Ever since my trip to Jumping Crocodile country I've had a strange compulsion to buy a crocodile tooth to wear around my neck. I must confess I have no idea where this urge comes from. On Saturday I finally gave into my desire. I found myself in a tacky souvenir shop handing over my hard earned for an overpriced piece of enamel that was riped from the jaw of some unfortunate farmed reptile.
I know the whole concept is barbaric. I promised myself I wouldn't sink this low the moment I saw the kangaroo testicle key rings, mummified crocodile foot back scratches and the dead kangaroo paws with the middle finger rudely extended for all time. But that was four weeks ago.
I have been dreaming a bit about crocodiles and I haven't submerged myself in an open body of water since I've been here. I don't intend to.
In explaining to myself my ghoulish jewelry I have found comfort in the namesake of this city's theory of natural selection. But if I'm truthful to myself that argument holds little water. I keep thinking of a crocodile wearing my foot around it's neck. It scares me.
What scares me more is that I may be displaying bogan tendencies.
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