I see bad breath spreading it's spores

I see them rolling the freeway in their people movers with reindeer antlers and rude red noses. I see them drinking red bull and eating nanna's cream cheese slices. I see them at the shops hopping from one pudgy thonged foot to another. I see them swerving for carparks. I see them push through the doors. I see them everywhere. It's you and me. We've arm ourselves. Lets eat deep of the 'spicy' foods and roll the streets at night. It's nearly the only time for us now. They're taking up all the space, rolling out kooch and blocking our paths. There's a bloody war going on.

The little kid next door called me a lady. I was walking the bin out for collection and she stepped out from her carport. "Look mum I can see the lady!" she yelled. "The lady looked at me!"

Kid is clearly a mental.

Growing Pain Cakes

The strains of youth are the ones that you feel in your legs and stomach when something goes wrong. Like perhaps you may have set up an ingenious prank but something went wrong. A kid’s mum has rung your house because her son was dumb enough to fall for your ingenious prank and somehow ingested all those laxatives you filled their choc-milk with (I mean who doesn’t stop sipping when they get a chunk in their milk?) and they glugged on the apple juice (pee) with the note that said “Apple Juice- drink me. Tasty”.  And now you’re mum is knocking on your door and you’re crawling into your wardrobe. And she wants you have a ‘meeting’ with the kid’s family and you consider holding your breath until you pass out and hopefully hit your head on the way to the ground and wake up in hospital with no responsibilities except drinking real apple juice. All because some kid was dumb enough to think you were nice.

I still get these pains. When the phone rings. My heart thinks it’s my landlord hoping to make an appointment at my house which will probably lead to him chucking me out.

I’ve been killing time, slouched back under the coldest air-con you can imagine. Some dummkopf is sitting behind the off white laminate of the front desk with the 'cold knob' cranked down colder than Canadian coins. It’s summer outside and I’m in here with a cardigan on and a contracted scrote. Whilst reading I've warmed myself with the plight of other humans. There's been a few stories online about the big banks(the big ones, that's what we call them now. The Big Banks) and poor customer service. I've been reading the comments of a news story on this very subject. Every Shelley and Steven with too much time on their lazy pale hands has vented their bloated spleen on the deterioration of service in 'modern Australia'. No more smiles, no more apologies, no more friendly tug-jobs behind the chippy for bringing in some lemons you stole off the nextdoor neighbours tree. The nameless keyboard fat finger mashers have been giving it to Centrelink, Vodafone, Telstra, and random carpet places in suburban New South Wales. These places have let is slip slop apparently. But they're not the worst. Not by a stretch mark. The worst public service you'll ever catch is from the tired teens who get greased at McDonalds (allegedly). 

Exhibit A:

“....managed to spill half the fries out onto the counter in the process of placing them there and made no move to put them back in. I paused and then politely asked her to put my food in a bag which resulted in me being given a dirty look (well, MORE of a dirty look than the scowl already there -- hey, it's not my fault that's the best job you can find). I complained to the McDonalds website. 2 years later I'm still awaiting their response. And after all that, the food was mediocre.”

SHE COMPLAINED ON THE MCDONALDS WEBSITE TWO YEARS AGO AND STILL HASN'T RECEIVED A RESPONSE! SHE WAITS EVERY DAY. REFRESHES EVERY MORNING. ENDLESSLY. WHEN WILL MCDONALDS GET THEIR ACT TOGETHER. THAT'S NO WAY TO TREAT A CUSTOMER. SPILT HALF THE FRIES! AND THE FOOD WAS MEDIOCRE! BLOODY DOG HELL SHIT MOTHER PISS!

Exhibit B:

McDonalds. When they finally get around to serving me, 8 times out of 10 they get the order wrong. Most of their service staff is rude these days -- I hate the cliche, but it's true - a smile costs nothing. And it is infinitely better than the near-scowl I often see these days. Their ingredients get worse every day (hey, McDonalds, stop trying to deny the meat portions are shrinking -- we're not morons. And don't try to pass off that half-empty thing with one piece of lettuce as a "wrap". Just because it is only named after the container doesn't mean you don't have to put something INSIDE of it). And what little there is to the Big Mac these days tastes like it was chewed up and spit out into a soggy, tasteless mass.

THEY SHRUNKED THE MEAT PORTIONS. WE ISN'T MORONS! WRAPS ARE FOR PEOPLE LIVING IN DEFACTO RELATIONSHIPS - WILL NOT TOUCH MY LIPS! YUCK! AND A SMILE COSTS NOTHING! SO SMILE WHEN I COMES IN IN MY RUGGER SHORTS AND SAY "STOP SHRINKING THE PATTY PORTIONS! I AM NOT A MORONS!" SPIT! THAT'S ME CHEWING UP BURGER AND SPITTING IT ON GROUND. IT'S SOGGY AND BAD!

Congratulations Boy Prince of England and Royal Girlfriend

I've been sticking these up around my hood. Some anti-monarchist keeps pulling them down. Why can't they join in as we celebrate the union of two young lovers? I am so looking forward to the wedding. Can't wait to see what Kate wears! Hopefully Harry keeps his nose clean! No SS uniforms! Oh it will be a ruddy good day that's for sure!

It seemed funny at the time. In hindsight- meh.

Anyway, I'm going to start a band called Boy Prince of England. 

Money Bagging

Guy down the road was watering the lawn in his speedos the other afternoon. I thought "Geez mate, there's only a thin lycra pouch  between your ballbag and the outside world".

Who's the sicko in this situation. Me? Him? Probably him. He was watering his already verdantly green lawn like some kind of water wasting exhibitionist.  He was channeling those 'little boy' fountain statues that backyard comedians point to repeatedly at family barbecues.

I went home and ate some chorizo and dreamt of figs.

I finished my course. I'm legal now. If you want me to design the cover of your next record, work on the inlays of a set of limited edition sneakers, or need me to photoshop boobs onto your brothers photo - get at me.  Just set me up with some hardwood floors, some Euro furniture, a new Mac, Italian coffee and leave me in charge of iTunes and you have a deal.  Not much. Also partial to a clean black T-shirt and atlantic salmon each day.

Wild pack of family dogs

I love you

I truly do

Milky Man Mega

There was half drunk bottle of milk in the toilets today . Some guy had left it on the bench "Can't walk out drinking milk. That would look disgusting!" But the truth is, and I'm using detective skills here, he drunk it on the toilet. Yeah, got a big mouthful of moo juice as he strained to evacuate his bowels of Mum's fish-finger lasagna (fish fingers, cream cheese, tomato sauce, corn chips). That's right - this constipated hooligan had sucked back on a bottle of milk in between long audible grunts.

"Argggghh, sip, sip, arghhhhhhhh, sip, sip"

Graver sounds a sane man (you and me and most girls) could not imagine. What kind of swollen teen feels the need to re-fuel while they're draining the sump (hahaha. I know heaps about cars. The sump tank is where all the spent energy from the petrol goes. It manifests itself as rich unctuous treacle goop).

"Just a spoonful of milky makes the evil come out" is the song he sung at the top of his lungs as he defiled himself and the rest of humanity. What a boy. Actually maybe it was an older man. Like a guy in saggy tracksuit pants with Russian hair. I mean communist hair. Like it's been rolled out in some kind of program. Stick your big cauliflower head over the board and Niklos will take to it with the cabbage secateurs. One of those accidently-on-purpose haircuts that sits on the head all plompy in the wrong places and ends abruptly near the ears. Yeah, maybe he walked into the toilet sipping the milk (got some on his fat chin). Looked in the mirror, drunk some more milk, sniffed through his fat red nostrils, drunk some milk, scratched the dropped crotch of his trackies, drunk some more milk. Decided to try for a wee. Could not achieve wee. Huffed. Got angry. Put milk on bench. Looked at self in mirror. Huffed. Walked out with the hope of being able to urinate as soon as he made it home. Friendly surrounds. Makes the fountain flow. No problem. Didn't need to go before. Oh fuck the milk. Should i go back to get it? Probably should. It had a disolved mint lolly in it. Tasted good. Special mint milk. If I can achieve a wee I'll stay home.


