Thursday, December 30, 2004
Too many times.
And I mean ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and
I get the point.
Well, at The Department Of Giving You Something To Complain About, we aim to do just that!
And I should be excited why?
You see, our business operates on the premise that people are never happier than when they are given something to complain about. That's why we've recruited all the Wrong people for the job, and put them in a diverse range of inappropriate agencies- in order to ensure that if you require a product or a service from us, we WON'T be able to provide it to you!
Yeah, exciting, isn't it? Whenever you try to get something from us, we'll force you to wade through a sea of bureaucratic red tape, and in the end, you'll end up with the satisfaction of a Job Not Done!
What a crazy idea.
We think so! So, I can see you're interested. Would you like to send some money in to The Department Of Giving You Something To Complain About, along with a request for a product or service?
Wait a second... you expect people to actually pay you money for this?
Sure, why not? After all, you get just as much non-service from a company that's actually supposed to be giving you service. So why not trust us, a company that PROMISES not to do the job, then goes ahead and doesn't do it?
But isn't there a slight danger that, er, you'll be so good at not doing the job that when I want you not to do a job for me, you, um, won't not do it?
Um... well, you can complain about that too!
And you won't have to worry about losing any money on us. Just write us a cheque. Our organisation is so inefficient, that your cheque will never be cashed anyway!
Hmmm and double hmmm.
So, what do you say?
Wow! I'm about as excited about this project as I would be watching two drunken snails race off the top of Mount Everest. Okay, where do I sign?
Right here, sir! We look forward to Giving You Something To Complain About!
Hey, my first complaint is in the mail already...
would like to be given Something To Complain About! I hereby enclose
and look forward to you Not Doing The Job!
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
Anyway, he's blood funny. Here's just a few of the conversations we had over the past couple of days...
Lachlan: (While walking with us to Garden City, about a km from my house) If you kids don't shut up, I'm turning this footpath right around and taking you all home!
Lachlan: Ah, you might be able to J-walk over that street, but are you able to S-walk?
Me: You mean jump about like somebody out of Monty Python's Ministry of Silly Walks while wearing a penguin on my head?
Lachlan: I see you know your S-walking.
Me: Yeah, but in this town they have something against it.
Me: They prefer wearing pelicans on their heads...
Me: Well, there are planespotters, and trainspotters, but what about Trainspotters, for people like you and me? (Our last name is Train) They could shout, 'Hey, look, there's a Train! Let's get his picture!'
Lachlan: Sounds good.
Me: You could go better, and have things like 'Smith' spotters - the Royal Society of Smith Spotters.
Lachlan: Na, they're way to common. How about - 'Smythe' spotters?
Lachlan: And when people ask them if they spot 'Smiths', they could correct them, saying, 'Excuse me. We're SMYTHE spotters!'
Lachlan: When I was at the car races, some kid came up to me and asked for my signature. He was really excited, going, "Aw, please, can I get your autograph?" Must have thought I was one of the driver's. So I signed it, even though I probably broke the poor kids heart...
Friday, December 24, 2004
A man drove a green Commodore sedan with trailer attached to the property
Observeillance began at...
Moments later she drove into the driveway...
The residence is a single storey located in a rural location...
He suffered from no apparent discomofort...
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Wherein Tim Looks At Some Timeless Artistic Masterpieces And Interprets Them According To His Own Warped Political Ideology
"Look guys! Not only is he funny looking, he's one of those crazy blog nerds... ha ha ha... What a geek... Lets push him over and kick him in the neck!" says Patty in his email. He agrees to send through Stool, a comic book of his work. Sorry, his stuff.
His comics are full of venial corporate types, cowardly artists, artistic promoters who are at once effete and brutal, losers with a manic-depressive streak, poverty-stricken writers, not to mention murderous smiley-faces and monsters standing just out of the spotlight.
The first comic, titled A Violent Welcome, stars Patty – or comic-book Patty – ranting at some length about whatever interests him. “You know what I hate but?” he says, raising a gun. “Lazy cunts like Dave Eggers who couldn’t be bangered actually trying to construct a good bit of writing. Instead he just goes around in tighter and tighter self reflexive circles until the reader chucks it away…. Yep,” he continues, pointing the gun at his head, “Remove self from text. Seeya.” And blows his brains away.
