Today's topic is asses, since I have pretty much covered the boobs of late. More specifically, asses, and how tight they can be. Or arses, if you prefer. I must say I prefer an arse over an ass anyday.

Anyway. I've known some tight arses in my time. My stepfather was quite the stingy bastard. He established fairly early on in the piece that he was Lord of the Toothpaste. Thou shalt not throw out tube of toothpaste until thou hast extracted every last ounce of toothpaste from tube. This meant he would stop by the bathroom when we cleaned our teeth to make sure we squeezed the tube in the correct manner. One does not squeeze randomly, one must always start from the bottom of the tube and squeeze up. For the next 12 months or so you keep doing this, neatly rolling up the empty bit as you go, until finally you get out the pliers and force out the last drop.

The next step would be to use a filleting knife, slice open the tube til its sprawled out like a gutted fish, pick it up and smear it all over your teeth. Luckily, it never went that far.

Meat was forbidden unless it came from one of the creatures on our farm. We had cows and sheep. Since beef brought in a tidy profit, we never saw any of that, so it was all lamb, lamb, lamb. More specifically, the dreaded lamb chop. One time my stepdad decided the thriftiest option for a recently slaughtered sheep was to get the butcher to turn the entire thing into chops. The Eternal Chops choked up our freezer for so long that I began to think it was the Big Merino in there. And there's only so many ways one can cook a chop.

"What's for dinner, Mum?"

"Something new tonight. I like to call it... Chop Surprise."

No amount of sauces and glazes and secret herbs and spices can disguise the thumping disappointment of a bone with slab of fat and slightest sliver of actual meat clinging to it.

Waste not, want not, was Stepfather Stingypants' motto. One morning I tossed an empty tub of margarine (Home Brand, natch) into the bin when he appeared out of nowhere and bellowed, "What are you throwing that away for?"

"It's empty."

"It is not empty! You didn't scrape it all out! You're wasting good food! Any Ethiopian child would claw your eyes out for that tub of margarine!"

My argumentative 12 year old mind wanted to point out that the average Ethiopian child would not have the energy for eye-clawing, but I thought better of it. So I very slowly and pointedly dragged the margarine container out of the bin, opened it with a dramatic flourish, made a big production of scraping invisible tendrils of marg out of the container, smashing them across my toast before finally hurling the container back into the bin.

"What are you throwing that container away for? Wash it up and we can use it for a dog food bowl/plant pot/jaunty hat!"

Thank god Mum divorced his tight ass.

But the tightest asses in the hood resided across the highway and two farms away. The Smiths were very successful farmers, with multiple 4WDs and the latest machinery, their sprawling homestead lounging smugly atop a rolling hill, surrounded by beautiful wheat crops that swaggered in the breeze. But while they were unafraid to spend on their farm, they pulled the reigns in when it came to food. And contraception.

They ingrained their bizarre budgeting rituals into their half-dozen children at an early age. Birthday parties at the Smiths house were a sparse affair, plainly decorated cakes, lollie bags sorely lacking. Slumber party treats were strictly rationed. Once we roasted marshmellows round the fire, but not before the marshmellows were carefully sorted out into piles of equal quantity.

I once witnessed one of the brothers making a sandwich. He was just about to top it with a slice of cheese when sirens blared, lights flashed, and one of the Righteous Sisters swooped into the kitchen. She seized the cheese slice (Home Brand, natch) out of her brothers hand.

"HEY! That's Michael's cheese!" she screeched. "Put it down!"

"What?"

"You've already had three slices this week. That one is his! Put it back or I'm telling!"

But the killer came one roasting summers day. We all piled into the kitchen to grab a refereshing glass of cordial (about 1 part cordial to 15 parts water) (and Home Brand, natch). A sister got a tray of icecubes out of the freezer and started popping out a few for her drink.

"Muuuuuuuuuuuuuum! Cathy put THREE ICECUBES into her drink when she's already had two today!"

"Cathy! Is that true, young lady?"

Oooh. Tiiiight.