Yeah so anyway, some guy drank milk in the toilets. And I know who it was. I'm on to you. You're either a kid or a guy. Watch out milky - I'm the fourth estate,

DK took my baby away, they took him away, away from me

I remember when my little brother came home from school with a Dead Kennedys 'Too Drunk To Fuck' shirt on. My mum said "You're too young for either of those things!" and made him take it back to the shop. He was pissed off. It was the Dead Kennedys Mum! It's a song! But she would not have her little cherub walking around proclaiming he was drinking and sexing or rather that he was so into drinking he couldn't even achieve the sexing. I'm not sure if what actually happened to the shirt but I never saw him wear it again. The law had got the punx down once again.

I made an observation today (probably the start of a thesis or a letter to Dolly Doctor). There seems to be a million girls with weird fingernail things. Like they have long nails but they're only coloured on the bit that extends past the finger. It kind of looks like they've got a bunch of gunk stuck under their nail, like they've destroyed toilet paper with their claws and now have fecal matter crammed in their nails. You would probably get hepatitis if they gave you a massage.

Aggh Aghh Arrrr

If you drink enough coffee you can basically see the future. This is pure, unadulterated fact. Total fact.

Smash like 7 espressos before twelve and tell me you don't feel the powers forming under your skin and inside your eyeball. That twist in your guts, that rumble deep inside, that's super powers forming. It's changing your DNA. All renovations are painful. Like I renovated my car once. It had rust so I got these tin snips out and cut the rust out. Then i filled the holes with newspaper and cardboard and pasted over the whole mess with some 'plastic cement'. Then I sprayed the new bumpy bits with enamel paint and got some on my windows. Needless to say the car looked like it had had facial surgery on an overseas plastic surgery package deal or had been violently assaulted by a metal rapey wasp that stung cars and made them look like they had hives.

Renovations, and/or morphing, is painful. Take my new haircut for example. It looks like I'm wearing a Russian hat. Short back, no sides and some kind of burger flipping hat of hair on top. Seriously bad. The normal barber was cutting some old dudes white bits and I had to settle for his colleague who is only meant to be there on THURSDAYS. I almost walked out to take an urgent-financial matter-accident phone call to avoid her hacking. But I wussed out. I sat it out and then considered slowly crashing my car into the back of a truck on the way home so I could wake up in hospital and have a legit excuse for having the haircut of a career printer salesman.

Anyway, down the brown. Listen to the fastest music you can find. Hate everyone that gets in your way. Next level powers. You can watch shows before they're even on TV. Close your eyes and you can hear Bart's quips about the length of Rod Flanders' pants in the new episode which will be about basketball and waffles and will feature a part about American butter and a joke about Qantas.

Slow Train Blues Forever and Ever

24 Eleven

I'm the busiest I've ever been at the moment. I'm burning the midnight foil and the candle at both bends.

Recommend me some hard raps to blast at one in the morning or some ambient drone to hypnotise at two.
Get at me suckerfish.
xoxo

Hay Feverus

It's swooping season. I may be a little bit paranoid but I've got a feeling that the birds are out to get me. There may be some rumours flying around that I am scared of birds. These rumours are malicious and total unfounded. I'm not scared. I just don't happen to like birds or being anywhere near them. That's why I get edgy when they come too close when I'm eating outside or run until I get to my car when I walk through a park. I'm angry at them and feel I may say something that I may regret later on when I'm in the bath and thinking about ways to get muscly that don't involve lifting heavy things or exercise.

Birds seem to try and exert this one flaw in my character. The other day a mudlark (a poorman's magpie if ever there was one(and there is- it's a mudlark or skunk of the sky as they are commonly known in my front yard by me)) tried to bring it as I was walking out my drive way. It squawked something really dumb and tried to get all up in my amazingly amazing hair. Luckily I was carrying a carton of beer (because I am a total maddog) and was able to hoist it above my head and duck and crab walk through the park to my friend's house otherwise I might have looked strange. It's like the bronx out here. Or like bronchitis. So much pollen that my eyes cry real tears.

Everyday I'm Hufflin and Pufflin

A guy ran past me. He lifted his knees high and dodged old ladies, weaved through kids with rat's tails and bogans in fluro work wear. When he got to the escalator he stopped dead still and waited to reach the top. I walked up the stairs and beat him to the top. (I walk up stairs two at a time. It's so fast. Sometimes I get motion sickness when I reach the top I'm so fast. This is manifested in heavy breathing and forehead sweat). As soon as the escalator flattened out into it's final conclusion the passenger ran off again. Maybe walking on escalators was considered bad manners in his household. Maybe as a boy during dinner after a trip into the city his dad had a quiet word in his ear "Son, I noticed you began walking on the escalator today. I don't want to see that again. An engineer spent years refining his work, making marvelous steps that tinkle their way up to heaven. Walking on escalators disrespects the toil and torment that went into their design. It's like saying 'thanks but I'd rather walk'. It's not the right type of behaviour for a Bellahussen. That's why I always say thank you to traffic lights when they go green. I'm at once both recognising the wonderful job they're doing, an often thankless job, and paying my respect to the genius that invented these fabulous post-bound traffic plods. Now come here and give me a kiss. No tongue. That wouldn't be appropriate."

I ventured to the northest north of Perth and came back alive. On the entry to the freeway that whisked back into greener pastures I saw a sign. It was handwritten in the scrawling hand of a goldchain wearing drunk. It pronounced "I Buy Houses FAST! Call me on 02927123087313". It seemed like a good deal. You have a house you want to sell. You call Marcus and he drives over fast. You say "would you like to have a look around?"

"No time!" he says and twitches his fingers. It's not often you've seen someone wear a business jacket, shirt, tie and tennis shorts.

"I'm looking at ...." You say but Marcus interjects.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll take it"

"You'll take it?"

"Today! I've got my stuff in the boot. Give me a hand with the boxes"

"But I haven't.."

And Marcus marches in with an old cardboard box full of liquor and dog-eared porno mags.

He can't pay today. Or the next week, even next year. But he's bought your house alright. Yeah he's got an idea and it's going to make a ton of clams. Big money. Steak money! Crayfish money! Thai suits money! So could you leave? He'll sort out the paperwork over the next couple of months.

I'm getting older every day and my dreams seem so far away. A short poem.

Today has been the most boring day of my whole entire life. I started thinking and have come to the conclusion that I may have peaked in primary school. That's when I was at the top of my powers. Glory days.

I passed a bus full of old people that had "You've got a lot of living to do" across the side which is basically code for "You've got a lot of living left to do" which is basically code for "You haven't got a lot of living left to do".

I read the Bunbury paper today. The letters were exceptional. I think they were written by toads who have somehow gotten a lift up to a keyboard from an old Lions club retiree. One of the letters bemoaned the sale of Bunbury's prime beachside real estate to 'Chinese interests"! Oh no. The world is done for. Might as well drink that communal Kool-Aid and wait for the mothership. Prime real estate has been purchased by foreigners!!!!! The letter goes on to state that Barry (Toad name Bartelomush) had driven past the land for the last 20 years and had said "something needs to be done with that land". He'd had the foresight to drive past for 20 years and comment to his passenger "something needs to be done with that land" but nothing ever happened and now it's too late because 'Chinese interests' would be using it to control regional television and be putting chili in all our foods! Doomed. We are.

Fucking toads.

