eat.sleep

Japanese dan am.

2011-11-25T16:58:00.001+10:30

I got these jeans and they say not to wash them ever. Well they say not to wash them until you've worn them for six months. And then to do it you should take a bath wearing them; jump in a stream; get licked by a cat repeatedly until jeans look worn. They say this helps get a lovely wear and fade. They'll become 'a map of your life'.

Well, fuck that.

I'm never washing them. Ever. And I plan on wearing them all summer. And to the gym. And to bed. And also while I dry hump complete strangers in the dirt behind Woolworths. I'm going to make the dirtiest map man has ever seen. Pick these up off my floor (or my corpse. Either the crutch blows out or I die. That's the only way I'll take them off) and you'll find a cartographic snuff film. A path that twists and turns and never seems to get anywhere. A journey of hope, regret, mediocrity, and Kewpie mayonnaise love buzz. A Dickensian piece all jizzed out on premium, weathered, Japanese denim.

What the denim over-lords don't tell you is that this process, the No-wash-never-ever procedure, can be used to great on a million other garments to great effect, and often superior effect.

1. Basketball Shorts.
Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. A breezy pair of b-ball shorts allow you to swish from couch, to bus, to fried-food shop, to online gaming establishment with no lights except from the screen. Sit down, drink Coke, shoot things, yell at friends, feel rush in penis, yell some more, balls feel free and independent in basketball shorts. The beautiful sheen of a quality pair of shorts is only enhanced by doing this every day for at least a year, or however long your Tafe certificate goes for.

Get oil on fingers from gaming energy food, rub it laterally on the weft of shorts. Shinier than a sled dog that eats a lot (Hughie's Cooking Adventure levels) of salmon.

Not actually sure if weft is the right word, it doesn't have a red squiggle below so we can say 'it is a word' but is it the right one? I don't know, do I look like Harry Potter or something? Get knobbed you cop!

2. Wu Wear
Got to check out the W! Got to check out ----the--W!

Never wash this either. Ol' Dirty Bastard got his name because he ate Dirt Deserts and got them on his jerseys and Wallaby Clarks and he was cool. He was also famous and had sex with a lot of women.

Don't wash this or Big Doe gets a nosebleed.

3. Women's underwear.
Go to gym. Sneak into changeroom. Put on some mining clothes like a bright yellow shirt and say "I am an electrician!". Look through bags. Find underwear. Lift head and try not to explode with victory. Run as fast as possible through gym and netball courts. Get to car, do skid and drive off really fast.

Don't wash these. There's a guy at the petshop down the road who will give you dog drugs (actual dog cocaine and Viagra) for a few pairs. CAAAAAAH - CHING!!!!!

Handy

2011-11-15T23:35:00.000+10:30

I watched a TV show the other day called Port City. It's all about things that happen on a port- boat comes in, man with burnt nose tells other men to get a forklifter and unpack mattresses, man in shorts and with curly hair drives new car down ramp really fast, does it again 140 times, man with burnt nose looks at clipboard and tugs collar.

It somehow omitted other parts of port life like peeing on crabs and eating soup from a tin. It did however touch on sex based shore-leave which kept me watching. It said that there were 40 tugboats in Brisbane and up to "85 tug jobs a day"!

That's more like it! I think some of the sailors only joined up for the tug jobs, they looked so happy to see the tuggers. One even lit up a cigarette prematurely. The guys manning the tug boats, the tuggers if you will, were a bit podgy and looked like they would have rough hands. Heaven knows they're good at their jobs though. The captain had a seat with sheepskin on in! A true throne! I have a feeling you don't get a sheepskin chair (and a cool tattoo) without being a master of the court (strong forehand/backhand/finishing shots).

Haaaaaaa! Tug jobs.

Landlocked Salmon

2011-10-14T18:12:00.000+10:30

I've been putting some of the stuff I've been doing on my other blog landlocked salmon.

Maybe I can work for your company and we could have lunch together and we could pretend to smoke pencils?

Abdominal Snowman- Cold Six Pack

2011-10-14T18:07:00.001+10:30

Oh jeez!

That's the sound a fat lady with blonde hair and bad re-growth makes when you reverse your car and almost hit her four-wheel drive mobile.

That's the sound she'd make in Tin Tin anyway.

In real life she says "AW FUCKING GAWD FUCKING SHIT AW GAWD" and you can see pudding steam form on the insides of her tinted windows.

This is the perfect time to try and sell her something, anything. She likes buying things and creating a situation where she can buy something is perhaps the nicest thing you can do. It's a laurel wreath, or some Reef sandals for a woman named Laurel, it's a peace offering.

First things first. You need to act immediately. The quick thinking hen gets the fox egg tortilla! Pull on the hand break and stop immediately. I don't care if you are blocking traffic and there's an angry little man in a small Hyundai who has to mount a curb to get passed and that he also yells "WHATTA THE FUCKING SHIT ARE YOU FUCKING SHIT DOING AW GAWD!" He's probably jealous of the buying opportunity, let him go and he'll come back hungrier than ever - Mid Commute Selling for Dummies.

