Do you know what really irks me? Grinds my gears? Puts sand in the chain of my Malvern Star? Rams fistful of yeast in my eyes?

Kids that say that they love cooking and then proceed to serve you a meal that's main constituent is a packet of powdered puke dust. "I make an excellent alfredo pasta" they say and then proceed to mix a packet of industrial cheese cement. It's not cooking! It's more like a hands-on tafe assignment in constipation.

Take this recipe for example from the ever reliable Yahoo!7
Chicken Alfredo Pasta
2 teaspoons polyunsaturated oil
500g skinless chicken breast fillet, sliced
3/4 cup (190mL) reduced fat milk
1 1/2 cups (375mL) water
1 packet Continental Alfredo Pasta & Sauce, Family Pack

What the fuckness? That's basically cheese glue and chicken boobs. That's no way to get laid!

I mean, I haven't witnessed this faux cooking for a couple of years really. It's more of a 'I've just moved out of home, I'm 19, I drink Carlton Cold' condition.

You know what else I dislike? Miss Mauds.
I've only eaten there once about a million years ago (BC) with my grandmother and it was a coleslaw/princess cake/ sweet coffee/ cold meat unfulfilling and cold experience. What makes even less appealing is the clientele. They're shoveling lumps of custardy cake into their trout mouths and gargling back flat whites with seven sugars. Then they probably fart all the way home in their banged out barinas.

Actually, they're probably nice human beings. I'm a dick

Kevin says:
December 17th, 2009 at 1:30 am
I have a weird doughnut fetish of sorts. I like to get the glazed Krispy Kremes (when I can get them) cut them in half and place a slice of leg ham in between - sort of like a bagel. Have tried it with proscuito, ham and polony. Ham is the best. Very strange I know - I guess it’s the same as the yanks putting maple syrup on there bacon. Sweet and meat. Just delish!

Kevin says:
December 18th, 2009 at 10:44 pm
The colour of the meat in those pies looks way to dark for my liking. Like almost a colour additive. The chunks of meat should really be grey. Either way you know old Kevin here would shove a couple of those down his throat before they had time to cool. I love hot pastry. Often I used to peel the skin of a sausage roll ( in high schoool) and dunk it in some choc milk and eat that before I got down to business on that beautiful sausage filling. I’m salivating like my pug Ronson just thinking about them. Mmmmm heavenly. I'm gonna suck that meat down faster than my mate Clarry licks the gunge off my nextdoor neighbours milk bottles from the recycling bin (they're beautiful girls).

Kevin says:
December 18th, 2009 at 10:56 pm
I love a good sausage. Absolutely love em. Had the great privilege of working at Woolie’s sausage works a lifetime or so ago. Really enjoyed taking part in perfecting the perfect meat mix us Australians love so much. My favourite would have to be a Tex Mex flavoured sausage. My partner love em as well but only eats two or three out of the 2 kilos I usually cook! More for me I say. I, and I hope my heart surgeon isn’t reading this, love a knob of butter or a generous squirt of mayo on my snags. I probably eat snaggers at least once a day - breakfast, lunch or dinner they go down smoother than anything else I’ve ever found.

I’ve come up with a great little sausage snack. About six snags per person, bacon, hash browns and a carton of eggs. Whack em in to a casserole dish - top with philly and sweet chili (and some slices of Kraft singles) and put in the oven for half an hour. Perfect for when guests are coming around. 'Cop that' I yell and smile smuggly as I know you can't get this kind of quality tucker down the road at that snooty Japanese restaurant. Ha Kevin 1, Greens O.
Boom - shaka - laka.

Super Emo Holiday 2.0

I met some English people the other day. They were really great except they didn't laugh at the greatest joke I know. I think it must have been lost in translation. I even prepped them up with useful facts and scene setting information that should have ensured that the joke would be a success and I would forever be remembered as the best part of Australia.

I said to them "What do you call bins in England, dustbins?" and they said "yes dustbins".
So I said "Well you know wheelie bins, the ones we have here" and they said "yes".
"And the guy that comes and collects the dustbins is a dustbin man?" and they said "yes" and I said "Well we call him a rubbish man".

This was great. The foundations were poured like warm Italian cement over a Fremantle backyard - I'd covered all the knowledge holes. We were level like a warm Italian pizza bianca. I could now proceed like a warm Italian greyhound.

And so I began.

"A rubbish man comes to a house to collect the bin. He notices that the bin is not out the front so he asks the resident, who is a man.

'Where's ya bin?"

"Oh" says the man " I've been up North".

"No" says the rubbish man "where's ya wheelie bin?"

"Oh" says the reluctant resident "I've wheelie bin in prison."

Hhahahahahah. Best joke ever. But they didn't laugh. I even did a good voice for the man who had been in prison (probably for pool chemical theft or an upskirt website). So I told the joke again but this time finished it with "I'VE WHEELIE BIN IN PRISON".
As Ricky Gervais says 'If they don't understand, talk louder'.

Eventually they got it. I mean they understood the joke. They didn't laugh though. I did get a "that's a funny situation". Obviously British people, although totally great, don't have a sense of humor.

Ethnography. Right here.

I saw a guy with a number plate that said Paul 13

Also, imagine the guy that owns this piece of art.
He probably hates lions and uses it as evidence at family dinners when talking about hunting.
"You need to shoot big cats and sharks. You don't believe me do you Bella? Have a look at this (points to picture). They'll rape ya! Those bloody lions will jump your bones given half a chance. Give em the slightest sniff and they'll be all over you like those yanky sailors on day release in Fremantle. Look, do you want your son to be bought up as a lion? Going to one of them plains schools? Look at the picture Bella. Look at that! He's not a skinny man- got a build on him, and he's; this big strong man here, he's being rogered to sunday by Simba! We gotta do sumfink! They'll be committing rapes all over the place. It'll be like Port Adelaide! "

Bye Cycle

Yesterday someone stole my bike from the train station. It broke my heart. I was looking forward to listening to getting off the train and pedaling home with the wind in my eyes. Instead I had to walk. Like a sucker. I tried to find the album closest to the genre 'funeral doom' on my ipod and trudged home with a profound sadness. Like a 16 year old listening to Morrisey. I'm talking 'get lost Phil! Your'e not my real dad! Why won't you let me do anyfing fun! I want to watch the Dance show and kiss my new boyfriendsssssss! 'deep blue.

