling he may have tried to have a go at the male rabbit at one point which might explain Victor's abrupt departure from this earth but again, I could be exaggerating), the ladies were popping out babies left, right and centre. We literally had enough guinea pigs to have two sports teams fighting it out for Victory (haha see what I did there?) in the backyard. We didn't, because there aren't too many sports that guinea pigs are particularly adept at, but we could have. Anyway, we had a total of 22 guinea pigs. Being a kindergartener, I utilised my counting skills to establish and maintain a record of how many babies we had, and thus placed myself at the forefront of guinea pig auditing for the household. Although there wasn't much competition given the fact that my first younger brother was too busy eating rabbit poo and my other brother was probably being born or something equally as boring. 

One night there was a huge downpour, and being four, I didn't put a lot of thought into the village of guinea pigs in the yard - animals coped with rain, they didn't have tiny Louis Vuitton bags to protect so they could get a bit wet now and then. Mum had my faeces-devouring brother and my probably-crowning brother to deal with, so they were my charges. 

The next day, I put on my plastic raincoat and Bubblegummers gumboots and stalked down to the cage in preparation for the daily auditing process, and to alert the guinea pigs to the morning head count. And that was the day I learnt what drowning was all about. One by one, I carefully placed the non-wriggling baby guinea pigs into my pockets, and trudged back up to the house. My four year old brain was pretty confused. Part of it thinking "Well they don't move heaps now, that's boring," and part thinking, "FUCK YES I CAN DRESS THEM UP - NO RESISTANCE!!".

My mother awake that morning to me taking sopping, wet, dead baby guinea pigs out of my pocket one at a time, and placing them on her bed. I don't remember her reaction exactly but I feel it wouldn't have been the same reaction as when your darling eldest child makes you a clay bowl for the first time, for example. Needless to say, our first experience in multiple incestuous relations amongst guinea pigs was our first, and also our last. 

My career as an auditor ended just as abruptly.