Crazy ideas follow in quick succession – half-digested ideas from Marx and Sartre are regurgitated onto the page amongst demented fables about anarchists searching for ‘squalor to live in’; parables about idealistic conceptual artists, and ‘Accountants Against Sock Apartheid’. ‘Cocktopolis’ is a gratuitous dirty-joke/metaphor, repeated ad-nauseam for two pages. The message is a version of the stereotypical feminist mantra – ‘society is dominated by the phallus-wielding –patriarchy!’ – but the way it is told is hilarious.
The smaller stuff is brilliant. I liked ‘Apathy Man’, where the superhero in question confronts a crowd of protesters mouthing standardised symbols of Socialism, Anarchy and Resistance, and waving their fists in the air aggressively. Our hero zaps them with his ray and leaves them smiling at one another – Corporate symbols coming from their mouths. Which is better – before or after?
Worst is the conversation between Arnie Schwarzenegger and John Howard, a succession of clichés about the ‘Free Trade Agreement’ and our relationship with the United States, punctuated by a stereotypically violent end. Best is ‘Loud’, written for the Noise festival. (Noise is a typical ‘Youth’ festival, where public dollars are thrown at a group of artists who claim to be representing ‘young’ people but who usually have their own interests at heart.) It’s a perfectly formed tale about two true-believer artists led into perverted acts of Conceptualism by their flatmate, Terrence. “Did you hear that there are James Joyce readings on tonight in the loft? I thought we could go and throw some rocks.” It ends with a sermon – “Arts funding should be pumped back into small arts communities where it will keep older artists out of Centrelink for a moment while encouraging new artists to start making art. It shouldn’t be sent overseas to be squandered by some prosperous knobhead on the backpacker circuit.” Violence, followed by a standard argument about Government funding. The pretence, greed, and occasional brutality of the activist artistic scene is, for once, made bleedingly obvious.
“This is an anti-copyright publication,” writes Patty. “So go for your lives, you thieving cunts!”
Actually, this man deserves money for this. Turn him into a Capitalist pig. Demand cash from the Oppressive Money-Maker in your family, and buy ten – no, twenty – of his comics. Turn him from his inner-city, poverty-stricken hippy lifestyle!
Monday, December 20, 2004
She's already cast her scientific eye over several vital subjects. FUDS, for instance. Not to mention the magical shoelace that never comes undone.
Personally, I would like to suggest several more fruitful areas of inquiry:
- What does the South Pole look like? Is it like this, or more like this?
- If Santa Claus lives at the North Pole, then who lives at the South Pole? His evil twin, Satan Claws?
- I remember reading a story-thing by H. - something-Lovecraft-somebody-or-other about creatures that lived in caves beneath the Antarctic, or some such place. Anyway, if it happened in a book, it must be true, so can you get some photographs? (Oh, and don't forget to stick around for the moment when the Ancient Evil arises from its Icy Grave and destroys the world, and stuff).
- How far to the left of the South Pole is the North Pole?
- Once you've reached the South Pole, how far do you have to keep on walking before you fall off the Edge of the Earth?
Anyway, cheers, Nerdling, keep up the good work and the great blog. In your honour, I have created a new poll; it's on the sidebar, and I call it - The South Poll. It's about that most vexed question in human history: WHY??? WHY??? IN GOD/BUDDHA/CTHULHU'S NAME, WHY???
That story has now been rejected.
I shall be sending my profound and everlasting maleficient curses through to them shortly, along with another submission.
In the meantime, since I don't know what else to do with it, here's one of the stories I sent through. It was written a few months before the October election, and was originally intended to go along with an article I wrote on Conspiracy Theories...
And Finally - The Conspiracy You Never Expected
Deep in the gloomy dungeons of the dank basement of a shabby mansion in a minor town in an unimportant country (called
The meeting was opened by a customary manic laugh by the leader, Dr. Ughnor. “Bwa ha ha ha ha ha ha!”he laughed. “Welcome, my felonious friends, my colleagues in conspiracy, my nefarious neighbours … Welcome to the inaugural meeting for the Collective Union of Insanely Evil Supervillains!”
“I don’t like that name!” piped up the Baron von Nonhoffen from the back of the room. “It’s too long!”
“Silence!” shouted Dr. Ughnor. “I called this meeting, and I get to decide what the name is! Anyway, we’re not here to quibble over little things like names. We’re here to discuss our super-secret plans for WORLD DOMINATION! Bwa ha ha ha ha ha! We can quibble over little things like names later!”
“Oh, alright,” said the Baron.
“Get on with it, then,” said Helga.