I felt sorry for my bike as it would now have to live out its days with some scummy person who steals bikes from train stations and eats catfood casserole. We had a great time together. Like the time I rode down a hill. And the time I went around a corner. And the time I pedaled straight for a few hundred metres. These were good times. Now the poor bugger was probably in some bushes or in the bedroom of some delinquent. I can only imagine the self love war crimes it will witness. I hope it meets a quick and painless death. Or some little kid gets it and feeds it apples and sugar cubes and gives it a new life on a farm.

When I was six my mum took me to a bike shop to pick a bike for my birthday. I knew exactly which one I wanted. It was by the raddest bike there. About six months later I found out it was a girls bike. I guess the pink handlebars and 'girls' frame were obvious giveaways. Why did my parents buy me this bike? I stopped riding it immediately. There was no way I was turning into a girl.

Once when I had just turned 18 my friend Chris and I rode our bikes to the pub. On the way back we tried peeing and riding at the same time. I feel this has something to do with my parents buying me a pink bike. They've truly stuffed me up.

No love BC

A million years ago when I went to University and did nothing but eat fried rice and try to read Russian novels.There was a mature age international student in my class. Unlike most mature aged students this guy didn't spout philosophical theories about genetics "Physically fit males, such as olympians, have female offspring. It's a scientific fact", try to fellate the lecturer at every given moment, or tell the kids how it really was out in the harsh cold world that they had mastered.

Once we were sitting around in a room waiting for a tutor to arrive. He announced to the class that he would like to practice his stand-up comedy routine. He smiled and said that it was 'the perfect opportunity!" The room was unresponsive. A guy with a scarf rolled his eyes. I could sense that this was going to be awesome. I hoped his jokes would be about wankers wearing scarves and how they smelt like meat.

And so he stood in front of the class and began his routine. He was eager. This would be the first step in a life long career.

"A robber broke into a house where three women lived. They were in the kitchen. They were doing some things.

The robber said "Give me your money!"

The three women said "Oh no! Please don't take our money!"

And so the robber said "Ok. I will not take your money as long as you do this one thing."

"Anything" they said.

"When you go to sleep tonight", the robber said, "you must lie like the letter 'i'"

And the comedian put his hands above his head so he became the human embodiment of the letter 'i'. He then smiled at the class expectantly. This was an excellent joke and he knew he had told it well.

They looked at him.

He stretched out his arms above his head and said "LIE LIKE THE LETTER 'I' !!"

He did a little laugh in the hope of kick start the surely imminent laughter explosion. No love.

The guy in the scarf rolled his eyes. A fat girl stared. The tutor walked in and the comedian sat down.

I'm not really sure what the joke was about but it rates as one of the greatest jokes I've ever heard.

Beagletron Demazin

You know how they say double denim is a crime? I was thinking that if you had a denim jacket this doesn't really leave many options. You can basically wear tracksuit pants (ala train track smack fan or Quokka fanatic), leather pants (ala suburban British swinger), corduroy (ala dog loving dog lover with dandruff) or shorts/skirt (ala a guy called Ron who marinates sausages and wears a medi-alert bracelet for gout and always asks if he can come over and have a shower but then just sits in your bathroom sans shower and leaves 15 mins later). That's the options. Apparently.

Ethan Fowler rocked double denim in Nervous Breakdown. Incredible.

I was thinking that if I fed my beagle a little bit of petrol each day for the next year, a calculator and some battery acid, he would probably turn into a transformer. Once we went away and my girlfriend's mum looked after him. Then she went away on a holiday (which we didn't know she was going to do) and palmed the dog off (palmed the dog off! ha! Masturbation jokes!) to a British family that lived next door. When we returned we found Louie being patted by a ruddy faced woman. She said "Oooh he's a great dog him. He loves a cup of tea! He drank one out of a mug I'd left on the ground! We've been making him a cup of tea everyday! He loves 'em sweet!"

Her intentions were pure but I'm pretty sure you shouldn't be giving dogs cups of tea. He's into coffee. Instant coffee straight from the tin. Loves the stuff.

Half man, Half icing

I drove past the dentists with a mouth full of Violet Crumble yesterday. This is the equivalent to driving by the tax office waving a hand of beautiful laundered money while in a tax avoiding taxi. You can feel the wind in your hair and have a fleeting feeling of knowing that your time has not yet come. These are our salad days (i think that's a reference to tossing when ever you feel like it).

I had an x-ray and an ultrasound today. My shoulder is fucked and has been fucked for the last 5 weeks. They probably won't find anything. I'm probably faking.

Once I had an ultrasound on my testicles. It was an awkward situation. The ultrasound operator was a girl who would have only been two years older than me. I had to lie on my back and pull my sack out through a gap in the sheets. Balls don't look great to start off with, like two baby brains (massive) in a deflated hairy skin balloon . They look even worse in isolation. When they're a pate' pink against the green of surgical sheets they appear more tumor than vital.

And then the ultrasound operator squirts goo all over them and tries to survey them with a hand held reader while they dodge and slide like slippery poached eggs. It's a bad situation.

Balls.

Gastro In Digest

There's this site on the net where you can read reviews of most of the restaurants in your state. One time when I had a job I sat in front of the computer for a few hours and flicked through endless pages of crappy reviews while drinking watery filter coffee. It quickly became apparent that most reviews were either submitted by complete douchebags or dudes called "Ron" who have a penchant for steak. Actually, almost all the reviewers talk about steak. "I ordered the steak/ we had the steak/ hubby had the steak". Steak, steak, steak. It's what the proletariat want.

It seems like the majority of reviewers also want to be semi- pro writers.
" I always ask myself, when does a $14 asian meal such as Sechuan Chicken become a $28 meal?
Answer, Freshly and carefully cooked ingrediants with great attention to presentation and detail, excellent service, a warm inviting upmarket decor, and a kitchen that looks as clean as the staff. "

I'm not sure what Bob 145 above is getting at. Is it some kind of slur? "Let me see your fingernails waiter! Hmmm... not bad, not bad. Well maintained cuticles and your ears look clean as a sea shell. Let me sniff your pits! I need to sniff them. Then, and only then, will I place my order. For steak. I need steak."