So what to sell? There's heaps of stuff of value in a car! Just look in the centre console or whatever they call that bit in the middle that's impossible to clean. The bit that's like a wide plastic navel full of lint and the coins that aren't worth much. Perhaps you have some chewing gum? No? Keep searching.

You might have an old map or a CD without a case in the glovebox. These are great! Maps are useful and CDs have cool rock music on them. These are definite sellable items. Quickly jump out of the car, open the boot and pull out the jack. This is a big ticket item. Sell this and you just might have enough money for a kilo of beef, chocolate sauce and a strawberry milk. All the ingredients for your special post-workout ( or even instead of a workout) protein shake! Talk about making lemonade ($16) out of lemons (near car accident).

Run with this bundle of goodies to the customer's car. Think on your feet, like a quick cat trying to dislodge a troublesome mole in a doctor's surgery.

"MAY I INTEREST YOU IN A CD, A MAP OF THIS AREA, OR PERHAPS A JACK FOR LIFTING THE BACK OF CARS UP?" Say it in a strong clear voice. You are in control.

"WHHATT? WHAAATTT? YOU FUCKING SHIT NEARLY FUCKING HIT MY FUCKING GAWD CAR SHIT!" She may say. Oooh, soothe that temper with another advance.

"A CD OF SOME OF MY BROTHER'S FAVOURITE SONGS JUST MIGHT BE WHAT YOU'RE AFTER! YOU TAKE THIS AND PAY ME LATER" And try and post the disc through the gap of her window.

"NGAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!" She says and hits it out with her chubby claw. Then her foot hits the accelerator and she squeals off almost running over your foot and your custom Nikes ( little bits of fire drawn on the swoosh so they look faster).

Don't get disheartened. She was an obvious window shopper and probably hasn't done the sex in forever. A keen businessman would get back promptly into the car and try and chase down that angry little man in the Hyundai. He looked like he wasn't playing.

Communist Chicken

2011-08-27T16:23:00.001+09:30

There's this ad on TV at the moment where a guy takes a date to Red Rooster for a 'real lunch'. I think the ad is quite misleading. For one the girl seems like a normal civilian and doesn't appear to be hurting in the face. I think the only type of girl that would be up for a hot date at Red Rooster is one with super low expectations. Maybe that's why the guy is so happy. He doesn't have to do anything to impress her, all he needs to do is push BBQ chicken onto her.

"Have a Salty Burger" he will say and playfully slap it on the top as though it is her buttocks.

If she lifts the lid of said burger he will say "ooooh!" and push out his lips like someone whistling through a Fruit Loop.

He will slightly fellate his chicken roll. She will not notice so he will do it more obviously and almost gag getting the attention of a sweaty boy in gum boots cleaning the aluminum fry well.

Afterwards they could go back to his duplex and have sex on empty pizza boxes in front of some motor sport and she'd be talking to her friends about how she felt like she was in Paris.

That's what Paris is actually like. It's all sex in ashtrays and streets full of prophylactics. I haven't been there but I've pretty much figured it out. People drink orange juice mixed with milk (I saw a French man do this once - vis a vis they all do it) and they let their dogs crap on the road. They don't have Red Rooster but they have something called Rosi Coque which translates to Pink Penis. Le' disgusting.

2011-08-25T15:58:00.001+09:30

The Art Of Useless Wooden Toy

2011-08-24T20:14:00.000+09:30

I have dedicated quite a chunk (think a fist of warm Gruyere - yellow waft and milky heft) of my time recently to skateboarding. And when I say skateboarding I mean skateboard media more so than actual, physical skateboarding. Although I did go for a skate twice today and pretended I was Brian Anderson steady crushing. Although where Brian would loft a tre I would awkwardly flap a shuvit. Besides that - on point. The pointietest point. Sharp like Global steel.

As I find myself in somewhat of a slight job void (management speak) this week I spend time watching limitless clips and devotedly reading threads that denounce Koston as a bitter schizoid that's been tweaked by Steve Berra and the Church of Scientology. It's a million types of boring and interesting at the same time- like eating bread really slowly after smoking a bucket when you're 16. I'm also aware each time a pro is sighted skating a different board, the next puke colourways Nike SB will gurge, and who got the boot from a hardware company. It's need to know shit.

I remember rolling the legs up on my jeans and trying to kickflip off the verandah that Mum said was never to be skated on. Just like the Muska I broke that off something proper. I also cracked some tiles and de-rooted a few shrubs. That's the price Mum paid for me getting stuff done. I was out there on the driveway trying to come up.

In closing;

Skateboarding rules. Fuck everything.