I have no reason to lie to you

If you're going to eat tuna (after lifting mass weights at the gym or humping couches*) you cannot go past Italian tuna. It's saltier and oilier than seal liver and will make your coat shine brighter than the light of Jesus.

I remembered something the other day. As I was traveling toward the light after my operation the nurse said "You're very lucky, you've got such long eyelashes". Then I said "I'M LIKE A GIRAFFE " and tried to pull a giraffe face. I actually did this. I had ice packs strapped to my face and a blood pressure monitor strapped to my leg.

I'm not sure what kind of hospital straps a blood pressure thing to someone's leg. Probably the same type of hospital that gives kids vasectomies when they come in to get their tonsils yanked and has bad custard. It was like opaque vaseline. Or some type of cheap breast implant. It almost smothered me.

Man I love you.


*Humping couches means lifting couches. My year four music teacher told me. She didn't really like me very much.

Dome Chromosome

I may have already mentioned this

You know when you've cut onions and your fingers smell like onion for four years afterwards?No matter how many times you wash and scrub them under boiling water the smell of le' onion still lingers. Like Daryl Somers hanging around the bins behind a cheesecake shop hoping to score a too ripe slice of yesterday's french vanilla fat flan - there's no getting rid of the pesky stench.

You might rub your nose and notice that your fingers still smell like onion. You sniff your fingers curiously.

You should never do this.

All it takes for one person to see and you're looking at jail time or indefinite exclusion from your mixed netball team/yoga class. To any passerby you look like some sort of sexual deviant that has either a) conducted some sort of digit based fiddling on another person or b) enacted some sort of digit based fiddling on yourself. There's no way way to make it seem casual. You're immediately a fiend who is savoring the waft of some filthy warm achievement.

If you screw up your nose at the scent of the onion it makes it look a million times worse. Actually, it's probably worse if you chuckle and say "It's still there!" There's no way out. You're locked in. Forever the seediest person ever.

Onions. What about them? (potential start of my standup routine. Then I'll point out the difference between men and women and end with something about something that didn't actually happen but I'll say it did. Raw comedy finalist. In the bag.)

I guess you don't want to be the sort of person that cuts onions with gloves though. I mean you'd probably look like an even greater sex pest (level 7 jizz wizard) if potential dining partners found used latex gloves all over the kitchen. What kind of shit have you been pulling? You think your dinner guests are going to be down for that jazz? You have some nerve buddy!

You're fucked. Might as well stay home and eat peanut butter out of the jar/make witch haus songs on garageband/cut your hair.

Latino Esse

The other day at work I received a phone call for a workmate who was away on leave.

The caller said "I really need to talk to her."

"She's not here", I said.

"Can you call her?" She asked in a really whingey voice that sounded like she was some sort of whinge bag that goes to Chicken Treat.

"She's on leave" I say. And then I add some latin to drive the point home "She's persona non grata".

I'm not sure why I did this. I thought it just fit. A quick search of wikipedia tells me that persona non grata means "an unwelcome person". Yeah that's what I meant. An unwelcome person. I got non gratitude from the persona on the other side of the phone though. Obviously not a person of the book like me.

Buzzed Cut

The other day someone tried to tell me that Tekken was better than Street Fighter. This person was my girlfriend. Yeah watching blocky faux 3D polygons go slow motion is way better than making E.Honda's hand look like he's having the most violent wank of 1994. Totally unrealistic and simplistic call.

This conversation reminded me of my favourite T-shirt. It's a Street Fighter shirt and it looks like it's been airbrushed. It has Blanka about to bash Chung-Li on it. He's already bashed Ryu and now he's going to bash her. Electrically. Around the outside it has all the other characters in various poses. I bought the T-shirt when I was ten from a massive petrol station some where in country Western Australia. It must have been huge because it still fits me. It was manufactured in 1993, all rights reserved Capcom. I have worn it every day (mostly at night) since last friday. That's almost a week. It is seriously the best T-shirt I have. But I only wear it inside my house.



I got some cold and flu drugs today. They're super drowsy ones. I went to sleep at 2.30 in the afternoon. I feel like I'm trapped in the new SALEM album. Or maybe in a drone. One of them.

Puke & Cry

I grew daikon radish. It's basically Spirited Away in my backyard. They're so full on that they're almost humanly impossible to eat. Tough as whales.




crowded

The Korean Burger

I had a burger today that was mainly mayonnaise. The patty was like a sweaty piece of liver that had leaked mayo all over the other inhabitants of the bun. I felt like some sort of sick-freak sucking at a wet tissue as I tried to glomp the whole sloppy mess down my guzzler. I mean, I love mayonnaise. I basically have sex with Kewpie such is my desire for the white-demon. But this was crazy over the top. Like the amount of thigh this chubby woman was showing on the train this afternoon. Holy manatee oh the humanity!

Lets not fuck around. I respect the burger maker. He gave me the real deal. Obviously he was a fiend. Some kind of strung-out egg-jam chuzzlepot. He'd worked himself up to a high level of tolerance. His liver was producing enough bile each day to rip and disperse fat like some sort of NASA grade detergent. I mean, his gall-bladder was the size of a blood orange. I could see a lump in his polo-shirt just south and to the right of his belly button. The guy was chasing 'clag-clag' harder than any man I've ever seen (this includes dead men). He thought I could hack it.

He thought I could take that eggy-jizz and digest. But I'm only used to small binges. I'm not a lifer. Just smash it every now and again when there's nothing else going. I couldn't take it. It made me feel like my organs were going to grease out of me in one foul schlooooop. I could feel small clouds of clag puffing themselves around my heart. I was fucked.

Swinging Appetites

Have you seen how manny shitty food blogs there are on the information superhighway? There is definitely more than 20 and they all seem to have these overexposed photos of some sloppy looking savoury panckae roll covered in a brown sauce that looks like it came fresh from the vein of a heavy-drinking porta-potty.

The worst is guys that take like twelve photos of their 'Special Nacho Recipe' and then list the amazing ingredients. "One tin of J.D. Flagellation's Mexicana Nacho Mix (try the 'texan hot' if you are feeling adventurous), one pack of Cheetos Cheez and Bakon Ballz (or you could use Oreos), one pack of Fiddly Phil's Down South Avocado Dip, one pack of shredded American Cheddah. Put in Microwave until cheez melts - can be up to 5 minutes. Eat with spoon. Mmmm, delicious homestyle cooking". And then I imagine they tell every girl they meet about how they are probably the best cook they know and how they must try their nachos one day but I can't give away the recipe as it's a secret. My mum told me before she died of constipation.

What's the best is looking at the photos on these blogs. Every single one looks like it was taken on swinger's night just before they got to the sex bit. Liked they'd liquored up, eaten a meal and made a bit of small talk, perhaps someone had said "I'm stuffed but still have room for some more" or something equally clever like "ooh that flan was delectable but what's for desert?" They'd say the last bit slow and all breathy. That's how you do the sex talk. So they've discussed the rules, worked out a safe word, and decide to take a few quick photos before they can finally get into the game.


"What a night, what a night!!! That's Jerry in the back there. Old Jerry had a bad back so he bought along one of those big inflatable balls. He had one of those leg braces on as well. It wasn't that sexy but I wasn't there for the guys anyway. And anyone who says I am is a liar."


"Warming up!!! No but seriously, she was a really good sport. A really good sport!"


"Wow, Fiji. These two lovely ladies were the talk of the Carnivale Night at the resort. Beautiful women, truly beautiful. Nancy is actually a cat vet and gave me some really good advice for draining Misty's abdominal cyst when I got home. Might catch her at the next gathering and see if she knows much about malting parakeets (read into this what you will LOL) but seriously - they were unstoppable!!!"



Townesville Swingers Forum. User Name :Clams





"these boys were truly unrelenting. I don't think I ever saw them sleep. They were up an about, knocking on doors at all hours of the night. We shared a very special experience on the last night."