There's even reviews for Sizzlers.
"The only downfall we have with our repeat dining experiences at Sizzler is eating too much of the salad bar and the bloody dessert bar is a killer too if your not careful! You have been warned people!

You have been warned! Holy shit! The bloody desert bar.I imagine these people saying "LOL" all the time and having stuffed toys on the dash of their car. Why the fuck would anyone review Sizzler. It's the equivalent of reviewing your meal of meat pie and choc-chill from the service station.
"The service was pretty good.The waiter seemed attentive and made a joke about me being hungry at this hour. The pie tasted delicious. I really appreciate the way they microwave it until the pastry sogs up like warm playdough. I could tell that the gravy was made from the highest low-grade powder available. The ambience was somewhat ruined by the guy in tracksuit pants shuffling through the Picture magazines and the chap out the front scratching his face and smoking cigarettes he'd found on the ground. All in all, good value for money. I'll be back. Hopefully with a girlfriend. May even try the desert. I hear the Bubble-O Bills are to die for! "


In closing, how good is the word "stiffy"?

Amazingly good.

Reminds me of being twelve.


Gastr

Corn King Christ Mite

I saw an ad in the local newspaper of a drunk looking woman. She was wearing a plum coloured dress and it looked like the shot had been taken in someone's backyard or at an expo with free drinks. She had lots of make up on and a bit of that ruddy cheeked booze glow.

What is this ad for? I thought. In my brain.

Podiatry! Of course. It's podiatry. If I go to a podiatrist to have a few grams of corns sanded off my little toes I want to know what the podiatrist looks like. There's no way I fronting up to find that the foot doctor is a red head or other undesirable character. I expect all podiatrists will start including head shots. If you're working on feet, you need a head shot. It's pretty much the rules.

Some people have foot fetishes.

Petroleum Ambergris

The other day I was looking through the motoring section of the paper. This is not something I would normally do but I was trying to look tough.

While flipping through the 'petrol pages' (do people say that? 'Course they do. Bloody petrol pages. Find a new gas bucket or some shit!) I saw this BMW for sale. I noticed that most ads in the for sale section said things like "low kms, new tyres, big donk". This ad said "BMW. Smells like new".

Smells like new!

This is what I look for in a car. Does it smell like new or does it smell like a shitty disposable nappied two year old has gummed to death a couple of chicken nuggets in the back and then peed in the ashtrays?

It smells like new?!

I will buy it then. I can look past the dents in the front where you mowed down a couple of kids on your desperate way to the hand job parlour, or the jesus fish sticker and the semi-lunar smudges from your 'baby on board' suck-a-sign on the rear windscreen, or the black smoke that coughs out rust whenever you change gears. I couldn't care less about these slight imperfections. The car smells like new.

It smells like you've gone down to an auto shop and bought some of that 'new car smell' spray and skunked a whole load of it all through the interior. Oh the pleasant waft of chemicals! It smells like plastic and adhesive and a change in fortunes and carpet and real estate and 'get out of my fucking way!'.

New car. New car smell. Difference?

None!

Holy fuck. My car. My actual car. It's not doing so well. Smells like cooked carpet. The temperature guage punched above it's weight. And it's rusted like country acne.

Country acne?

Not sure exactly what that is.

Haircuttus

I went to the barber again today. Yep that's right, a professional haircut on my head. I'm wearing one.

As I waited for my turn in the swivel chair I listened to the barber talk to some old mingers about swine flu and the free vaccination being offered by the government. From a small survey, listening to two old guys in a barber shop, I can safely say that the majority of the population believe that swine flu will "probably kill you but something is going to kill you and cancer will probably get you first". They both had colds. One said that he had the "90 day virus that was going around" and the other said that he got sneezed on in the supermarket. They both stressed to the barber that they did not have the pig mucus. Getting sneezed on is probably one of the worst experiences ever. A constellation of warm wet lung butter spittle all over your eyes, nose and lips. It's enough to make a man drop to his knees and pray for a stinging yellow dettol rain cloud to cleanse all pores and wage mass germicide.

Anyway, at the barber there's a massage chair. A big leather thing that probably uses the same things that makes a mechanical bull buck. I thought they were only bought by chronic masturbators who watch motor sport/Australian Idol and crank the sucker to rough road as they journey to jerky-town. There's a sign that reads"Not for pregnant women or children under 16". That's serious massage. It costs $2 for 5 minutes. The barber said that a guy came in "and put 22 bucks in and sat in the chair until it broke. He was a big fat guy and he was leaning hard into it. You gotta sit forward! Not back! He was happy though. He'd bought 60 bucks in two dollar coins and said it was still cheaper than getting one down the road". There's a place down the road called Bikini Girls. It's a massage parlour. I wonder if that's what he meant. Probably. He sounds like a perve. Who gets a massage for and hour at the barber? This country is full of creeps.

Soap Milk Madagascar (Jesus cream)

There's some hand cream next to my computer. Sounds pretty dodgy huh? Well it's not. It just happens to be there. My girlfriend bought it. It's not so I can grease my flute whilst speedily flicking through Round, Brown, and Oily. It just happens to be there.



It's called"No No" but it seems more like "NNOO" as the letters are arranged to look like a palm. Once again it's not for internet whack fests. It's been on the table since my girlfriend opened the package in which it arrived (notice how I have said I have a girlfriend. This is to prove that I in fact have a girlfriend. I'm being casual and just throwing it around. Many of you may think I'm a lone wolf, a young man with no time for the fairer species, a man that spends every waking hour honing his skills and bettering himself and those around him. This is not entirely true. I have made time in my schedule to fit in the companionship of a femal human. Where I find the time I just don't know. Lord knows my ranking on a certain online surfing game is starting to suffer, but sometimes you need to forget about business and concentrate on family - also, she's not my sister).