Peaking Early, Peking URL

2011-07-22T10:50:00.000+09:30

I went to PEAC when I was in primary school. Some of my former class mates sold out are now doctors and think-tank thinkers. I didn't budge from my ideals. I've held true and still maintain the intelligence of a high achieving year 5. These colours won't run in the wash. Bidmas - or bimdas? Who cares? Not me. Drew a gun on my desk. Peeeeeow.

Plastic sack, double macc, sweet street crack

2011-07-10T22:51:00.001+09:30

The other day I heard a barista ask another cafe worker if they "liked Birds of Tokyo?". To which the other replied "Yeah, lets put some on".

I decided to never frequent the establishment again. I had a feeling they'd probably serve me a glass of crushed up biscuits instead of a granita. Not that I'd have a granita. But if I was a man with puffy nipples and an inability to ride a bicycle I probably would and I wouldn't order it from there. Anyone that listens to jerk-radio soft-rock made by porcine fellows with little ticklers and multi pocketed distressed denim needs to be shunted off to the far reaches of the country and locked up. And then beaten with licorice or a stick or something.

I ate a massive piece of cake today. It was so big I couldn't eat it. So I half ate it. My brother said I should wrap it up in a napkin and put it in my pocket and then eat it like George Calombaris. He said this was a good idea because it reminded him of a German guy he met in Northbridge outside a noodle palace. The guy had meat in a plastic bag and told my brother that he used to take tourists in Berlin to see a fat woman get sexed by a large black man. That was his job. My brother said that I reminded him of the sex tour guide and that a person with cake in a paper napkin is exactly the same as a man walking the streets with various meat pieces in a plastic bag.

I asked him if he'd like to come down to the wharf and if he had ever seen a man make love to a fish before.

Well half a fish anyway.

Travis Bon Chicken Liver

2011-06-13T18:23:00.000+09:30

Walked around shop with my cardigan inside out. Kris Kross 2011 next level swag.

Talked to weird guy behind checkout. He had one of those forced fatigued voices that level 7 nerd wizards like to employ in work situations. "I'mmmmmmmm havinggggggg a bad dayyyyyyy. Any day is baddddddd when you are at workkkkkkkkk." One of those voices that can't be attributed to any specific region - a timbre grown from watching Two and a Half Men and youtube vids of sassy Brits reviewing Ben Stiller films. So lazy, so unwholesome.

I guessed he'd prefer to be at home watching Glee and eating microwaved chicken nuggets.

I liked the kid. He told me to "Havvvvvvee a nice day" and then probably whispered "Go fuck yourself".

A G thang

2011-05-23T16:13:00.000+09:30

I sat in a restaurant, many floors above the common man, with a large cocktail with two slender black straws with a kink at the end. I grabbed these straws, placed them to my lips, and diddled their lengths as if I was playing a sparkling champagne Miami beach sexed-up squeal on an imaginary sax. I looked at my girlfriend and said "I'm Kenny G!"and swished the straws into a second term of saxual assault.

"Who's Kenny G?" she asked.

"He's exactly the same as Michael Bolton except his hair is the colour of hard wood and he plays the sax", and I saxed it some more.

She had a sip of her cocktail which looked like mine but with a kelp rope of mint deep below.

"I'm Kenny G!" I said in case she didn't hear.

"Yep" she said.

2011-04-30T12:59:00.000+09:30

There's a black sock lying on my front lawn. All limp and lonely.

It makes me feel sick.

Obviously some pervo has slipped it off and wiggled his nude toes boldly on my grass. Call me a prude but I feel we're going to hell in a hamburger. There's guys walking the streets with their toes on full display - it leaves nothing to the imagination. You can see everything! The other day I happened to cop an eyeful of all 5 left foot toenails of a well-fed woman as I swished passed the freezer section in Coles . I momentarily collapsed and was revived with a box of frozen wonton skins pressed against my ear by a considerate toddler. As I composed myself I noticed the offender had walked through the checkout and was making her way into the wider world. I yelled "HUSSY!" and was asked to leave the store by a little muscly man with a Phantom belt buckle.

Speaking of creeps - I fell into a vortex last week and spent two days playing online Scrabble (except it's not called 'Scrabble' because Uncle Monoply and the Parker Sisters would sue). I kept getting beaten by grandmothers from the mid-west with cryptic usernames like "MidWest Grandmother". It was frustrating beyond belief and drove me to pull the plug on a few matches before they concluded. I sent messages to my competitors like "I WIN" and then quit. I was sinking.

Sinking but not as low as some of the other players. There was a guy called "Milf Lover". It was then I worked out that online scrabble was obviously a front for mid 50's dating and trashed my account. It had nothing to do with my continuous lose lose streak. Place was obvs full of the sickos the television warned me about when the Internet dungeon started.

While eating 'pigs head' terrine and drinking pedro xiemenez I had an epiphany. "Turkish Daggers" is the best name for a band and I invented it. First album "PX I love you" follow up LP; "Prince of Pleasure". Instant success. Mad cash. 12 figure deal with Toyota.