*Of course this is satire. These people, they're all upstanding members of their respective communities. The photos just look dodgy.

Swollen Memories

I got my wisdom teeth yanked out. I feel like some guy that's licked an electric eel while getting face stomped by a chubby hooker (at reasonable prices). I look like shit. I am sick of soup and dairy based deserts. I want to eat yo.

Check the swell from this


to this 24 hours later


I admit I look like some kind of sex pest in the first photo but I look like a sex pest that collects model cars and watches 60 Minutes in the second one.
Spitting blood

Constant Bust

Peanut Butter. Back in my life. For some reason I haven't eaten peanut butter for like a million years. But I bought some the other day and now can't stop weezing the gloop. I'm an orange clag mouth hyped up on the thick nut butter. When I was about twelve I would spread peanut butter (or peanut paste as I tried to call it forever) so thick on bread that when I tried to eat it my oesophagus would basically be putty-filled and I couldn't breathe. It was a god damn rush. Living year 7 on the edge, not knowing if the next sandwich would kill me, hoping, hoping to lord vishnu that there'd be enough so good and milo in my glass to bust through the dam.

The great thing about peanut butter is that it's super energy rich. I saw these guys on tv who had dragged a cart across Antartica while growing beards and talking about girls. They said they'd survived on a diet of peanut butter and chocolate. 'Interesting' you say 'tell me more about chasing the yanky dollar'. Unfortunately I am not Anthony Robbins, I will say, and I have less money than a kid, the only advice I could give you would not to go on ebay when drunk. Especially when you're the competitive type. Fuck I've got this yellow gingham shirt that my girlfriend said I must never, never wear and a pile of old National Geographics (these actually rule. They've got pictures of guys holding a turtle with a cigarette in it's mouth and some dudes slicing up a whale). I also bought some primary school chalk and a piece of shit bike from a guy in Rockingham who was drinking beers at 10.30 am. Stay away from that shit.

The other great thing about Peanut Butter is that it's actually dangerous to a heap of people. Not you though. You're super tough. Remind yourself about this as you sit on the floor in your undies spooning it into your mouth with a makeshift lego spoon. You're basically going a few rounds with a cobra. You're taking life on. Screw Koshy and his morning diatribes, screw that old lady that keeps parking shopping trolleys in the grass across from your house (don't actually screw her unless you're some sort of actual sicko), screw the real estate skeletor who won't fix your shower. This is the real deal. Third eye open and all of that.

Gat Attic Ah

"Sticks and stones break bones but the gat 'll kill you quicker".

A gat is a type of cat that you train to fight battles for you. It's sort of like a Pokemon. In a battle it gets hot and goes "BUCKA!BUCKA!BUCKA!". If you want to be the king of raps you got to talk about gats. It's imperative. Start a gang, make sure everyone has a gat, and drive a jeep. Even if you're all packing cats (they fit in a bumbag) don't call the jeep the pussy-mobile because some young Don trying to claim your king of rap title will probably make reference to it at the next battle. The last thing you want is to be known as the guy who cruises with wimps.

Call your jeep a Whip. Like the chocolate bar that isn't a Mars bar but really sort of is but isn't. You call it a whip because it's for beating people and getting cream. Lots of cream. Gats love cream. And some yak as well. Yak is like Gack but tastes like blunts (blunts are round biscuits= no corners). Eat some yak and say 'yay' call your gat 'Beretty" and you will get paper (Archie comics).

94 Raw (almost a hundred steaks done extra rare)

S

Crab Country

I've just got back from a trip up north where the waves are big and old people drive massive caravans with television antennas really slowly. I saw a seal, a whale, expensive groceries and some of the strangest characters I have ever met outside . It is here that I will document them.

The first was a talker. Actually they were all talkers. Didn't need any prompting either. Just kept going and going and going like some sort of generous soothsayer, except it wasn't sooth they were saying, more like getting sprayed with a constant squirt from a bullshit uzi.

We met old mate from Byron while trying to fish out on a jetty. He said he'd only "been there for as long as it took to drink two beers which was ABOUT FIVE MINUTES!!!!!!HAHHAHAHAHAHA". It was made clear quite quickly that he was obviously an exceptional guy as he could drink beer fast and talk about fishing. He told me the tide was coming in when it was going out and then quizzed us on our choice of bait. He didn't seem to grasp that we had no idea what we're doing. Blah blah blah. Then he said he had to go and that we could hold his special spot until he returned when the big fish came in. I went there and almost got eye gouged repeatedly as some ranga kid who was out before sundown tried some sort of karate rod casting moves. His beret wearing mother almost lodged a lure in my nose as she flicked her rod around like a a chubby plumper trying to whip butterflies with some dental floss. There is no way you can catch a shark(which is what I was aiming for, a hammer head or a whale shark) between someone that actually chooses to wear a beret and a hyped up rang-ingitis sufferer. Old mate had given me a big slice of the dick pie. I cursed his name and hoped that he developed weeping sores in his armpits or his son grew up to be an active member of a university guild.

The second unsavory character was sunburnt. We met him on the jetty as well. It was obviously a hang out for bull twanging men searching for some extra marital bull twang. He told us everything that was "FUCKED" about everything. Except sometimes he forgot to finish his sentences. He just left them hanging.
Things that are FUCKED:
1. Boggy Bay. I'm not really sure where this is but apparently it's "FUCKED". Don't go there. "FUCKED".
2. The jetty we were standing on. He came there when he was 11 and it was 100 times better then. You could catch fish with 'big noses on them'. It's "FUCKED" now though.
3. Fisheries inspectors. They just check buckets and shit but they don't check every bucket and some guys tip their buckets out and if you turn your lights off you can get your boat through security and one time a guy dropped his gold watch and a crab took it and he fucking pissed himself mate.
4.Everything. It's all FUCKED IT'S A FUCKING JOKE FUCKED FUCK.
This guy scared me. He was all pink. And he talked shit.

The third guy kind of looked like a stalk. He was tall and skinny and his eyes were a little too far apart. I'll call him Stretch Polo Fleece. We were at a little campsite where some bogans had come to do burn outs around the lake and drive into all the bins. He wanted to join forces with us like Voltron in case shit got rough. Wise move. If there's one thing I'm rad at it's duking it out. I'm like a salmon. Anyway he started talking to us and then paused. Then he dribbled. A big mouthful of dribble and went "Ughhhh". Then he dripped to his knees and dribbled some more. Then he heaved. I thought he was about to make like a pokemon' and bulbasaur some parmesan queef all over my Wallabees (May not actually wear Wallabees. Ghostface!) He retained his composure and said "Do you guys take tablets? Don't ever take 'em." Sound advice. Then he said we may need to use our fist against the UDL drinking bogards. "I've got something better than fists, not that I'm afraid to use them, but I've got something much better".

Awesome! I was surrounded by dudes driving tonka trucks and chucking gas bottles into fires and some wierded out yack king packing heat. Sweet dreams.

I also saw a condom with spider man webs of gack on the lawn of a caravan park. I'm guessing ol' Spidey had some sort of danger mazz in between a flotilla of Winebagos. He's a sicko and should be killed. Who jerks it with a glove on?

Genetics

You know what's a good time killer when you're super bored and it's late at night and you should be asleep? Looking at threads about denim care on the Hypebeast website. Actually, it's really boring and tedious. Nerds from LA list about a thousand ways to care for you jeans so that they look like you don't care about your jeans.

