The Quack Team rent The Landords’ other house, which is about a kilometre away. Quackman and The Swede are unbelievably, totally awesomely, extra-mustard-hold-the-pickle cool. I can’t speak for Husband, but my liver never fails to be invigorated merely by being in their vicinity.
The other night Husband, Jed and I were invited over for dinner, where – in an arresting conversational gambit – Quackman confided he numbers in his possession dinosaur poo.
Naturally, I was intrigued. Well, wouldn’t you be? Oh come on, admit it: you are of course. I mean, DINOSAUR DUNG!
I demanded to see it at once.
Now, I don’t know about you; but I expected Quackman to return staggering under the unwieldy bulk of a prehistoric turd, leaving a late cretaceous skid mark on the lintel as he stuffed it through the living room door. I imagined a mystical butt nugget, even now – hundreds of million of years later – still radiating a slight heat from an Argentinosaurus’ lower intestine.
Turns out there was a seismosauric chasm between my anticipation and the reality, which looked suspiciously like a handful of gravel scooped up from the front yard.
Quackman apparently won his turd on Trademe, and it came with a certificate verifying that it is genuine faeces fresh from a dinosaur’s arse. When pressed however, Quackman was unwilling – or unable – to produce the certificate.
Yet, even though I thought it was all shit (in the colloquial sense), I still washed my hands afterwards