Japanese dan am.

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

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

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

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

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.

The Art Of Useless Wooden Toy

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

Pongi's Kitchen 4

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

Pongi's Kitchen 3

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

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

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.

"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

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!

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

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.

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

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

I see bad breath spreading it's spores

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

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

Kid is clearly a mental.

Growing Pain Cakes

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

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

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

Exhibit A:

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

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

Exhibit B:

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

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