“Very well,” replied Dr. Ughnor, grinning evilly. “But I must warn you, the plan is so diabolically clever, that it would take a genius to figure out. I’ll have to draw a diagram for you. Slave!” (to his assistant, who had been dozing off at the back of the room,) “fetch – the BLACK-BOARD!”
“I’m not your slave!” said his assistant crankily, wiping the sleep out of his eyes.
“Oh, maybe not – but at least I don’t pay you enough!” replied Dr. Ughnor.
“And it’s not a blackboard. You wrecked the blackboard the other day,” said the assistant, “When you used it as a shield in that gun battle we had with the FBI. We have to use a white board now!”
“Oh, very well!” snapped Dr. Ughnor. “Fetch … fetch the Slightly-Off-Blackboard of Pestilence and Death, and hurry up about it!”
When the assistant had returned with the Slightly-Off-Blackboard of Pestilence and Death, the Doctor picked up a felt-tip marker, but, discovering it was the wrong sort, settled to draw diagrams in the air as a way of illustrating his point to the collected villains.
“My partners in crime,” he began, “What I have to reveal to you today is a conspiracy so insidious, so dark and deep and diabolical, that it will surely deliver us the keys of ultimate power…”
“Yes, yes, hurry up!” called out the Baron.
“In short,” said the Doctor, “What I am proposing is that secret representatives from our Conspiratorial Collective infiltrate the Government, and …”
“No good,” interrupted Helga. “The Illuminati tried that in
“Ah!” replied Dr. Ughnor. ‘But you haven’t heard the clever bit yet!”
“Alright then, what is it?”
“Well,” smirked the Doctor, “We will bide our time, being careful to perform everything by the book … and pretty soon, we will have infiltrated into the very highest echelons of power!”
“And then … we will stage a coup, AND IT VILL BE JUST LIKE DER REICHSTAG FIRE ALL OVER AGAIN!” shouted Helga excitedly, jumping out of her seat. She was very excited, and trembling all over.
“No, no!” insisted the Doctor. “That’s not the clever bit. We haven’t got to the clever bit yet. You’ve got to hear the next stage in my plan first!”
Helga frowned like an evil Supervillain who had just been told that she was going to have put her plans for World Domination on hold, and sat down, muttering, “Well, it sounded good to me …”
“And then, when our numbers have grown,” said the Doctor, “We will stage an election! And promise to lessen taxes! And increase jobs! And lower the crime-rate! And improve the quality of our hard-pressed public services! And … And … And we will…”
“Oh, what’s so good about that?” snapped the Baron impatiently.
“Well, it’s just a clever ploy to gain the trust of the people!” replied the Doctor smoothly. “So they’ll elect us. And, unbeknownst to them, once we have been elected…”
“VE VILL CRUSH THEM WITH AN IRON FIST!” shouted Helga.
“AND OPPRESS THEM AND SLAUGHTER THEIR CHILDREN,” roared the Baron.
“AND BUILD A MIGHTY MILITARY FORCE VICH VE VILL USE TO …”
“No, no, no!” interrupted the Doctor. “We won’t do any of that. Not right away, at least. No, first of all, we will have to ingratiate ourselves with the people… We will implement our policies to the best of our ability! And when our policies don’t work, we will give transparent excuses and make long speeches in parliament about how it’s the fault of the other side! And we will go on in this way, until our forces have gathered! And then … and this is the clever bit …”
“Yes?” hollered the Baron.
“Well, I haven’t thought about that yet,” admitted the Doctor, grinning sheepishly and evilly at the same time. “But I’m sure the clever bit will be really clever…”
“Huh. That’s no good at all,” said Helga, crossing her arms. “You’ll just be like another of those politicians! All promises, and they never deliver anything!”
“Well, can you think of anything better?” challenged the Doctor.
“Well… no,” she admitted, and flopped back down in her seat sulkily.
“Then let’s do it!” finished the Doctor, grinning evilly and sheepishly and triumphantly all at the same time, “Right. First things first, the public is never going to relate to us unless we have normal names. I’ll call myself… ammm, well, John Howard; you, Helga, you can be Bronwyn – oh, Bronwyn Bishop, and you, Baron, I’ll call you … hmmm, let’s see … Alexander Downer…”
 Actually, it was considered customary for Dr. Ughnor to close every second sentence with a manic laugh. For the sake of brevity, this will be edited out from the transcript from here on.