Anyway, I have just eaten a lamington.
"Satisfactory?" you ask.
"Not really" I reply.
"Why did you eat two?" you ask.
"I had to make sure. I'm a forgiving man. Like Jesus."
"You know what would get that taste out of your mouth?" you ask. Questions. Lots of questions. You're asking them.
"A drink?" I say. Answer a question with a question. That's how you win an argument.
"Not exactly" you say. "Hand cream. That hand cream that is sitting there. It's wasting away. GET THAT HAND CREAM AND SQUIRT IT IN YOUR MOUTH. DO IT NOW. DO IT FUCKING NOW!!!!!!!"

And so I do. It tastes like shampoo. It kind of burns. Now it's all through the pores of my tongue. I've got a soapy slick irritating the back of my pallet. You are not a nice friend. You do not have my best interests at heart. I would do anything for your affection and you know and exploit this.

Actually, lamington taste gone. Good advice.

If I die in a few hours/minutes - you know why. Please play a sweet song at my funeral. One that will make everyone cry and remember how cool I was.

That is all.

I just watched Fully Flared twice.

One World

One Sun

Deep Sleep Eat

Last night my girlfriend was talking in her sleep. She was talking a lot. I decided to join in and influence her dreams. This way she will never leave me.

She said "I think we'll put you up for transfer". She's an intern and I think she thinks about her job at the hospital all the time, it invades her dreams.

"Will they have baked beans there?" I ask. "I love baked beans". In hindsight I could have come up with something a little more interesting, perhaps encourage her to let me eat soup whenever I feel like.

She responded in her best bedside manner "Oh, I'm sure they will." It was almost condescending. She'd worked out that I was a tricky patient and that baked beans were a sweet enticement to get me to lie down and submit to a catheter or a ward transfer.

She went on talking through out the night and each time I would say "These baked beans are delicious!","These are some expensive baked beans!", "I love baked beans". I think this constant repetition helped established my character as a dedicated bean fan. I imagined myself as a bald headed mole-man sitting upright in a hospital bed scooping beans straight out of the tin. "Beans, lovely beans"

After a while I thought "this is probably abuse" and stopped.

24 non stop, I don't stop, can't stop, won't stop

You know when the coffee runs out and you start drinking tea and you think 'I like this tea' but really you're like ' I want coffee' and you could go to the shop and get some more but that would involve doing something and you've already walked the dog and that basically counts as doing something constructive and besides you've got to beat this Brazilian kid who calls himself Tuj Burrow and keeps pipping you by a fraction of a point on an online surfing game?

Me neither. I've been getting things done. Logged some serious time researching things. For instance I looked up 'fingering' on Yahoo!Answers. Man, time well spent. Results:

roma12 asks:
Fingering ?
i became close to a girl a couple months to a year ago and I ended up fingering her, I washed my hands after wards but why do i seem like I "can't use" those fingers anymore because i think there is stuff there. can this be a form of ocd? Cause I feel like I cant touch food or anything else without thinking something bad will happen? What are some ways I can overcome these thoughts? Serious answers please!

please don't smoke answers:
Sounds to me like a case of "coyote ugly". She may have not been someone you really found attractive. While in the act did you feel a bit squeamish as though something wasn't right?
Typically if shes healthy and attractive and your on fire over her, you would not want to wash your hands after wards. There seems to be an issue with her not being very clean.
Take some alcohol and pour it over that hand, it kills everything and this will correct your mindset and you'll be able to move on. Good Luck.

So pretty much didn't waste any time.

I also spent time putting awesome combinations of swear words into a Japanese translation to hilarious effect:

Hakuso must eat my fuck. Then I listen to the Misfits

So yeah, things are non-stop here. I'm getting stressed out.

De Niro T-Wrect

Coarse haired colleagues, chronic masturbators, cream huffers, and greasy fringed girls,

I'm lucky to be alive. I kiss the earth and sniff the breeze. On friday night my brother and I caught a taxi with a mad man, a man of at least 50 years with an obvious back catalogue of paranoia and speeding tickets.

As soon as our rumps touched the weave of the seats the taxi driver stomped his foot on the accelerator and swerved out in front of a bus. As he did this he lowered his window and yelled "Oooogaaaaa Boooggaaaaa!" at another taxi as he hurtled down the street.

"I'm getting out of the industry" he told us. Perhaps he was going to jail?

"I'm going to Holland" he said. "Getting out of this country" as he clipped a roundabout.

"To Amsterdam?" my brother asked.

"Holland!" he said. "Look at this" (he flicked a photo of a blurry guitar on his phone). "That's a hemp guitar. Made out of hemp. They've got a hemp museum in Holland. I went there. Showed 'em this picture of my guitar. They said "that's a work or art that" and they want it in their museum."

"Wow! How do you make them?" my brother said.

"With hemp!" he said.

"But how? Like resin and fibre?"

"Hemp fibres! I use hemp fibres! I'm not going to go how I make 'em though because it's a secret. Not going to go into mate!"

The whole time the fuel light was flashing on the dashboard and he was pushing 90 in a 60 zone. We were speeding up a hill towards a red light. I questioned the man's sanity and the light went green.

"How many have you made?"

"I've made one. But I'm the only one who knows how to do it. Its all up here. Going to make a thousand in my first year in Holland!"

"A thousand?" we asked. "That's a lot of work"

"Well I'm not going to make them. I'm going to have a hundred people working for me and I'm going to walk around with a cup of coffee and say "yes/yes/no do more" to the workers. You can put pictures in the guitar. Put coins and hair in the resin. People from around the world can email you and say "I want some artwork in it" and I'll write back to them that it'll cost more and that's how I can get me money. With all the art work".

"And you use sheets of resin and fibre?"

"Look, I'm not going into it! People are trying to steal my ides. I'm not saying you guys are going to steal them but I'm not going into it!"

"What kind of head stocks do you use?" my brother asks.

"I use just normal ones."

"How do they sound?"

"They sound like guitars mate!"

"So what's the advantage of using hemp?"

"Well it's the strongest natural fibre known to man. Besides cobwebs. Cobwebs is the first, hemp is the second, and human hair is the third."

"Silk's the strongest natural fibre?"