Turn and Face the Flag Son

2011-04-05T17:13:00.000+09:30

My friend went to Indonesia and saw the biggest flower in the world.

"What, Elton John?" I said.

Then I repeated it to everyone I met for the next week. Maximum mileage. Loathed worldwide.

My girlfriend is a dreamer. In bed asleep she talks. In bed asleep she groans. In bed asleep she clicks her mouth and barrel rolls. The other night I walked into the room and she said "Are you the admitting consultant on the ward?"

"It's me" I said.

"Are you going to admit these patients?" She asked.

"I don't admit anyone. My job is being cool"

"Well I'm going to have to do it then". And she huffed.

Your Tumblr

2011-04-05T17:05:00.000+09:30

boobs boobs boobs boobs Michael Jordan boobs boobs boobs boobs brogues boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs dog's teeth boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs Russian bible boobs boobs boobs boobs home-job tattoo boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs Alife shirt boobs boobs boobs boobs wolf boobs boobs boobs World War II boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs picture of your bed boobs boobs boobs boobs

My Mumps, My Mumps

2011-03-22T15:17:00.001+10:30

The other day I woke up and my face was swollen like an engorged sack. I had massively buff muscles where my cheeks once lay. It looked like Lord Jeebus had stuck a fat man's head on the body of smaller man. Or someone had squeezed me really hard around the stomach (probably for saying something hilarious in the supermarket) and all my fluids had oozed up into my head. In short, I looked like I was going to die from anaphylaxis.

I thought I must have had an allergic reaction. My dad gave me some organic bug spray containing olive oil, soap and garlic. I'd used that last night on my lime tree and some got on my skin. It smelt like dog hormones. Maybe the inert components in the spray had melded to form a super toxin. Maybe my dad knew this. Maybe he was getting me back for years of borrowing stuff and not returning. A dead kid can't take your tools. Cold blooded kill.

I shrugged it off and figured I'd left a pretty massive impact on the word already. If I was to pass it would only ensure my stocks would rise higher and my already impressive reputation would only grow like genetically modified yoghurt culture. I mean look what happened when Michael Jordan died. Everyone knows who he is now. He was on a Pepsi commercial or something and we all think about it.

I woke up at one in the morning the next day and my face was even bigger. It was like Akira. Have you seen Akira? It's this Japanese movie, Mungaaaah or whatever they call it, and this kid swells up and fights a motorbike. They're going to remake it with Leonardo Di Caprio. I look forward to that. Hollywood has a knack for making foreign films more palatable and easy for guys like me (and probably you) to understand. I'll be first in line with a bottle of Pepsi in remembrance of my favourite singer and a notepad so I can write the quotes, memorise them, and then repeat to anyone who asks me if I've seen the film, "Akira, Akira!" I will yell and then grab my crotch and do the moon walk just as Michael Jordan did.

So I get my girlfriend to drive me to the hospital. She's a doctor and she doesn't know what I have. I am sure my time's up. I'm wondering if they'll give me a special roast on the country TV station in the town I grew up in. Probably drag out my old hockey coach and he'll say 'He wasn't much of a player, in fact he probably should have pursued another sport" and then a local hoodlum will recreate the time I ollied the infamous High School three step. Shit will be all time.

Chubby nurse looks at my face and says "Oh my!" but in a Kiwi accent so more like "Oh my!" And I'm in. I'm a sick enigma. I sit on a bed and wait for the doctor. He walks in and says "You've got mumps!" and I say "No I don't". And he says "Mumps! You don't see these to often anymore. But guys you're age seem to get them, something to do with the vaccination or something". And I'm not dying anymore. But he said "There's a risk of pancreatitis and you're goolies might get really sore".

My goolies? So it turns out I get another shot at life (time to make a comeback album. Bit of a voice-over eulogy at the start and then a screech and I come out of the grave and say " ROUND TWO BITCH FACES!" and the beat kicks in harder than hard and I go on to describe how many jewels are in my key ring and how I have some whisky from France or somewhere) but my nuts might swell just like my face. Hard boiled eggs! This scares me and I make a pact with the godman that I'll stop my perversions if he can skip that part. It's a worse -case scenario though. Ai yai yai.

Other bad things include : meningitis, deafness, encephalitis. But the balls thing sound the worst. Anyway, the nurse gave me a blood test. Then she talked about working on the mines and how I should do that if I can't get a job soon. She hecka bruised my arm. It's cool. I look like a smacky. Figure it will probably lift my street cred a couple of notches down at the local library. Mrs Grimball will bloody well get her web searches done pronto when I walk in. No more waiting for her to flick through pages and pages of dewy decimal waffle. Nup, she'll look up her book on tappestry and take off, I'll be able to sit down and start looking to see if there's anymore sex books or erotic fiction in the catalogue.

I'm in quarantine for a week or so. Pretty contagious. I was even vaccinated twice. Crazy.