 And every girl, even a barbarian girl, has got to look after her reputation.
 That one just slipped in. Sorry.
 He was very proud of his evil grin; he practiced it ever morning in the mirror. How do I, a humble reporter, know this? I just do.
 Somehow Doctor Ughnor was able to smirk and grin evilly at the same time. Another one of his many exceptionally minor talents.
 See note 5, above.
 Well, you get the idea.
Friday, December 17, 2004
I'm glad you asked, Harry. Last time I checked, Newcastle was in NSW, Australia, and will remain that way for some time, bar revolution, civil war, or peaceful succession from the rest of Australia.
It is therefore easily distinguishable from Newcastle (Western Australia), Newcastle (Wyoming, America), Newcastle (Pennsylvania, America), Newcastle (Washington, America), Newcastle (Delaware, America), Newcastle (New Brunswick, Canada) and Newcastle (Alberta, Canada).
Not to mention Newcastle, England, in whatever Province/ County/ Barony/ Satrap/ Emirate/ Sultanata/ Whatever-it-is-you-call-it-over-there.
Best Overseas Australian Blog: Slush For intelligence, wit, and all-round perspicacity
Best New Blog: Hateful Checkout Chick For consistency: 'I hate the world and everything in it!'
Best Victorian Blog: Jazzy Hands Quote, unquote: "As I'm tripping over yet another smelly body on the lounge room (they have to sit on the floor because nothing gets the smell of teenage boy out of the furniture), I yell at them - "Why are you out tagging trains like normal kids? It'd be good for you - the fresh air, the exercise, the adventure." Need I say more?
Best Queensland Blog: The Rat Pack For Marty's amazing ability to sustain a blog on 'Can't blog at the moment' posts, several posts in a row. Also for being an intelligent, articulate voice for the young Australian Right.
Thursday, December 16, 2004
My Favourite Things
Androids on acid and cyborg assassins,
Catamite Klingons and Maoist Cardacians,
Vampires from Venus with chromium wings –
These are a few of my favourite things….
Grey-suited goblins and gargoyles in golashes,
Demons in tutus made from women’s eyelashes –
Republican Cougars wearing Plutonium Rings –
They’re just a few of my favourite things...
Gigantic butterflies that suck out your brains
And seed it with spawn as you’re screaming with pain –
Then conquer the world for their insectoid kings –
These are a few of my favourite things…
Lying on couches and thinking of karma
Getting drunk on red cordial as I watch Futurama
And dream of the sex that tomorrow won’t bring –
Yes, they’re just a few of my favourite things...
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
For no reason at all, I would also like to mention that there are categories for Best Humour Blog, Best NSW blog, Best Victorian Blog, Best New Blog, etc, etc.
Why not go over there and make a nomination?
For no reason at all.
Apparently, if I mention some obscure Australian celebrity who I've never heard of by today, these girls will sponsor some third world child. So, um, here goes: Collette.
Now would someone explain to me who this 'Collette' beast is again?
PS - Vote 1 Beautiful Atrocities for Best Foreign Blog.
Apparently they've released a disco version of The Australian national anthem. Here's a link on the Daily Telegraph website...
I prefer The Sausage Version, which I heard this afternoon uttered by The Kid On The Bus.
Australians all love sausages,
For we are Yum and free,
With golden soil and wealth for toil,
Our home is girt by skis.
O Wise and Knowledgeable Kid On The Bus, We Salute Thee.
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
The Bonsai Kitten: keep it in a jar by the window, and it will last for weeks.
When he grows up, he will move into a trash-can and feed on compost. It's a livin'.
She learnt how to do this by killing small native animals.
The Serial-killer of all mouses.
Cat-food abuse, an all-too-common syndrome in todays society.
Kite Yodelling is quite simple, if you know how. All you have to do is this:
- Put on your best evening gown
- Purchase a kitten from the nearest kitten-vendor
- Turn your oven up to 200 degrees fahrenheit
- Sit on the kitten.
In no time at all, your kite will be yodelled.
Monday, December 13, 2004
Some people may argue that it is the prepositions, but I would disagree: it is true that prepositions are not inherently interesting words in themselves, but they are useful. And in their utility lies their interest.
No; for me, the most boring word in the English language would have to be 'strung'. I shall strive, from now on, to make Will Type For Food the blog a 'strung' free-zone.
