Young Bones Moan

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

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

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

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

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

Storm Bringer : Hail Mary-Sue

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

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

Yours,
ES 1996

Pseudo Effluent

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

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

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

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

Project Pat Told Me To Break The Law

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

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

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

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

"Funky"
"Trendy"
"Groovy"

Everyday I'm Dodging Earnest Youths

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

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

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

Krang was a brain that looked like a scrotum

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

Schweppe of Evan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Up From The Dirty Grease Chambers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bad Coffee Broken Dreams Vol 2.

This game is amazing

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

For a little while at least

Deafwish

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

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

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

Born Against

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Super Emo Holiday 2.0

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

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

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

And so I began.

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

'Where's ya bin?"

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

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

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

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

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

Ethnography. Right here.

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

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

Bye Cycle

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

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

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

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

No love BC

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

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

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

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

The robber said "Give me your money!"

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

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

"Anything" they said.

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

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

They looked at him.

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

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

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

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

Beagletron Demazin

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

Ethan Fowler rocked double denim in Nervous Breakdown. Incredible.

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

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

Half man, Half icing

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

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

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

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

Balls.

Gastro In Digest

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

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

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

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

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


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

Amazingly good.

Reminds me of being twelve.


Gastr

Corn King Christ Mite

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

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

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

Some people have foot fetishes.

Petroleum Ambergris

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

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

Smells like new!

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

It smells like new?!

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

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

New car. New car smell. Difference?

None!

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

Country acne?

Not sure exactly what that is.