I made a gif

2011-03-22T01:31:00.002+10:30

It doesn't seem to stream. Click the pic.

Pongi's Kitchen 4

2011-03-18T01:18:00.000+10:30

A new recipe? Could it be the recipe for disaster for Pongi's Kitchen (featuring Conga).

Pongi's Kitchen 3

2011-03-15T00:23:00.002+10:30

As we quite often say around these parts "Oh Conga!" In this episode our beloved sidekick makes a terrible mistake resulting in Pongi spending a month in a gastro-intestinal ward. Oh Conga!!

(click to read easier and crap)

Pongi's Kitchen 2

2011-03-11T17:53:00.000+10:30

Oh Pongi! What becomes of you? Another adventure? Ahh, that is pleasing. Watch out for Conga. I fear he does not have your best interests at heart.

Pongi's Kitchen

2011-03-10T11:22:00.000+10:30

I found some manga comics in a big skip bin outside a karaoke and BBQ place in Northbridge. I was just looking in the bins as is common for guys like me. You never know when you'll be lucky enough to score a hardly touched bowl of udon or find an old bra that only needs a few stitches. This time i hit the motherload. Besides an old PC I found 100's of comics. Digging through discarded duck bones and Hello Kitty bubblegum wrappers I scooped out armfuls of these back-to-front comics as did my companions. Some of the content is unlike anything I have seen before - from removing band-aids from bottoms with chopsticks to soccer wrestlers who seem to fancy dry humping over classic holds.

I had to know what was going on. So I stayed up for like 12 hours entering the text into google translate. Man, what a waste of time. Anyways, I give you Pongi's Kitchen Volume 1. (Click to read big and stuff yo)

Lance another one.

2011-03-09T20:33:00.000+10:30

"I'm working free lance"

That's all you have to say if someone asks you how looking for a job is going. And you are free lancing. Your making a sandwich with peanut butter and gherkins independently for a private entity, cash in hand (no money changes hands though because you don't actually have any money, forgot what it was like to have money, have no prospects of obtaining money bar selling your copy of Extortion's Degenerate).

Coffee, cheese sandwiches, half-hearted weight sessions. These are my currency. I'm richer than Black Forest yo! More cream than pale skin kids apply on harsh summer days to halt harsh summer rays. Gluten for dayssssss!

I went to Albany the other day. I saw tons of Albanians. I noticed that there seemed to be a lot of big noses. I saw at least two or three prize conkers. Pretty impressive stuff. I reckon a big nose serves you well in life. It's bold, it says "I'm here and I'm olfactorily gifted". It's champion stuff. So proud. So ready.

Oh Gaw

2011-03-02T17:28:00.000+10:30

The car I was driving broke down at a busy intersection today. The clutch went to mush. A woman gave me a push through the lights and up onto the curb where I stood in the hot sun until the RAC guy came. I got humped by the waft of a Lean Cuisine eater's bin. I felt really guilty about the dude I drove passed the other day. I probably could have pushed his car for him. But I didn't. I went home and watched youtube videos and ate poorly. If I had been more pious with my eating choices perhaps I could have avoided this karma related car failure. Something simple, say rocket and chickpeas with tap water as a beverage instead of smashing three different types of cheese and peanutbutter. I fucked up. You are sort of what you eat, and I was nervous.

Also, needing a job more and more each day. Someone hook me up. Pay me some actual money and let me run things. Sweeter deal than corn syrup chug a lugs.

Wayneo's World. Egg Salad!

2011-02-07T22:51:00.004+10:30

My barber was bummed that he didn't get invited to his cousin's sister-in-law's brother's bucks party. How is that even possible? He's an integral link in the family bike chain! He's the guy you call up when you need a haircut or the guy you bumped into once at your sister's wedding. He was the guy that made a comment about all of the bridesmaids being 'sexy as' and pretended to air hump in front of the buffet. How was he not invited!? He would have set that party right off! A party without him is like cereal with no milk - really dry and absolutely no sexy babes. He knows where the 'sexy babes' are. Well he'll take you (come with you) to 'the strippers' and get hammered on bourbon and coke. A great night! Off the chaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnnn! The dogs are out tonight!! Just the guys. THE GUYS!!! Us guys right fucking here! The Guys! Yep yep yep!

But he didn't get invited. And homosexuality probably broke out. Yeah that's what would have happened. Probably 'gayed' each other off for an hour or so and then went to bed at ten! Should've invited Wayneos! He would have said "Youse guys aren't drinking hard enough! Lift!" and then he would've regaled you with his stats for that night (Six beers, two bourbons, a spliff, piss in the shower).

He would've sat the Buck down and say "Last night of freedom eh?!" and winked all sly. And then he would have pulled out a classified ad he cut from the paper at lunch and say "What you reckon? What you reckon? eh? eh?" And the buck would laugh assuming it was a joke. But Wayneos would say "Nice and spicy! HAHAHAHA". And the buck would laugh politely. And then Wayneos would say "I'll put in fifty! FELLAS PUT IN FIFTY! WE'RE BUYING PETE A LAST MEAL!!!HAHAHA!"

