cane toad

Oops, excuse me. Oh, g’day, how ya going? Uh, my names Daz, but me mates call me Dazza. I’m just here to talk about me little mate Baz, actually, cause pickle me grandmother, the silly old buggar’s gone bloody missing. Yeah, look, Baz just vanished, like a fart in a fan factory, you know? And I’m a little pissed off about it actually, uh, seeing the bludger still owed me a six-pack. But yeah, no one knows what happened to the little bastard, ah, but I’ve got a few ideas: You see, Baz used to love his sport. Now while I’m happy to blow the froth off a few coldies and watch it on the telly, Baz fancied himself as a bit of an athlete. If your gonna be playing full-contact sport, you got to be able to take it. Maybe Baz just wasn’t up to it. Ah, and then there’s Baz’s sense of direction. Jeeze. It was pretty bloody useless. I’ll betcha 50 bucks Baz is headed straight past the black stump into Toad-poppers Run. All toads should know that’s dangerous territory, right? Most people do know that, but Baz... well, I don’t know. If that’s where he’s ended up, he’d better like pancakes! Jeeze, that’s a bad way to go. Of course, there is one other thing we toads come across around these parts. A real mean bastard. Built like a brick shithouse, with teeth that could rip a bloke inside out, you know? They call him “Victa“. Look if Baz wasn’t careful, big Victa would be all over him, like flies on shit. He’d only have the time it takes to shotgun a tinnie, before his ass was grass. Oh, Baz But then, folks round here they reckon I don’t know one end of a dog’s bowl from another, and they could be right. Anything could of happened to Baz. I know that, I’m not stupid. But, ah, but Baz, if you are out there somewhere, come back mate, eh?