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Alcohol killed the radio star



So, back in primary school, the word 'sex' was just the funniest thing ever.


In second grade, we used to have these posters on the classroom wall with the word 'Exercise' on them. I used to take great joy in putting the letter 'S' in front of that word, to create a new word: 'Sexercise'. That's right, sexercise. Then, in third grade, when I moved up a grade but stayed in the same classroom, I figured out that I could put the letter 'X' on the end of it and create sexercisex.






Anyway, as much as my old-man rants would lead you to believe otherwise, people used to have sex back in my day. Hell, we even used to have underage sluts back in my day. It wasn't as bad as it is now, but they were there. They used to write things like D.C 4 M.L and true love lasts 4eva all over their borrowed textbooks, and go to the mall to talk about kissing boys with braces. Needless to say, these girls weren't really good for anything. They're now thirty-two years old and still working in retail. But, as useless as they were/are, they did come up with the modern mating call that I now like to call my own: sex me.


That's right, sex me.


It's, like, my line.


So anyway, the Hottest 100 was on yesterday, and the words sex me became my rocket to the moon.


(If you've never heard of the Triple J Hottest 100, you're a dweeb.)


One of their crusty, veteran presenters was on air and I propositioned him, 1990s teen-slut style. That's right, I texted the words 'Sex Me, Richard Kingsmill' (his name) to their studio hotline. I thought it was great. But then an hour passed, nothing happened, and Richard went off air. Damn. BUT THEN, about two hours (and six jelly shots) later, my phone starts ringing. I can't hear it over the music, but it goes to voicemail and I feel my phone vibrate. So, I check my voicemail, and it's Sam Simmons from the radio! OH MY FREAKING GOD.


Anyway (I'm saying that a lot tonight), his voicemail says he's going to call back, so I grab two of the closest partygoers and we lock ourselves in a spare bedroom to await the callback from Sam Simmons. Five minutes later, it comes.


The next five minutes... well, I can't describe it.


However, the results of our phone call were played on national radio this morning.


So, if you've ever wondered what I sound like when absolutely smashed, click on this link here. Select Tom and Alex: Wednesday 27 January, fast-forward to the 14:50 mark of the podcast and laugh your little arse off.


And then, comment away.


Happy Australia Day, everyone.

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