Then the buck would be scared. He doesn't want to sleep with an escort let alone a 'tranny'. Who the fuck is this Wayneos guy anyway? Why is he all up in my grill? Why does he smell of prawns and batteries? Why did he sniff the remote control? Is he wearing shorts with no underwear?

Mi Casa

2011-01-31T18:57:00.003+10:30

One day last week my neighbours disappeared. I noticed they were gone because their lights didn't come on for three days in a row. The next day a guy in white shoes walked across my lawn. A real estate agent let him and a small group of others in and I saw them as I crouched on my kitchen floor and peeped through the window. One guy opened the shed door and closed it. Another twisted the blinds opene and closed. I imagine the guy with white shoes went to the main bedroom and sniffed the light switch.

I didn't really know my neighbours at all. I said 'Hello' every now and again when we had the shared misfortune of taking the bins out at the same time. They didn't really seem like they wanted to talk to me and it became more awkward to breach the abyss of chitter chatter ho humness as each month passed. I went and introduced myself to the Dad when they moved in but I forgot his name before I walked back across my lawn. I think it was TJ. Initial contact.

They weren't bad neighbours in that I never really saw them. I did hear the mum tell her kids off and the young girl chuck tantrums over and over every night. There has been at least four sets of neighbours living nextdoor since I've lived here. I've only really known one of them.

Here I will profile them:

The Bogans

When I first moved in the house nextdoor was inhabited by a young couple. The backyard looked like the super pit. There was a massive hole with broken tables and chairs. They had a dog that never got walked and spent it's time chewing on a car tyre. It looked like it probably had killed a toddler. I think it's name was LLeyton Hewitt or Castrol . One time I came home and they were sitting on a couch on top of their landcruiser drinking UDLs and looking down the street. Another night I came home and the guy was watching porno on his massive TV with the blinds open and the sound cranked. Talk about wankers.

The Nicest Guy

The nicest guy moved in about three years ago. He was the nicest, most politest, friendliest guy I had ever met. He apologised for his noisy kids profusely and his kids weren't even noisy. he had a sweet moustache. He went to the Philippines and brought me back packets of dried mango snacks for collecting his mail. My dog humped his kids legs. He asked if he could watch me mow my lawn and took great interest when I showed him where the petrol went. he moved out because the rent was too expensive. I curse his greedy custard slopping landlords daily. I miss him.

The Octagon.

The next family that moved in had a dad with an octagon head. It was amazing. Other than that there's not much other distinguishing features. The mum yelled at the kid each afternoon when he came home from school. They never went in the backyard.

I think people don't stay very long nextdoor because of me. They've probably glimpsed my wang as I've sneaked from the shower to the laundry for clothes. Or they've heard me rapping to my garageband tracks at high volume. Or they've noticed I fraternise with redheads. Or they've seen me eating mayonnaise.

Blatant Self Promotion. Battered Salt Commotion.

2011-01-31T18:45:00.002+10:30

ve got some T shirts for sale through AS Colour's Little Help Project.

Maximum Coffee

Dome Chromosome

The Little Help Project is a competition with the top ten finalist's vying to win the opportunity to start their own T shirt label. I'm pretty happy with the way the shirts have been produced - they're printed direct to garment so there's no thick print on top. The shirts are buttery soft and light as well.

If you're interested they're available here - Little Help Project

Far out far right

2011-01-09T21:04:00.002+10:30

There was a green VW beetle at my local supermarket. It was driven by some faded woman who probably kissed little dogs smack on the mouth after a bowl of ice-cream and prunes.

The car's number plate said "SEEK ALE". I wondered if it was some kind of nazi joke. You know how Internet truthsayers and itchy guys rub their chins and say that VWs were Hitler's cars? Was this some kind of word play on 'seig hale'? Was she an ex nazi resettled? Was she a holocaust denier? Was she an alcho always on the search for ale? I'm guessing she was an alcho.

And a nazi. Drunk and goose-stepping to Coldplay and other skinhead bands in her living room. Kissing little dogs and drinking tuna juice and kirsch.

Woo Tang Clun isn't nothing to flirt with

2011-01-04T13:40:00.003+10:30

I see bad breath spreading it's spores

2010-12-24T02:49:00.000+10:30

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.

2010-12-20T13:31:00.002+10:30

Growing Pain Cakes

2010-12-14T00:14:00.001+10:30

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

2010-12-04T15:28:00.001+10:30

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

2010-12-03T16:31:00.000+10:30

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

2010-11-27T02:36:00.002+10:30

I love you

2010-11-25T03:12:00.001+10:30

I truly do

Milky Man Mega

2010-11-19T00:42:00.004+10:30

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

2010-11-16T15:11:00.002+10:30

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

2010-11-12T14:47:00.004+10:30

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

2010-10-30T14:31:00.000+10:30

24 Eleven

2010-10-30T14:21:00.003+10:30

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

2010-10-14T19:58:00.002+10:30

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

2010-10-06T14:47:00.002+10:30

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.