"Cobwebs! And hemp and hairs from a man's head!I'm also going to make violins. I had an Internet site showing the guitar I made. I got over a million orders from all around the world. Had to close the site down. It was just there to test the waters. People wanted them. They all wanted them. Germans would want the violin. Love violins."

We got to my house in the fastest time ever. I was relieved to get out of the car. The guy had breathed all our oxygen and was probably planning on taking us to a deserted car park and killing us with a non-interrupted onslaught of bullshit.

"What a fuckwit!" my brother said.

*I just searched the net and hemp guitars do exist, are in production, and they don't seem to be made by a taxi driver from Fremantle . Looks like the Holland trip is off.

Whale World Glue Sniffing

One time in primary school my class went to a shoe factory. It was in a county town where they used to kill whales.The factory made ugg boots. While we were there my nose started bleeding. I didn't have any tissues so I started to sniff to try and retrieve the flow. Plan backfired. They used so much solvent glue in the factory that my nervous and continued huffing made me feel all tall and stretched. I got so high that I had to go outside before I fainted.

Later on at another location, while at the urinal, a class mate asked me if I wanted to 'sword fight'.

Tie me up (the bowl cut kid)

Oliver from across the road asked my brother and I to tie him up once. He came over and said "Can you tie me up?".

We obliged.

We took him to the back shed and wrapped his arms to his sides with masking tape. We went round and round until he was mummified - a large tape worm if you will. The whole time we did this he had a contented smile on his face. Like getting tied up was the most relaxing thing that could happen to you.

There was a house getting built directly across the road from our's. We lifted Oliver like a wounded Vietnam vet and placed him on his side on a freshly dried concrete slab. He was laughing to himself.

We then went inside and played Sega and ate cheese.

He said that some older brothers from down the road who had long hair and wore black t-shirts and rode BMXs had came past and poked him with a stick a couple of times. After this he managed to get up and hop back to his house.

I can't work out if my brother and I did the wrong thing in taping the kid up. He was a strange guy.

"I'm going to butter him up see, tell him that Rogerson's Bicycle Tyres are made from the smoothest Panama rubber and that if he complies with our little request we'd be more than happy to sponsor him in the upcoming tournament. He just has to eat the mustard. Has to get a good coal miner's handful and smash it up into his gums. Hoo Mabel, I need to see him eat that mustard with those big muscular hands! I want to see him cough and gurgle on the vinegary heat, yes, to see those athletic cheeks rosy up in playful agony. I want him to say "was that enough?" and then to tell him to keep shoveling the brown, keep ingesting that filth you filthy, filthy man! Mustard man, mustard man! That's what I'll holler! And he'll say "is this how you usually conduct business?" and I'll tell him it's the only way. Nothing says speed and determination like a man that can suck back repeated gobfulls of Keens English. It builds character. Makes a man a man. Beasts don't eat mustard - you can bet your bottom dollar on that sir! And once he finishes that mustard I'm going to kiss him on his big blistered lips and ask him to marry me! Ha!"

Also

Oliver also told me that the best way to masturbate was with "a piece of string tied in a loop and some soap".

Holy shit!

Boring town boring

I saw the best graffiti the other day. In a young defiant hand 'Girls suck. Tagging Rulz" was written on the bin of a neighbour.
That's probably the greatest way ever to get back at the girl you talked to once who now has a boyfriend. If she ever walks down the street on bin night she's going to regret not being your girlfriend but she'll be too late because tagging is the only mistress you'll ever worship! Ha. Girls! Tagging rulzzzzzz.

One time when I was 16 my friends and I fashioned a three hosed bong out of a four litre plastic bottle and some irigation tubing. We sat cross legged in a circle with my dog on the floor of my parents shed and made our way through a dinner plate of leafy weed. About halfway through we decided it was time to take it to the next level, to get into some harder stuff, something South American. I went inside and returned with a jar of Nescafe instant coffee. It didn't really burn too well and tasted like bitter bitter plastic. It was almost as bad as the time we smoked panadol. Or the time we peed in a bottle and then poured it in a letterbox. Why didn't we just pee in the letter box? It seems so much more perverse decanting from a bottle.

I didn't actually do that though (the bottle pee crime). A kid called "Oliver" did. He was a weird weird kid. He had a permanent bowl cut and always wore a 'parker' and played nothing but early Mac shareware games. He used to go continental delis and buy logs of marzipan and eat it like a chocolate bar. He was a year older than me but hung out with my little brother. They played Magic the Gathering and talked about orks. As he got older he became more perverse in his behaviour. My friend Chris 'Lizard' Howe and I wrote him a fake love letter from the girl down the road and hoped he'd go and see her and get punched by her brother.

The letter probably went like this:

"Dear Oliver,

I can't stop thinking about you. I really love you but haven't been able to tell you to your face. I really, really want to kiss you. And probably do sex to you.

Please eat the chocolate.
Love,
Colleen xoxox"

I attached a chocolate and sprayed the letter with my dad's deodrant so it smelt like a beautiful lady. The chocolate was a super hot warhead that I had covered in chocolate that we melted in the microwave and then wrapped in alfoil so it looked like a real chocolate that wasn't a warhead covered in gooey half seperated chocolate. Hoo boy when he ate that chocolate he was going to get a hot surprise! The problem was that no-one in the whole world, not even marzipan and Dad's nicorette chewing gum chomping Oliver, would eat it. It's dodgy alfoil packaging signaled 'danger' in the same way a number plate that says 'w8n . 4u' shouts 'bog lapping paedophile'.

Oliver didn't eat the chocolate. He didn't go to the girls house either. It was quite a letdown. He had my measure.

He peed into a Sunkist bottle. The pee was orange. Orange!

Green Room

I'm raw, roughage raw.

Le' Baromater

Hot chillies that are supposed to be hot but are not hot are not hot. How come the chillies one buys from supermarkets never seem to be hot, they're more like stunted capsicums. It's like drinking mid-strength beer from a plastic cup or trying to give yourself a golden shower. You're left flat and damp wanting some full force abuse. I ate a Laksa a few months ago that made my eyes sweat and almost gave me an anaphylactic reaction. I was constricting and spacing. It was made more awesome by the fact that I was dining with company could tell them that the laksa was extremely hot but not too hot for me, but would probably kill normal people, but you know I could actually have it hotter. Oh yeah I eat zimbabwean bird's eyes for breakfast like I just need things hot you know like I could probably drink two litres of tom yum and like ten tablespoons of chili paste and still be like 'that wasn't hot at all' and then get on my motorbike and actually jump a bus and you'd be amazed and i would be like "what? Haven't you seen me do that before? I do it all the time" and then I would smoke a cigarette in one draw and put the butt out on my tongue.