In the grand Will Type For Food tradition of link-whoring and publicity stunts, I have here posted a number of gratuitously cute puppy pictures, complete with descriptions, for your gratuitous, pornographic pleasure...
He grew up to sniff the bum of Hitler's dog.
She rolled in a dead-fish the other day, and her owners haven't been able to wash the smell out of her fur ever since.
They're being bred by a Korean restaurant. In one months time they will become a delicious stew
He fell in love with a Chihuahua, but alas, their relationship was doomed from the start: for she was going out with a poodle.
PS for more on cuteness and the modern internet revolution, see Harry Hutton.
Will Type For Food is the Second-worst of the best Australian blogs!
Having twice achieved the penultimate prize for performance poetry in NSW, I am only too pleased to carry on this tradition, and become the second-worst-of-the-best-Australian-blogs. And next year, I aim to go one better - to become the Second-Worst-of-the-best-blogs-in-the-world!
I'd like to take this opportunity to thank all the bloggers and readers who have offered encouragement, and voted for me in these awards. Special thanks to Jess, for giving me a shout, Darlene for voting for me, Kathryn, whose postings saved this blog from absolute mediocrity, and of course Red. And thanks to everyone else who has read this blog and voted for me in the poll. And I do mean that sincerely, folks! I value all my readers, and am grateful for every vote that was cast in my favour in the poll - even if I can't understand why the hell anyone would vote for me anyway!
Friday, December 10, 2004
These results are a stunning reaffirmation of the continuing importance of the classics in modern Swearology, but a personal disappointment for me, who was hoping to see a win for 'Bloody Hell!'.
A number of other obscenities are vying for second and third places, including 'Cunt!' (4 votes), 'Shit!' and 'Zounds!' (just 1 point below the current second-place getter, on 3 votes).
Also on 3 votes is 'Bloody Hell'. Two of those voters were me...
The full list of results, in descending order, from 'most votes' to 'least votes', is here appended:
-Fuck! 43% 13
-Shit! 10% 3
-Cunt! 13% 4
-Bollocks! 7% 2
-Bloody Hell! 10% 3
-Damnation! 0% 0
-Zounds! 10% 3
-Bugger! 3% 1
-Blast! 0% 0
Something else (let us know in comments) 3% 1
In other news, I have just written what could be the most gratuitously obscene post in the history of blogging.
Why did the chicken cross the road?
may be answered.
To this date, all research into the subject has proved fruitless. An international team of philosophers have endlessly deconstructed and reconstructed the question in an attempt to find its hidden, cryptic meaning, to no avail. Physicists have made numerous attempts to find the answer in their Unified Field Theory, but to this date have found no answer. Many psychologists have attempted to relate the chickens actions back to its suppressed Oedipal desires for its mother, but this theory has not been accepted, either.
And then the Australian Police Force got in on the act...
Detective: Mr Chicken, what were you doing on the night of October the 1st?
Chicken: I refuse to answer that question, on the grounds that it might incriminate me...
Detective: We have witnesses, Mr. Chicken ... plenty of witnesses... who say you were seen standing on the kerb of a busy highway at 7.30pm, eastern standard time...
Chicken: (Crosses wings)I want to see my lawyer.
Detective: Now then, Mr. Chicken, this is a purely informal interview, and you're free to go at any time. We'd just like to know the answers to a few questions...
Chicken: Oh? Then why's that on? (Indicating tape recorder with wing).
Detective: Mr. Chicken, do you recognise this road? (Showing him a photograph)
Chicken: Sure. That's Hanley Street. He's an old friend of mine, I talk with him every now and then. So what?
Detective: I put it to you, Mr. Chicken, that you were crossing this road on the night in question, and that...
Chicken: Why are you saying these things about me? I want to see my lawyer! Is it a crime to cross the road, anyway? No? Well, then...
Detective: Mr. Chicken, please calm down, we just want to know...
Chicken: No! I refuse to participate in this ridiculous charade! This interview is ove...
Once scientists have answered this question, they will be able to focus on other pressing scientific issues, such as - Why Women Are Always Attracted to Gay Men, The Meaning Of Life The Universe and Everything and God, Now That I've Answered All The Big Questions, What Am I Going To Do For The Rest Of The Day?
Thursday, December 09, 2004
The time: AD 3--. The Roman Empire is in collapse. The barbarian hordes are swarming through Roman territories, driving back the once powerful legions of Roman soldiers…
The Place: Somewhere in Rome…
(Enter Senators HIERONYMUS and AGRONOMOUS)
Senator Hieronymus: Greetings, O Senator Agronomous. Have you seen any sign of Caeser Anonymous?