2010-09-30T18:46:00.006+09:30

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

2010-09-29T00:25:00.002+09:30

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

2010-09-27T18:33:00.000+09:30

I may have already mentioned this

2010-09-25T22:08:00.004+09:30

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

2010-09-20T20:24:00.003+09:30

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

2010-09-09T22:32:00.002+09:30

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

2010-09-07T21:39:00.004+09:30

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

2010-09-04T20:36:00.000+09:30

The Korean Burger

2010-08-31T20:25:00.003+09:30

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

2010-08-20T12:05:00.008+09:30

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

2010-08-11T14:02:00.005+09:30

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

2010-08-04T10:36:00.003+09:30

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

2010-07-22T21:45:00.003+09:30

"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

2010-07-18T15:44:00.007+09:30

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

2010-06-30T15:48:00.005+09:30

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

2010-06-21T00:36:00.004+09:30

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

2010-06-10T22:13:00.003+09:30

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

2010-06-10T22:10:00.004+09:30

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

2010-05-31T13:59:00.002+09:30

Spin Kicks For Jesus

2010-05-26T23:43:00.003+09:30

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

2010-05-18T00:27:00.002+09:30

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!!!"

2010-05-11T13:02:00.000+09:30

Sniffing Paint/Chasing Taint

2010-05-09T03:10:00.004+09:30

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

2010-04-28T12:14:00.002+09:30

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.

2010-04-21T23:16:00.003+09:30

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.

2010-04-17T20:33:00.007+09:30

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

2010-04-09T12:18:00.000+09:30

On the Bott/Ox Blood Flavour Wizard

2010-04-08T00:05:00.003+09:30

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

2010-03-31T11:39:00.005+10:30

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

2010-03-23T11:44:00.002+10:30

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

2010-03-21T17:22:00.003+10:30

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

2010-03-11T23:13:00.006+10:30

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

2010-03-07T17:33:00.004+10:30

"Funky"
"Trendy"
"Groovy"

Everyday I'm Dodging Earnest Youths

2010-03-06T12:21:00.003+10:30

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

2010-02-25T11:38:00.004+10:30

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

2010-02-18T17:46:00.004+10:30

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

2010-02-12T19:30:00.004+10:30

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.

2010-02-04T13:26:00.002+10:30

This game is amazing

2010-02-01T11:28:00.001+10:30

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

For a little while at least

Deafwish

2010-01-29T19:02:00.003+10:30

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

2010-01-25T19:21:00.003+10:30

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.

2010-01-25T18:43:00.004+10:30

"get over here!" I'm scorpion from the Sega

2010-01-19T11:08:00.008+10:30

I've been playing NBA Jam for a few days in a row. When I was younger I always thought it was called NBA Jam Session and I would always yell "LETS PLAY NBA JAM SESSION!" and try and jam a prickle-ball between the rungs of the monkey-bars while shouting "BOOM-SHAKA-LAKA!" or if I happened to find a kid standing underneath the bars, "IN YOUR FACE!"

Boomshakalaka instantly became a primary school catch cry. Get a muesli bar from a fellow class mate? Boomshakalaka! Draw a super cool picture of Captain Hook that Mrs Murray said would be going into the library for the whole school to see? Boomshakalaka! See Upson sitting in the sink while still managing to pee in the urinal a good four metres away without the aid of a stiffy? Boomshakalaka!

Another good saying was "hubba hubba". This could be used when watching television. Especially when April O'neal appeared. Or Alex Mac. Or when you had the opportunity to do some public speaking. You could start by reading your story and then before sitting down you could yell "HUBBA HUBBA" and throw double peace signs. This would almost be the pinnacle of funniness, only eclipsed by a public dacking or seeing someone kiss.

*I just realised that NBA Jam Session was a sweet video featuring NBA jamz. I got it out from the video shop about a million times and would say "not in my kitchen" whenever there was a sweet rejection.

Viva la evacuation: Bowel movement

2010-01-14T18:44:00.005+10:30

The other day I went in to IGA to buy some protein for the muscles I am working on in my neck. I figured 24 eggs, a kilo of tuna, 45 dollars worth of chicken thighs and some soy milk would do the trick. I want a really muscly neck as I feel it will help me if I ever go to the movies, a concert or am on a jury, and a tall guy with curly hair sits in front of me. With a strong neck I will easily be able to crane my head to one side (like a crane) for extended periods of time without getting a nervous spasm or a sweaty back. I haven't got any exercises planned but feel if I swallow the food really slowly the protein will understand that I want it to congregate in my neck. It's basically a fool proof plan and I'm surprised I hadn't thought of it sooner.