If you're running something pretty basic VivismMocCrumb suggests you take a shower with the jeans on as soon as you get home. Then you've got to go for a run or a skate (rollerblade) with still wet pants to make sure they crease in the right places. Then you have to wear them until they're dry. If they smell like wet labrador- you're doing it right. You've set the culture into the jeans (like yoghurt) and they become a living organism. What VivismMocCrumb neglects to mention is that you should always get a handful of instant coffee and pack it around your junk as a form of deodrant. Never wear underwear. The granules of Nescafe will give you a nice subtle brown colour near the groin. This is desirable. It lets everyone know that you're a strong dark character. You shovel handfuls of the most expensive instant coffee around your most treasured possesions as though it's cheap dirt. The brown triangle will never go out of fashion. Word of warning- make sure you don't shove a handful down the back.

The other thing that's weird is selvedge. You must never ever wash it. Not for two years anyway. I tried this with some jeans I bought in Japan. I got to about 8 weeks and cracked. It was summer. Smelling like gooch doesn't do anyone any favours. SupremeFiendHongKong suggests you bury your jeans in warm peat for six months and then they're ready to wear to selected events.

Dickensian Digestive

I'm reading Martin Chuzlewit by Charles Dickens at the moment. It takes me back to a bygone era where you could hit poor people with a stick and make a girl fall in love with you simply by traveling to America and getting sick with the fevers. It makes me feel like taking a big glass of rum punch warm as Dickens advocates and toasting the cockles of me heart in front of the coke burner. I think I could be a count or something like that quite easily. All I would need would be some pointy leather boots and some French slacks and I could go around eating bully beef with hot mustard and kicking people that aren't as fancy as me. 'Oh my countenance!' I would say and then lay the boot into small children, puddingly larder maids, and misely old scrooges with more money than me. This would be grand. I would probably procure some smoked meat of the ham variety from Spain and eat this while smoking some opium I got off the spice wharf.

Instead I'm at home and it's as ruddy cold as a sow's tit which is sleeping in the barn which is frosty as the winter has set in in rural Cumberland. This is not the style that I am accustomed too. I am the Earl of Parmesan. Once I saw the Earl of Danger Mazz (or The Public Transport Wristy Proffessor as he is commonly known). I knew it was him immediately as he had those sort of transition glasses that get stuck between inside and oustide so they look like some sort of non-committal sunglasses. My dad wears these and it makes him look like he's got some sort of iron deficiency.

These glasses coupled with socks with pictures on them put him in the realms of sex pest. What cemented his position was his pointy shoes. They looked unsavoury like a pair of boats that were headed for chair-sniff Island (Buswellton) . He kept looking at a girls legs and I could tell he was thinking about having the quickest of shuffles. He looked jumpy. He also had curly hair which is basically a tell-tale sign of being sexually deviant.

When I drink red wine my lips go purple. I catch a look of myself in the back of soup spoon and I realise I look like somebody that's tried to smoke a tampon. I walk around like this for hours until I notice. I must drink like some sort of bee sting victim. Actually you get all the taste through your lips. For real. You should try it.

On Television

On television, the news reporter swore. She was outside a building where the Prime Minster was talking to old people about talcum powder cyclones and stolen shopping trollies. The news reporter waited for a live cross. She had an electric beetle in her ear. She waited for the signal from the news reader. She waited. She waited some more. Then she said "........fuck, why isn't this working?"

It was the best thing I have seen on television all week and that includes watching George from Masterchef rock back on his heels and punctuate every word with a flap of his arm and a splutter. Actually I hate that. I'd like to tie him up and feed him canned meat and powdered custard until he vomited waves of Hawthorn banners.



It was the best thing ever. I think I am an Alicia O'flaherty fan. She's the baddest.

Swearing and doing rad stuff. All day, every day. 24 7 non stop.

Unagi Unago

I just drank some soy sauce. I'm like an eel. It gives me the powers. I can shoot salt crystals out my eyes if I concentrate hard enough. They sort of look like diamonds made of cokerdee-cola. They call me Unagi. I smoke twigs and ride my bike real fast with no shirt on. One time I licked a window.

Hellvis Parsley

Spin Kicks For Jesus

I got a Christian comic in the mail the other day. It was about a guy that had a heart attack and lay in hospital in a coma. A kind man came one day and read him the bible. Amazingly this woke him up. He then got his life back on track. This is where it ended. It didn't get to the part where he went to the local swimming pool and celebrated his new lease of life by defecating in the deep end right near the diving platform. It's in the director's cut.

I was wondering if everyone in my street got a god comic or if it was just my house. Perhaps they'd seen how I relax as they walked down the street on a saturday morning. Guessed that I probably wouldn't be able to read big words and decided that a comic would be the best way to get me to stop humping the couch( while practicing kissing with the inside of my elbow) with the windows open. My dad's oldest brother was a born again christian. He gave me a Jesus comic when I was seven. It was the most disappointing thing ever. It was all about moral turmoil and had no reference to snot, bubble gum or skateboarding. It didn't even have ads for American breakfast cereals that weren't available in Australia.

I saw a guy reading a Warhammer magazine on the train the other day. He was sitting there like it was completely normal. It kind of made me feel ill.



Whale Oil

Pro Teen Drug Lord

This kid told me there's a codeword that they use over the PA at supermarkets to let the staff know that someone's stealing things. They say something like "Robbert Mc Robbert to aisle 3,Robbert Mc Robbert to aisle 3" and the manager can somehow workout that Robberty Mc Robbert is getting their robbery on deep within the lube shelves.

The kid said he just saw someone get busted trying to steal meat. He worked at a supermarket and said that 'druggies always get caught stealing meat'. I found this interesting. It's a strange thing to steal. I thought they'd be more interested in Blue Powerade or maybe NoDoz or NappiSan. But according to my research, kid that workes at Woolworth's, long term drug users crave free meat.

"All I need to do is stuff this pack of mince down the front of me trackies and I'm free. Just play it cool, slip it in and stroll out like I'm one of them secret shoppers. I'll be across the road in the park stuffing me face with lovely beef before anyone fricken notices. Just get that mince, get that mince and I'm in fucking meat 'eaven! I'll be piling sexy fistfuls of that wet pink in me gob haha! Might as well get some of them snags while I'm here. Probably wise, probably wise. Yep, gonna take the snags, shove 'em in there with the mince. Might as well, might as well. I'l be fucking hanging out for a snag in a few hours. A nice suasage, a nice little sausage. I'm takin' em! And some kidneys or somefink. Yeah somefink real wrong like that! I'm gonna eat kidneys in the park! Just gonna suck em and chomp em like I'm some kinda munch machine! The kidney's are going in as well! I've got half a cow down the front of me dacks!! MEAT MEAT MEAT!!!"

Sniffing Paint/Chasing Taint

About one thousand years ago I studied fine art at TAFE before I went to unamaversity to study the inverted pyramid and global imperialism. I thought this would be a good idea as it would allow me to smoke weed and get paint on my shoes/get famous.

It was a bad idea. My cohort consisted of long term dole recipients, ex-teachers, old men that wanted to paint sailing ships, and a guy called Greg. He was probably the worst. He had this absolutely shit CD of classical musicians playing Tool songs. He would insist on putting it on and then try and explain to the old guy that wanted to paint sailing ships how amazing and powerful Tool were. Then he would walk past some girls, close his eyes, and sing the lyrics in some sort of soprano pitch with epileptic head wobbles. His face looked like his balls were pressing up against his stomach and he was reaching some sort of painful climax. I'm pretty sure this is a good way to get girls. That or neck massages with hands you've warmed up in your pants.

For his final piece he painted an eye on an old television. I couldn't believe how bold a statement he was making. Like we watch TV, but what if, like TV, was like fucking watching us man? Like what if it was a way to keep us consuming? Like the government and the corporations are like controlling society through mainstream media. He brought the fucking truth. I learnt a lot from him - Dudes that wear loose weave beanies wank to Tool with their eyes closed and that John Howard was the boss of television and fast food.