I have heard so many wankers talk of their chili prowess. A guy asked the girl behind the counter at the noodle bar down the road to "make sure it's really hot. Like make it as hot as you think is hot and then make it hotter." He had those fucked euro/slip thongs on.

When I was in primary school, my best friend and I found an old microwave that someone had dumped on the schools compost mountain. As soon as we saw it we picked up big sticks and ran to it. We started beating that microwave with a wizzfizz of pre-teen violent enthusiasm. A teacher with a big grey beard and short-shorts heard our howls and ran to douse the flames before a full scale white-good bash riot broke out across the oval.

He said that he didn't have a microwave at his house but he was pretty sure that "the nuclear material inside made people infertile". We stopped immediately. For at least a year after I was pretty sure I would either get ball cancer or AIDS from the drink fountain.

Prune Walker

I was thinking last night that it would be unfortunate to be someone who really liked eating prunes. Nobody would believe you. If I come over to your house and open the fridge to get a beer (check me out - drinking beer!) and saw a jar or bag of prunes I would say "Not getting enough fibre eh?" and raise my eyebrows like the self assured tosser I can be.

"That's not why I have them. I love the taste. I eat them with natural yoghurt for desert" You would say. And it would be true. You really liked prunes and find them to be delicious. The thing is I wouldn't believe you. I'd think that you were probably one of those people that ate nothing but meat and cheese and couldn't crap. That's what I'd think and all your "prunes are tasty!" wouldn't change my mind. Next time I saw you I would puff out my cheeks until my face went red and go "Uhhhhhhhhh!" You would call me a dickface and would be well within your rights but it wouldn't bother me as I "know" you're constipated and will continually refer to it everytime I see you eating.

Also, most days I walk my dog in the time period between 9 in the morning and 3 in the afternoon. There are two schools in walking distance but I constantly avoid walking by them as I feel like I would look dodgy. Because everyone that walks a dog past a primary school must be a kiddy fiddler right?

Observations in the central north of central Perth. Key of P sharp. All rights reserved.

The other day I saw a well fed man with a pure white well-brushed ponytail. His head was round and kind of looked like a rolled roast that has been soaked for several hours in cheap wine. His pudgy fingers were strangled by a couple of rings. A couple of times I saw him remove the hair tie from his mane, shake the pony tail out and then retie tighter. I'm not sure if he felt that by cranking up a few levels of tightness he'd get some sort of facelift effect. He really paid that ponytail a lot of attention. He was stroking it and tossing it side to side. He was really proud of it.

His girlfriend didn't seem to have the same affection for it. She didn't seem to have any interest in him either. She was quiet and seemed to look off into the distance perhaps embarrassed by "Tony's" constant tail tugging. It was almost as if he was a 15 year old boy at home alone with a K-Mart underwear catalogue. He felt no shame and continued to pleasure himself quite eagerly.

Remember in the early 90's a ponytail was seen to be the marker of a successful yuppie? Like a SAAB convertible and a ponytail were the pinnacle of wankerness. The ponytail has somehow shifted its position in the world and is now really only the property of fuzzy teenage metalheads and a few perverse individuals. It's completely understandable. This guy looked like the kind of man who would happily drink the juice from a jar of pickled onions and proudly tell potential girlfriends it was his famous French soup. The kind of man that softens butter in the hairy folds of his favourite undies. The kind of man that borrows a toothbrush and calls dogs "sexy". The kind of man that would lick the soles of his shoes clean and sell them as "new with tags" on ebay and then tell his brother that business is booming. The kind of man that would shake John Howard's hand.

Ponytails. Actually, maybe just this specific ponytail. I'm not sure.

Jazz Master Mellon: Mustard Mountain

I've been untouchable for the last four days. Nothing phases me. I'm in an inpenetrable bubble full of ego gas and love buzz. For on thursday night my friends, I tasted the syrupy amber of success. I, along with four other degenerates, managed to win a quiz night at a local cocktail serving establishment. I know you're thinking that the other teams must have been composed of equal parts seat sniffer and remedial english participants but they weren't. I saw at least two using knives and forks and one guy even had a suit on - if that's not worthy opposition I don't know what is.

There was one guy with a pretentious hat and a laptop who spent the whole night video-chatting with some tool in America. "Haha! Oh yes. There's a question about movies. I love movies. I've got a leather jacket and a pretentious hat. Tell me your sniffing a lot of good seat in Wisconsin." Beating him boosted my already unnaturally large and unwarranted smugness to a level somewhere between spa farter and engineering student.

We won $100 worth of Little Creatures dollars. Each team member got a $20 voucher. I'm never cashing mine. I'm going to keep it in my wallet. I'm sure if I turn up at the airport tomorrow and try and board the next flight to Paris sans ticket and le passporto they'll wave me through to first class on first glance of my winning checque. I'm not going to stop at red lights or zebra crossings either- no bloody way. I'm putting the pedal to the metal and will fly through at 50kms an hour. Cops don't hassle bad mofos with paper qualifications. I'm basically a doctor. A doctor of quizzes.

Man, I am a tosser.


But a wealthy one. That's 20 Australian dollars by the way. Yeah the old green backs, the old Francs. I got them. 20 bucks. What a day, what a day.

Ethnography. Crow Magnum Man

For the last two weeks there's been painters at my house. They've started work a couple of times and left because of bad weather or to start another job. Only two rooms are getting painted. Today I came home to find them out the back painting away listening to the shittest FM radio ever cranked impossibly loud. The painter tried to talk to me about cricket over the strains of Nickleback singing about date rape and living like there's no tomorrow (which I guess they use for an excuse for the former).