While sniffing for 'tein or 'pro pro' in the dusty aisles I saw two supermarket employees stacking the shelves with yoghurt and cheese. One was in his mid thirties and had a sweet gold chain, the other was about sixteen. They were talking about Nissan Skylines and date rape and how "yesterday there was fricken 100 palets to unload and I was all by meself because Allan was meant to come in but he's in Bali being slack and they had to be friggen joking if they thought I could get through all by meself".

Their conversation was interrupted by an old lady with amazingly floppy canteen-lady arms. She was leaning over the ice-cream freezer with a look of hatred. "I'm not buying Peter's ice-cream anymore!" she yelled at the shelf stackers. "It tastes horrible since THEY SOLD OUT!" And she looked at the two employees as if she'd made a point that would forever change the sale of ice-cream in Western Australia. This was a momentous occasion. She'd taken the fight right up to two power makers! Two guys in decision making positions. I mean, they control what goes in the freezer - they're practically gate keepers. She hadn't nancied about with 'excuse me sir', no way, she'd got up there and told them what the whole bloody world had been thinking! The revolution had begun, she drawn a line with her kumfs and no prick was game enough to cross it. Bloody Peter's - they'd be quaking in their horrible ice-cream boots!

The two shelf stackers didn't say a word. They probably knew they'd been bested. There was a new regime in town and it didn't like bloody Peter's sellout ice-cream or the price of meat these days. It did however like Mr Arnott's milk arrowroot biscuits and aspro.

I really wanted to get to the ice-cream freezer but knew she'd be there all day.

Free Love of the Fizz Wizz Freeway

2010-01-05T14:15:00.006+10:30

A telemarketer just called me and said "How are you today sir?"
To which I replied "Not too bad"
"How about we turn not too bad into excellent?"
What a pro. He had an FM radio voice. I bet he had a 'prickle cut' and drank coke all day while sending texts to chubby 16 year old girls.

I passed the best car ever on the freeway the other day. It had this really cool Monster Energy drink sticker across most of the back window. I looked at and thought "Hey this guy likes energy drinks! I bet you he goes pretty hard most nights. That Monster Energy is strong stuff. I personally wouldn't mess with it - I'd leave that stuff to Woody '83. The guy must be a complete and utter maniac! Lock up your ozzie daughters"

The sticker job was well thought out. There was a really cool Southern Cross in the top left corner which worked really well with the Monster Energy piece. There was also a really nice 'MULLISHA" between the tail lights. Moto Cross is awesome. Like almost as good as Jet Skiing. Moto crozz is the thinking man's cycling. Best way to enjoy nature and chicks in bikinis. I was impressed with this guy. He knew what he liked - energy (heaps), sick moto jumps and shit, and punching guys at the beach.

The best sticker was given pride of place along the top of the window. It was a little hard to get a first - it took me a good half an hour or so to work it out. Once I got it however, I couldn't stop laughing - it was perhaps the cleverest joke I'd ever heard. See if you can work this out (trust me it's worth it !):

B 4 I √ U R U 16?

HAHHAHAHAHHAHAH! Woody '83! What a complete and utter maniac!! It's actually good that he's put in an age clause. A lot of guys don't have such high morals. Funny and responsible. Absolute champion.

President Rogaine can shove it.

2010-01-03T19:54:00.005+10:30

Once I met a tall man who had a somewhat curly mud-flap of a mullet. I mean it was a mullet of sorts, more a mullet of nature than a mullet of design. He was going bald on top and you could see a pink hammy dome poking through receding whiffs of blonde. He had these big fat pale hands and wore tiny little shorts so you could see a huge white flank of thigh whenever he jumped out of his 4wd.

He'd lived with a 'total health nut' he told me. He'd read up on nutrition and alternative medicine. "All he'd eat from a cucumber was the skin and the seeds. Just peel it and scoop out the guts, throw out the rest. It's shit, it doesn't have any nutritional value".

I thought about this and considered the type of person who would go to the trouble of tea-spooning the seeds out of a cucumber and then proudly proclaim "I'm a health nut. I'm going to eat some egg shells".

What a fuckwit, I thought.

He also peed on his feet to stave off tinea. Genius.

2009-12-23T01:47:00.004+10:30

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

2009-12-19T01:00:00.004+10:30

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

2009-12-12T15:17:00.003+10:30

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

2009-12-02T02:14:00.005+10:30

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

2009-11-26T18:42:00.004+10:30

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

2009-11-17T00:07:00.003+10:30

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

2009-11-13T21:46:00.005+10:30

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

2009-11-10T14:00:00.003+10:30

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.

2009-11-02T12:11:00.002+10:30

Gastro In Digest

2009-10-27T12:29:00.004+10:30

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

2009-10-20T11:15:00.006+10:30

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

2009-10-15T00:00:00.007+10:30

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

2009-10-12T12:41:00.007+10:30

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.