I had a painting class at night with a bunch of old mature age students. We had a few life drawing sessions with a red-head nude model. I think some of the old crusts were eternally stoked. They were a little bit too keen and it kind of freaked me out. When it was time to go around the class and look at everyone's work a plumber said to me "You did a real good job on the titties. They're hard to get right". He'd positioned himself to get a good view of the butt and was very proud of his rump rendering. Another old guy brought a camera and asked the model if he could take a photo of her face so he could 'finish it off at home'. I'm guessing he was probably going to finish it off in the coffee break out in the carpark inside his '85 laser. The lecturer jumped in and said there would be no photos. Dude was bummed.

I dropped out before the second semester started and got a job at an avocado farm with a homophobic moustache man.

RZR SHRP, CRCK RDR

Excellent poem:

Able bodied people. Why do you stand on the escalator? Why do you block the overtaking lane? Why do you stand on the stairs that go up? I'm a busy man, I've got business. But you stand there. I want to tip bleach in the gene pool. Start afresh. Slow walking people - it's cleansing time. I'm a busy man, I got business mang. I'm dosed on cafe', my heart pumps like Pharlap's. I need to climb these electric stairs. But you stand there, thinking about Chicken Tonight and Australia's got Talent. We are rooted. Eternally.



I bought a coffee. It cost three bucks but I only had a twenty. The barkeep said he didn't have change so I could just pay next time I'm in. The stress of this has been weighing on my mind heavily. What if I got knocked on the head (or asphyxiated while wrestling) and forgot about this agreement? I could walk back into the cafe and order another coffee and be charged six bucks. I would think the guy was pulling a le' decption (French - language of love). And I'd pay it because I am a sucker that walks on elevators but would feel aggrieved. What about if I go in but he's not working? Do I pay his replacement the money and say "TELL THE GUY THAT WORKS HERE THAT THIS GUY CAME IN AND PAID FOR TWO COFFEES BUT ONLY HAD ONE BECAUSE HE OWED YOU MONEY FOR ONE THAT HE DRANK PREVIOUSLY"?

It's been 8 days now and I'm in a moral conundrum. I never asked for this responsibility. I now understand what it's like to be a father or someone who uses pawn shops.

Fingering. Behind the shops.

My butcher is missing his ring finger. He must have chopped it off while sawing through a ham hock. Maybe his wife boned a baker. Got a bun in the womb. He cut it off as a poetic gesture.

When he turned his back the other butcher sexually assaulted the apprentice with it. I think this probably happened.

All day I'm huffing. And puffing. And smoking pens.

Did you know that you can make your car go faster with a few simple additions? I didn't until I thought of it. Every night I hear the sound of amazingly cool guys zooming their Mitsubishi Lasers around my suburban neighbourhood. I look out the window in awe at their amazing ability to drive a car really fast and to play DMX simultaneously. I often think about all the girls that would be impressed with this incredible skill. They are most probably constantly icing their sex-things with frozen gatorade to stave off the effects of extreme female induced friction. Oh they get it, course they do, course they bloody do, heaps of it.

What do they have that I don't have? I asked myself out loud as I licked a dead fly from my living room window. I realised that my car didn't have the right bits. I mean I only really have an AM radio and my speakers sound like they're made out of home-brand cereal boxes (Kellogs is preferred). I can't impress anyone if I'm blasting ABC local radio except for the old crust nextdoor who reads the Quokka and kills birds. Wrong demographic. I want the Bundy gang. They make all the decisions in Australia and know the truth about everything and nothing. Win their hearts and you basically don't have to work a day ever again. You'll be up to your guts in free chicken, choc-milk, carpet cleaning and roller shutters. All free. No tax. Like a king.

Basically all you need is a few simple items you can find at home.

1. Milo tin. Tip the milo out. Actually eat it with a spoon. You wanted to eat the whole thing in year three. Actually you did it in year three and then you ate Nutella from the jar and then some toothpaste because mum never bought any bloody good food and you had to make do with anything that had sugar in it. Anyway get an empty milo tin or a coffee tin. I have a big tin of coffee in my pantry that has been there for a bout 3 years. It tastes like dirt. Tape the tin where your exhaust pipe is. This is called a 'sports ack-sauce' or something like this. It makes your car go faster because the engine is able to suck more air through it. Air is used in the suspension. The wider your sports ack-sauce is, the more pogs you are worth.

2.Egg Carton Like me you probably hit the gym every day like at least three times. You love protein and probably eat 9 eggs a day. Getting an egg carton is easy. Make sure it's not free-range or you will look like a wussy. Stick the egg-carton on the bonnet of your car with the pointy bits poking up. This is the second engine. Two engines are faster than one and this one has twelve cylinders. That's basically a jet car. Cops don't like second engines but it won't really bother you as you will be able to 'put the pedal to the medals' and zoom off like Usain Bolt if he was a car.

3. Cardboard, Black electrical tape, Permanent marker If you have a standard issue number plate how are other drivers (and girls) going to know anything about your personality? They're not. Your number plate says what you can't scream out the window as you're zooming by with two engines. Stick the cardboard over your boring number plate. With the texta choose a new moniker. Be warned though all the clever ones like 'drif7n' and '4play' are taken. That's good in a way because those ones are a bit tricky to work out and it's easy to think of way better ones. Some good ones are 'COPS SUK' (take it off if they catch you and say they must be mistaken) or 'SEX MAN'. Sex man is probably the best because it says what you do. Sex Man does sex. Like Bat Man did bats and Super Man dipped his stiffy in leaded petrol.

Apply these and buy some cool jewelry. You will be having sex with girls.

Wang Tang Clan

On the Bott/Ox Blood Flavour Wizard

On TV today Germain Greer said 'botox'. But not like 'botox' it sound like 'bottox'. Like the 'bott' from 'bottom'. It was strange.

The other day I heard a top judge say 'lambergeeny' instead of 'lamborghini'. She then said 'amphetamines were the main problem facing modern society'. Except she said 'amphetamynes' like 'mines'. I imagined her saying 'You took amphetamynes and stole a lambergeeny. I sentence you to twelve months in jayuhl. Think about what you have dohne.' I can't believe she's never heard someone say amphetamines correctly and changed her pronunciation accordingly. I mean it's Perth, there's more ice than the cold parts of China (like the mountains in Mongolia or the sugary Coke in the Google fridge - not sure what that means but take it as some sort of capitalist/communist jibe. Political. That's all you need to know).

The same thing happened to me yesterday. I rang up to book a dentist appointment. My dentist has a hard to pronounce name. Let's say it Hsu which it isn't. I say "can I book an appointment with Dr. Sue?" the receptionist says "WHO??!!!" so I guess again and say "Can I book an appointment with Dr Hahsoo?"

"WHO?" Says the receptionist who is probably fat and doesn't do the sex often.

"Hasoo?Sue?" I say. I'm fumbling.

"Ahh Dianne " She says. But she doesn't say her last name. And she motors on. And now I'm never going to know it. It's gone too far. She's fucked my turkey. Locked me out in the piss rain from God's heaving Fanta binge. I'm going to be seen as some sort of dumb hick every time I try and book an appointment. This doesn't bode well.

Went camping on the weekend. Found massive tick on my nuts when I returned home. What a horrible surprise.

Young Bones Moan

I rent a house from the walking dead. My landlord is a tall slim man with eyes that sit back deep in his sockets. I'm pretty sure he survives on cough lollies and pate`. That's what I'm thinking. He sits at home with a little dog on his bare chest and licks goose-liver spread off the palms of his hands. He doesn't talk like the living either - no siree. He pauses and stares forward.

