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?