Senator Agronomous: O Senator Hieronymous, I have not. But why do you ask?
Senator Hieronymous: I bear serious news, O Agronomous. The barbarian hordes, led by the powerful Germanus and the wily Animus, threaten the Pax Romana, the peace of the entire Roman Empire…
Senator Agronomous: These tidings are indeed serious, O Hieronymous. I shall endeavour to find His Inimitable Anonymity, forthwith. (Exeunt)
(Flourish of trumpets – Enter CITIZEN EUPHONIUS)
Citizen Euphonius: Friends – Romans – Countrymen – Lend me your ears!
(A crowd gathers)
Citizen Euphonius: I come not to bury Caesar, but to praise him! Er … wait … no, that’s not right, he’s still here … I come not to praise Caesar but to introduce him … er no, that’s not quite right either, ipso facto, cogito ergo quod sum demonstrandum erat, or something…
Person In Crowd: Get on with it!
Citizen Euphonius: Er… that’s about it, really. I introduce – the mighty Caesar Anonymous!
Person In Crowd: Who?
Citizen Euphonius: Your emperor, you clown. (Exeunt)
Enter Caesar Anonymous
Caesar Anonymous: Friends, Romans, Country … (the crowd starts dispersing) Hey… what did I say?
Senator Hieronymous: (Coming up to him and patting him on the back) Nothing that hasn't been said before, O Caesar.
Caesar Anonymous: Oh, bugger! That was the only thing I’d prepared! Now what am I going to talk about?
Senator Hieronymous: Well, now that you’re here, O Caesar, I have news of solemn import … the Northern tribes, led by Germanus and Animus, have forced back our legions to the very gates of Rome itself…
Caesar Anonymous: Oh, no! What a jolly bother! That’s so unfair…
Senator Hieronymous: Yes, but the question is, O Caesar…
Caesar Anonymous: What am I going to do about it?
Senator Hieronymous: Well, thanks for asking. May I suggest, O Caesar, you look to history for an example. Act as did you predecessor, Caesar Augustus, when …
Caesar Anonymous: Never heard of him.
Senator Hieronymous: Augustus? But Caesar, he was our first Emp…
Caesar Anonymous: Not at all.
Senator Hieronymous: Why … then, I say, look to Romulus and Remus, who, the poet tells…
Caesar Anonymous: Not them either.
Senator Hieronymous: (Rolls eyes) Brutus?
Caesar Anonymous: Nope.
Senator Hieronymous: Julius?
Caesar Anonymous: Nah.
Senator Hieronymous: Cassius?
Caesar Anonymous: Not at all.
Senator Hieronymous: Then … well… I say, look to … Jesus!
Caesar Anonymous: (Shakes head)
Senator Hieronymous: But he has been the God of this city, ever since…
Caesar Anonymous: Nope. Don’t know about him. I worship the God Ubiquitous, didn’t you know?
Senator Hieronymous: (Desperately) Well… what about the Emperors Pseudonymous, Eponymous, Phenomenous, and Abominus?
Caesar Anonymous: Ah. Now those I have heard of.
Senator Hieronymous: And you will have heard of the Emperors Autonomous, Glutinous, and Synonymous?
Caesar Anonymous: Ah. The Emperors Synonymous. The famous twins! Yes, I have heard of all of those. What edifying historical examples have you to draw, O Senator Hieronymous?
Senator Hieronymous: Well… nothing… those Emperors didn’t really do anything.
Caesar Anonymous: Then why on Earth did you … (He is interrupted by the re-entry of Senator Agronomous, at a run…)
Senator Agronomous: O Caesar! The Barbarians have occupied Rome! We are no longer free!
(Enter GERMANUS, carrying a blood-stained sword, and ANIMUS, bearing a gore-dripping axe, respectively.)
All: (Shocked) Generals Germanus and Animus!
Germanus: (Waving his hand) Nein! Nein! How many times do ich have to tell you Dumbkopfs, that ‘Germanus’ ist nicht mein name?
Animus: Nine times, that is how many you haf been haffing to tell us, O mighty Germanosch.
Germanus: Ja, ja, oh pusallinimous Animus! It does not matter. But vile ve are about it, I might just rename this city…
Caesar Anonymous: Rename … Rome? What to?