Take this for example "My back gate is broken"
3 minutes of phone silence that feels like a million billion years trapped in a television that only plays Dr. Phil.
"Ok" he says. His tongue is dry and tubular like a pigeon.
What do I say now? He's death breathed me.
"Can you get someone to come and fix it"
"............Yes"
"Thanks" and I'm the fuck outta here.
I'm sure he drops the phone and rolls his eyes back into his skull and hums some kind of funeral dirge. Like some Billy Idol song or something. Serious shit.

Then I get an elaborate email that says "Repair man called". When? Who knows. Only death. The problem is that he might let my dog out. Louie is halfway to becoming a transformer. He's been eating a couple of bits from an old calculator and a few teaspoons of diesel daily. He's got some powers but he hasn't fully mastered them yet. I don't want him to go out and mate with a Honda Civic or chew down a light pole.

I've gone whingey McWhingeypants. Because my back gate is broken (put anal sex joke in here. Make it something about late-night deliveries or intruders) I've started storing my bike in the laundry. This is cool because I can walk into my kitchen and see my bike in the laundry. It makes me feel Scandinavian. Like I'm living in Oslo or something. I'm going to go with it. I'll buy some of that salty licorice that they chow at a mass rate and some milk that comes from the alps. I'm already adjusting my prudish views on nudity. I'm going to invite the ginger from down the road over and answer the door "full nudders". Invite him in for some chewing tobacco. It will probably increase my life span by 5 years. It's science. I've read it.

I said to my girlfriend "There's a surprise in the laundry!"
She said "I know. Your bike's in there."
"Surprise!" I said. Man, I'm the living end.

Storm Bringer : Hail Mary-Sue

Yesterday I was walking through the city. I got to an intersection an waited for the lights to change. Looking across the road I saw a feral woman lift up her baggy tunic and flash a hundred or so business suited capitalists. She laughed to herself and then jaywalked across four lanes of traffic with an evil smile. 6 hours later a massive storm ripped through Perth. Coincidence? I'm not thinking so. She was probably a storm witch. Her boobs were powerful.

After casting the spell I think she probably caught a train out to an outer suburb and smoked buckets in a carpet fluff palace.

Yours,
ES 1996

Pseudo Effluent

I've been taking cold and flu tablets for the past three days and I think my brain is getting tweaked. Is that possible? I'm not sure - maybe it's just having a cold. I'm sweating and cold and my teeth ache like they're going to fall out. I keep hearing my phone ring but when I check it there's nothing.

And Mr Whippy keeps driving around the block. Seriously for three hours yesterday he did laps of my neighbourhood. All I could hear was green sleeves. I put my head under a pillow and ground my teeth real good like a cowboy grinds jerky between his back molars. All I could hear was green sleeves. I'm guessing Mr Whippy has an unhappy home-life and some afternoons he just trundles out to another random suburb and drives around aimlessly until he knows his wife has slept off her mean bender. He doesn't care how much reconstituted dairy and cooking chocolate he shifts. He finds solace in the whir of the refrigerated unit and the solidness of his repetitive jingle. He can't face Marilyn today, can't look into her shandy clouded eyes and listen to her yell "Frank! Where the fuck are my pants Frank? You haven't been wearing them down the bowling alley again haven't you? Oh I bet you have! Put on my makeup as well didn't you - didn't you Franky?!! I bets you spent all me money on fish and chips for your friend Ron! I can sees yas now. Eating dim sums and cornjacks and squid rings and spooning all over the bitumen of a beachside car park -two chubby, oily, salty, vinegar boys! You're a sickness! Give me back my pants you toad! And they better have the crotch still in tact! You better not have cut the crotch out again you worm! Oh Franky you really are an A grade fuck up. You're a baked custard and I ain't hungry! Now come here and suck on my toes and I might just think about letting you sleep in the shed tonight you ballbag!"

That Mr Whippy has a problem and I refuse to exit the house when I hear his depresso jingle crawl down my street. He's a baked custard and I don't feel like egg based deserts.

Also, I'm working one day a week in a large government department. The toilets in this place are worse than that of a train station in New Delhi (fascist?) or say Rockingham (topical). There are three cubicles in the toilet on my level. Each one can be compared to that story about bears and porridge if you substitute bears and porridge for "absolutely covered in human excrement" and the bit about one being too hot and the other being too cold with "every single toilet". Does that make sense? Is that an incorrect analogy? Lets just say 'gut chutney'. It makes me doubt the human race even more than I already do. They're out to get us, you and me. Stay up.

Project Pat Told Me To Break The Law

I had blood test the other day. I don't think the phlebotomist knew what they were doing. I've got a massive bruise on the inside of my arm like I'm some sort of smacky that puts needles with drugs in them into my arms. I might as well buy some floppy tracksuit pants and drink two litres of milk from the bottle. That's what smackies do. I saw it on an ABC documentary about heroin when I was 12 sometime in the mid nineties. There was this woman who shot up in her house and then drank milk from a bottle in her kitchen which was basically a shrine to chicken bones and dirty dishes. When she drank the milk it sort of went down her chin and into the hollow of her pale ribs like when thirsty basketball players drink gatorade in ads. It was really disturbing and I decided right then that I was a twelve year old who would never do heroin. I fucking hated milk and couldn't think of anything worse than having to drink two litres of it. Heroin was definitely not for me.

So anyway, my arm is bruised. You know how blood tests don't really hurt that much? This one hurt the whole time. Like it was like she was pinching my vein with tweezers. Fuck that is the most disgusting thought ever. But it stung worse than licking the cord that goes into a phone. I did that last year and it zapped my tongue like some kind of Optus electric eel. Bit me. Bit me right on my lick muscle. When I got home from the pathology I realised my fly was undone. I wonder if that's why she made the needle hurt so bad. Maybe they get perverts coming in all the time who get off on getting needles. That could happen. People are into the weirdest crap. There's like a million days worth of videos of guys getting jacked off by feet on the net. People are getting tinea as an STD.

I saw a tag on the side of a building today that said Pedo. I hope he or she are just some misguided yoof. I bet you they like blood tests.

Three Words You Should Never Use Unless You Are Impersonating An Auntie Who Makes Cheescake With Cream Cheese And Packet Soup And Who Drinks Goat Milk

"Funky"
"Trendy"
"Groovy"

Everyday I'm Dodging Earnest Youths

When I ride my bike 2kms to catch the train everyday, I get my Lance Armstrong on. I grab the handles really tight and try and pump my biceps up so I look like some pro who has just smashed about a thousand kilometers. I pretend my legs are like pistons and I arch my back and dig in while a go through roundabouts.

I almost got hit by a car the other day. They almost drove through me at a roundabout. I had right of way. I had to jam on my breaks (which aren't too good because my bike is like forty years old and I bought it from a guy who lives in Rockingham who was drinking beer at 10 in the morning and who probably found the bike in a swamp while he was setting his illegal mullet traps). One of the girls in the car that almost hit me looked shock. She had her mouth open sort of like someone yelling "DEAL! DEAL!" at an episode of Deal or No Deal.

I didn't really know what to do so I was just like "WHAT THE FUCK!!!" I thought that was appropriate. I felt cool because I got to swear in public which is almost as satisfying as leaking in a friend's swimming pool before they jump in next to you. Then I kept riding and pretended that that kind of thing happens all the time. I was off to eat some vegetables and watch youtube videos of babies eating lemons.

Krang was a brain that looked like a scrotum

When I see someone wearing a t-shirt that says "sarcasm is one of the services I offer" I often think about the "other services" they offer. Most of the time I settle on "smoko break Coles staff carpark gobbies". Then I laugh because I am superior. I tell myself this everyday. I'm the cat that got the carpet or whatever the saying is. I'm a diamond in the road. My blood is worth bottle nose dolphins. I'm better than sliced brambles. I stink. Sarcasm is one of the services I offer.

