Hellvis Parsley

Spin Kicks For Jesus

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

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

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



Whale Oil

Pro Teen Drug Lord

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

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

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

Sniffing Paint/Chasing Taint

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

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

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

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

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

RZR SHRP, CRCK RDR

Excellent poem:

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



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

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

Fingering. Behind the shops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wang Tang Clan

On the Bott/Ox Blood Flavour Wizard

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Young Bones Moan

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

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

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

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

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

Storm Bringer : Hail Mary-Sue

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

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

Yours,
ES 1996

Pseudo Effluent

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

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

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

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

Project Pat Told Me To Break The Law

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

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

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

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

"Funky"
"Trendy"
"Groovy"

Everyday I'm Dodging Earnest Youths

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

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

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

Krang was a brain that looked like a scrotum

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

Schweppe of Evan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Up From The Dirty Grease Chambers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bad Coffee Broken Dreams Vol 2.

This game is amazing

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

For a little while at least

Deafwish

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

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

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

Born Against

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

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

"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.