I know nothing about cricket so I said "oh/yeah/ha" at regular intervals each time the painter said "They said Australia dominated/ top batting order/should have played more fasts on that pitch". He's from England and plans on giving every person that talks about cricket a hard time. I heard him fart quite loudly. I think this is his way of letting the neighbourhood know that his boys won the most boring sport in the world. A few chords on the colon trumpet is the best way to celebrate victory. He said if England won the world cup he would 'shit his pants'. I assume this is a one upping of the celebratory fart. English people have some weird customs.

He's gone now and I can't really tell if the house is finished or not. I think if I ring him up he'll say "Of course it is mate. Wot was you finking it wasn't then? Well it is. Don't make me come over there and give you a kicking wiv me trainers". He has a shaved head and is English. That makes him a soccer hooligan. It's the rules.

Super Emo Lonesome Friday Night

Fizzzz I wish. I wish for fizzzz.

"I've come to plead for you to throw down you hair. Drop down your curls. I need to get up there. I want to squish grapes on your neck and trace out ghosts on your belly in watermellon. I want to suck your eyelids and tongue your nostrils. I killed a lizard. A beautiful lizard. My heart is full of guilt. It's sinking deep within me. That's got to be worth something. Got to be worth a soft strand. I need your hair. I need to be drinking champagne in my underwear. I need your silk."

More of Me, Less TV part Deux

More of me.

TEEN JIZZ WIZARD JAZZ MASTER 12

Look at my cool new sunglasses. I'm the Henri Matisse of bifocals except I'm not wheel chair bound and can't speak Franch. These are shit for driving. Millions of dead cops.

"Wristcutters" and "Good Dick" also worth a squiz

Someone wrote that in the comments when I discussed the filum Beautiful Kate which you should see.

I like it. '"Good Dick".

"Hello DVD rental attendant. I have driven here in my car. Hooo the price of petrol has gone up I have noticed as I work at a job and pay for the petrol which my car uses. I don't suppose you have Good Dick. I need to see it. Give me Good Dick. I really want it. Oh don't be coy. Give it to me NOW!"

Also, who ratted me to the Vegan Death Cult? It's eating me up like golden staph eats the pale inner thighs of drunk reef walking tourists in French Polynesia.

God I love you.

The Bull Twang and the Pea

Recently I've been getting my haircut at a barber. Like an old school barber with a proper chair, weightlifting magazines and pictures of Elvis. The guy touches your haircut up with a hot cut-throat razor. After I get my hair cut I feel like going out and busting a cop in the keester and then speeding off on my motorbike (which I will probably do a sweet wheelie on and a wicked skid).

The best part though is talking to the barber. He's not that old - probably mid thirties, and he likes to talk filth. This really appeals to my interests. There is nothing I enjoy more than talking bull twang. The barber told me that his mate, who is littler than him I may add (he showed me where he came up to him - only the chest), drank 4 beers an hour on Grand Final day from 10 in the morning until 12 that night and wasn't even drunk. Yep, he said he was sober. I enjoyed this snippet of bull twang.

The barber went on to tell me that the guy was really fit and had a weight room in his back shed with a 40inch television that supposedly plays music videos while he works out. The barber said this was untrue. He said that he knows that he watches porn on it. The weightlifting friend said that he doesn't and that he had never masturbated. The barber thought this was a preposterous notion. "He locks that door so his daughters don't walk in on him stroking it. It's bullshit, especially when you're younger you're like 'what does this thing do?' my sons three and he's always pulling it out. I said 'you're going to be a flasher when you grow up!' he's always pointing it at the girls. There's a lot things you do when you're three that would get you locked up if you did them as an adult." I agreed. If you crapped your pants in the freezer section of Woolworths as a 25 year old Colin Barnett would probably have you thrown in jail without a trial.

He said that he'd discussed his friends outlandish claims of self chastity at the casino with a group of friends. His wife said she had never done it either and "my cousin who talks about it all the time, he doesn't care who's is around, was like 'What? You don't ever flick your pea?".

So I got a new dirty phrase 'flick your pea' (I'm not sure if I'll be able to say this ever though. It sounds pretty wrong. I guess the wronger they are - the better). I also got a haircut and had a chat about colostomy bags or "a bag for an arse" as the barber said. Win win situation.

Charles Barkley

Charles Barkley would be a good name for a pug.

I think I know where Elvis lives.

In the desert. Or actually in a hotel in Manjimup. One of those.

Waste

It's recently been curbside waste collection in my suburb. All along the streets were piles of crap that people were throwing out. I was amazed at how many mattresses were lying dead and gutted on front lawns. Some of them were so old and abused It seemed humanly impossible that someone would ever have slept on them. The large number outside a couple of houses obviously advertised that they were backyard brothels. In fact I'm sure there would have to be at least seven within walking distance. These mattresses looked like they'd had numerous tax free sins performed around the clock upon their sheetless plains. I will have to move. I don't know if I can sleep easy knowing that my neighbours are running handjob parlours.

The best thing about waste collection is watching tarago vans full of pony tailed youths cruise the street looking for outdated computers and walking machines. Oh and the chubby professionals with trailers full of heaters with their chords cut off and assorted seat less bicycles.

Do you know you can get a KFC loyalty card? You can! I just saw it on TV. Who the hell would want that?
"Hey baby I got me one of them KFC credit cards. I'm gonna buy us some of them zinger cakes! Then we're going to have sex. That's my plan. I got plastic monies".

Beautiful Song

Song really sums up how I'm feeling right now. Buy shares in Lori Music. She'll be big.

Beautiful Kate

I can't stop thinking about this movie. I was a little buzzed but it seemed to leave an indelible mark. I suggest you view it. It's deep.

One more thing

All real estate agents are snakes. Stomp them out.

The Things a Man Learns in 25 Years of Life. JAZZ MASTER 7

I spent the first 4 hours of today vomiting sporadically. Drink water. Sit on couch for 15 minutes. Run to toilet. Sppeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwwwww!! I learnt that I'm quite vocal. On that last wretch when all you are is battery acid and burnt tyres I go "ahhhhhhhhhhhhh" and then probably 'aww jezusssss". I went outside to pat the dog and yacked while wearing sunglasses. I'm pretty sure Bill Clinton did that once. Then he played the sax and boned his secretary. Allegedly.