Schweppe of Evan

Sleeping in the afternoon. That's what I've been doing. I'm getting good at it as well. Might go pro. I've got sleepy dreams and I'm going to chase them. I hit the sack around 1.30-2ish in the afternoon and sleep right through to like 2.30. That's about 45min of battery charging. Coupled with my extreme exercise routine which involves belly flopping from coffee table to couch, I'm going to be virtually unfuckwithable at around 3.30. The harsh day will have worn out most of my competitors and I'll be pumped like a baby that got raised on labrador milk. I'll be writing prank emails to muesli bar companies with the ferocity of a man that sleeps with lions for pleasure (not to win bets) and will even be able to navigate a wonky wheeled trolley through the labyrinth of nylon covered custard legs at Woolworths while stocking up on lifestyle products such as tinned tomatoes and moth traps. I'm siesta-ing my way to the top.

I had this boss who was always losing his phone.
"I've lost my phone" he would say.
I didn't say anything because I was to busy drawing pictures of sharks and thinking of band names such as 'warm bath' and 'electric piss eels'.
It was a big phone. Like one from as far back as say 2002. He was always leaving it around the place like some kind of calling card. Like I made an 'electric piss eels' sticker from the label writer and applied it to the inside of my drawer as a way of saying 'don't give up on your dream of starting a two man fuzzed out scuzz buzz band'.

One time I went to the toilet to do some thinking. In that I didn't need to go to the toilet, I just wanted to leave the office and no one could object to a toilet visit. For some reason I went to the toilets instead of going out to the park across the road. Perhaps I felt that I could make good of my lying by physically attending the site of where I said I would be. Who knows? Who cares? Not you or I friend.

When I reached my destination I saw my bosses phone sitting like a dumb person on top of the toilet roll dispenser. What was I to do?

It was obvious it had been removed from my boss's pocket so he could have a crap. A horrible thought. His red face sweating as demons of his unhealthy lifestyle left his body.

Maybe he made a call while taking a dump. A conversation that surely would have been punctuated by a shortness of breath and the sound of bricks being nudged into a wishing-well. The vilest of vile.

But what was I to do. The lost phone was there. It was there. I had read that complimentary mints in hotels and restaurants are a covered in fecal material. When you put them in your mouth you basically get a popping of burnt-umber schweppe of essence. This is true because a cousin older than me told me when I was seven and I have lived to this rule ever since. I imagined this phone may be haunted by brown ghosts. More so than usual.

So I picked it up like the wimp I am and returned to the office and said "I have found the phone" and then I went back to the toilets and furiously washed my hands like an OCD man who has touched a bird.

Up From The Dirty Grease Chambers

I saw a portly guy with an orange beard today. He looked like a computer programmer or maybe someone that worked in a call centre. A pretty judgmental judgment I know, but he had that look about him. He had 3/4pants and athletic sandals and one of those satchels that you can store a laptop full of torrented television shows and pictures of your girlfriend eating cheesecake and your two fat cats that you call 'your kids' and hump in front of.

Added to this he had a T shirt that proudly proclaimed I'M A BOMB TECHNICIAN IF YOU SEE ME RUNNING TRY AND KEEP UP. That wouldn't be very hard. I hardly felt that his plastic sandals, although 'athletic' in appearance, would get his puddingly frame anywhere too quickly. I mean, if there was a bomb, I kind of have the feeling he'd either have an asthma attack, collapse and plug up a doorway or he would run extremely fast for about ten metres and then collapse. He'd want to hope that the bomb didn't have much range or force in explosion. He'd be alright if the bomb was a cake because he was chubby and he would have probably have eaten if it was a cake because he was chubby.

His phone rang and he said "Hello my love"
"Meet me at the busport in 5 minutes"
"I can't tell you"
"It will all be a lot clearer in 5 minutes"
"Go and buy yourself some licorice"
"I know you like some licorice"
"Have a wander around the shops. Buy some comfort food"
"Get yourself some licorice"
"It will all become clearer when I get there"
"YES! I am up to SOMETHING!"
"Go get yourself some licorice".

I wondered to myself "What ever can he be up to?" I guessed that it would have something to do with his girlfriend, actually it could have been a boyfriend, eating up a whole pile of licorice and then getting a surprise. Perhaps he was picking up a ring from the shopping centre and then he'd ask her to be his forever and then go and get some running shoes from Footlocker. Or maybe he was going to buy her something. She'd already had licorice - what goes with licorice? Pork!

Perhaps they'd buy two big pale raw pork sausages from the butcher and run as quickly as possible (well stroll) to the undercover carpark and suck the guts out of them and say "We're in TrueBlood, we're in TrueBlood" and then have rough vampire sex all over the bonnet of a P plater's Hyundai.

Or maybe he was going to surprise her by showing her his new haircut. He'd take off his hat and point to his hair and say "What to do you think? What do you think? I said make it like Wesley Snipes but she said I didn't have the right type of hair so I got a football haircut. Touch it! Touch it! Pretty bloody spiffy!!" and then he'd shuffle from one sandal to the other while his girlfriend an her thick fingers through his new do.

I'm not sure what he was going to do but I wanted to find out. So I followed him. Well, I mean I got off the bus and went home. I'm not sure what kind of person listens to these conversations. But I mean he was talking loudly and I was behind him and he did say 'licorice' about 6 times.

Bad Coffee Broken Dreams Vol 2.

This game is amazing

http://www.party-tencho.com/koi2/

For a little while at least

Deafwish

Today a girl next to me with headphones began singing really loudly. I had headphones on too but I could still hear her. I looked across sideways to see what was going on. There was no way I wanted to make eye contact. If I did we were both fucked. What are you meant to do when you look someone who is singing loudly in the eyes? There's no walk out - everyone dies. It's like someone catching you smelling your finger. You're not doing anything wrong; you're savouring the smell of a small slice of flourless chocolate tart yet to the passerby it looks like you're some kind of digit sniffing pervert whose probably just done some sort of self prostate examination on the sly in the cafe's toilet. This suspicion is further enhanced and becomes an undeniable fact if a sliver of chocolate tart has unfortunately wedged itself under a fingernail.

So I pointed my eyes sideways like a year ten trying to look down the top of a young teacher while she marks his work. She hadn't realised she was singing, well I don't think she had. Perhaps she was in the moment, lost in the joy of music. She began doing a little bit of that breathy worble that's usually accompanied by hand movements that look like someone's dialing an old style telephone. It was bad. I turned up my ipod and pretended I was deaf.

A gazillion years ago when I was at uni I happened upon a similar situation but to greater degree. A girl was recording a radio show with the door open. Her head was back and she had a pair of headphones and was singing a Tatu song at top volume. I cautiously looked in and she was dancing with her eyes closed holding a ruler for a microphone. It made me laugh.

Born Against

I saw a transit guard car the other day with a massive Australian flag flapping from the bonnet. 'Holy fucking shit' I thought. The choo choo play-police had been given special powers. 'We must be under attack' I thought. The guberment must have given the guys who make sure students aren't evading fares the right to act autonomously and punish enemy spies who must surely be commuting on Perth's slow trains (without a ticket and probably thinking un-australian thoughts).

And so there it flapped like a big empty ballsack. Any spies/terrorists would know that the boys were back in town. Rick and Trav the transit guards with 10 weeks training and twitchy taser fingers were out on the street, patrolling train stations and flying flags. They'd get those pesky travelers, they'd get them good and when they'd finished they'd take that patrol car down to Cottesloe beach and try and pick up some Australian tail. Rick would grab the flag and whistle at 16 year olds as they walked into the carpark. If that failed they'd pick up some fish and chips and motor back to Trav's for a quick danger maz before his mum came home. When the flag flies you're allowed to do anything. It's the rules. You can piss on things and punch shit and do sweet impressions and just be totally mad and shit.