When you're on your knees in the bathroom or lying on the floorboards looking at the ceiling you wonder what a man learns in 25 years of life.

Not a lot.
Not a lot.

Also, that Vegan Death Cult letter is for real. I didn't forge that shit. I know who did though. And you're going to taste dance floor justice. 100 Demons style.


(Whatever that means)

Also, MAY NOT, actually know who sent that letter but I do know it has to be someone which probably could be you if I thought about it, which, my friends, I have.

Too many commas? They're cheap. I like to sprinkle, them, liberally,. Like, Colin, Barnett, sprinkles Rohypnol, on, his own, breakfast, of goat yoghurt, and , sea, gull, eggs.

Kewpie Mayonnaise Love Buzz

For the bed bug bite fans, another banger, three days in. I'm more rugged and raw than Wu-Tang. I'm the welt king, crown me Prince Pustule, rub me down with ointment and pump me so full of antihistamine that I day sleep through a whole week and my cheeks glow warm. The bites are still hanging round although I don't look so leperish- more like a 5 year old with a belly full of chicken pox.

You know somedays I listen to Nirvana Bleach over and over again. Sometimes I walk to the fridge over and over again and there's still no food so I squeeze a length of Kewpie mayonnaise on my fingers and eat it. And I get all momentarily buzzed on the amazing complexity of this fabulous Japanese mayonnaise. Then I feel sick. Fucking sick.

I'm so itchy. Bloody hell.

Vegan Death Cult Retribution : Cult Strikes Back

Friends,
The Vegan Death Cult is on to me. They've found out about my spotlight of justice. I can smell their soy based mock meat breath around each corner.

I arrived home the other day to find this (click the picture to enlarge and read)




Apparently I've made a donation to their evil cause. They also sent me a DVD to enjoy with my friends and family. Even if I smoked angel dust and drank a backyard hose length of Captain Morgan's Carribean Vomit Rum, I'd never find myself willingly parting with my scarce funds to support Grand Master Ching Hai's bid to enslave mankind in some sort of snuggy wearing chickpea flatulence feudal utopia.

I've been set up, ratted out, turned upon. The Vegan Death Cult obviously has many eyes, more eyes than a spider (which as many twelve year olds will tell you - has more than seven eyes). Some brainwashed Ching Hai sex slave has impersonated me and donated on my behalf. This is character assassination, defamation, pickle-fixing, libel and slander salamander.

So now VDC knows where I rest my head at night. They're probably driving by my house in a white tarago as a type this. I can see it now, four cult members dressed in tracksuit pants and sandals, and matching Supreme Master TV T-shirts. Each shirt marked with a different shade of glutenous muck.

Oh they want to shut me up, they want to scare me into silence, but not this time, oh not this time. I'm going to turn the spotlight up to extrabright (flick the switch from the one dot setting to the two dot setting!). VDC; you're days are numbered.

Also, I'm probably not going to watch you're DVD, well I probably will but It's not going to work. My torch has many batteries and my pen publishes the truth.

ALSO, ALSO, who signs a letter off with a photo of themselves talking on a mobile phone?

Blood and Guts and Fat Kidz.

I have a shirt I bought in Japan that i'm not sure about. Sometimes it looks like an old man's hanky.

I saw a fat 11 year old kid riding high in the saddle on a mountain bike that was way too big for him. He was pretty much a ranga. He had a shirt that said "Shit happens". I figure he was probably wearing it as a nod to 1994. He was next level.

Also, I was browsing an online recipe website and followed their links to 'Top blogs' and found this :

By *eclectRicity*

A Pregnant Pause...

Jul. 19, 2009 9:21 pm
Updated: Jul. 22, 2009 8:03 pm
Woo-hoo, I did it! I made LTH's second best brownie cupcakes, which for some odd reason I want to call Pregnant Cupcakes. I wonder why that is...

I used Betty Crocker fudge brownie mix and Duncan Hines Red Velvet cake mix.
I did make a few changes... in the brownies I omitted the oil, eggs, and water, and used a mashed banana and 3 tablespoons of mayonnaise. I know that sounds kinda weird, but it worked great and I don't have to worry about partially cooked eggs. And in the cake mix I used the substitution of applesauce for the oil, except I substituted a banana for the applesauce. Okay, so I like bananas! And I frosted them with my Creamy Coconut Cream Cheese Frosting that's in AR Purgatory - basically butter, cream cheese, coconut milk, flavoring, salt, and powdered sugar. I thought it might be easier to pipe the frosting on than to spoon it on... easier, yeah, if you make a habit of wrestling engorged, disembodied cow udders (I maybe should have made a half recipe of my frosting, LOL).

I took pictures of my journey. I apologize for the quality; I had to take them with my cell phone (and I'm not that hot a photographer to begin with).

Ewww, looks like a bowlful of cake blood being offered up to the kitchen gods.



A tray full of surrogate cupcake moms, implanted with their brownie babies.


Look, it's Octo-Mom plus one!

Man. Mayonaise in a cake? WHYTHEFUCKWOULDYOUDOSOMETHINGLIKETHAT? Oh, I know so you don't have to worry about partially cooked eggs. Of course! Don't worry about cracking a dozen eggs for your next pavlova. You can just use a big jar of Praise Mayonaise and a few cups of sugar. Eggs/ Mayonaise - same thing.

Also: wrestling engorged, disembodied cow udders
I look at her face and when I read this. I'm pretty sure she's one of those women that tries to steal babies. Look at the pictures of the gooey red brownie orgy. You know she's planning on some kind of home c-section atrocity.

And this:
Cupcake C-Section


She's going to cut someone up. I've warned you.

Also, she uses LOL. Case closed.

Science. I'm doing it. Science.

Swine Flu Code

I'm listening to Mudhoney. And Cass McCombs. He's got the croons, he's got the honey.

Happy Birthday Bryn

You are truly a prince among degenerates.

fuck it. Ice cream

Japan was rad

Everything ruled. Except for bed bugs in Kyoto. I took some out but ultimately lost the war. If Tokyo had waves I could probably live there. For a while at least. Best food, beer, feel.