Germanus: You be kviet, you Roman schvein! Ja, ja, I vas just thinking more like … (thinks) … Romeberg.
Animus: Ah… nah, I am do not liking it. How about, Romanheim? Or, say, Romanosch, or maybe Romehalla?
Germanus: NEIN! Romeberg it shall be!
Caesar Anonymous: (Clears throat)
Germanus: Oh, for Votans sake – if it is not ein thing, then it is ein other. Vat is it, you Romanbergian Schvein?
Caesar Anonymous: Well, I am Caesar, pleased to meet you, and all that …
Germanus: Vell! Ve are in the presence of Royalty! General Germanus at your service, O Caesar! (Reaching out hand)
Caesar Anonymous: Caesar Anonymous.
Germanus: Caesar … what?
Caesar Anonymous: Anonymous.
Germanus: Is that your real name?
Caesar Anonymous: Well… uh … no…
Germanus: Then … vat is your real name?
Caesar Anonymous: I … don’t know!
Germanus: Vell … that doesn’t matter. Romeberg is now mein!
Animus: Und mein…
Caesar Anonymous: I beg your pardon. No it’s not. Romeberg … I mean, Rome… is mine! And it says quite clearly in the history books that Rome burns down, because of Nero’s fiddling!
Germanus: What history? I haven’t heard of that!
Caesar Anonymous: Ha! That’s because in Rome, our study of history is so advanced that most of it hasn’t happened yet!
Germanus: Aha, your vile vords are tricky, you Romebergian schvein, but they vill not fool me! Prepare to DIE! (Advancing on him, flourishing the sword in the air)
Hieronymous and Agronymous: Hail, Caesar, who is about to die!
Caesar Anonymous: Er … wait! You can’t do that! … Er… Look behind you! Isn’t that Ragnarok I see happening?
Germanus: Ha! You vill not fool me, Romebergian schvein! That ist der oldest trick in der book!
Caesar Anonymous: No, no … it is, it really is, Gottedammerung!
Germanus: Pull der other vun!
Caesar Anonymous: Really… it’s the twilight of the Gods! The end of the Germanic pantheon – it’s happening now!
Germanus: (Raises his sword)
Animus: Germanosch! Enough of that! Ve … haf other things to worry about! It’s … IT’S RAGNAROK!
Germanus: Vat? The end of der Vorld? Das vas not supposed to happen for … (takes out pocket sundial) another century!
(Both turn and leave, amidst crashing Wagnerian Chords and Fa-la-laing Valkyries)
Senator Hieronymous: Bravo, O Caesar!
Senator Agronomous: You have saved us!
Senator Hieronymous: You have saved all of Romberg…. Er, I mean, Rome, with your quick thinking!
Caesar Anonymous: (Shrugs) O Tempora, O Mores
Caesar Anonymous: It was nothing. Come on. We’ve got another 300 years of splendid moral and military decay into squalor to look forward to. Let’s get to it! (Exeunt)
Racism is institutionalised, even I (from the left) am guilty of it...just as (sorry guys) men are guilty of sexism by virtue of the institutionalised privileging of their own perspectives, desired etc...
Ahhh. Took me right back, that. Here is my brief response to some of the comments raised in the course of that argument. Anybody bored by long political postings might like to skip the rest of this...
I think the right (friends or not) DO perpetuate the horrors listed above - though most (probably our friends even) do so inadvertently.
Whether through their comfortable silence,
If the 'right' was comfortably silent about these issues, then this conversation would not be happening.
or their blind acceptance of the status quo, they are instrumental in the perpetuation of 'ethnocentrism'- the assumption of the superiority (or correctness) of their own cultural, racial, and probably class beliefs.
Show me one right-winger who 'blindly accepts' the status quo. On the contrary, right-wingers and left-wingers alike are both able to recognise suffering and disadvantage when they see it, and it is their common aim to do what they can to alleviate this suffering.
You really do assume the euqality of all things don't you Gibbo...yet again, ethnocentrism.
Euqality? Now there's a new concept...
Do you get (when you read more you will) that society and the insitututions within, are founded on fundeemnatl INEQUALITIES.
White culture is founded on the oppression of black culture
That's not a proof, that's an assertion. What's more, it's an assertion based on dubious premises. 'White culture'? What's that? Western Culture? Anglo-Saxon culture? Something else?
And there are - arguably - strong cultural movements in 'white' culture founded on the emancipation of black culture. Like, say, the RIGHT-WING REPUBLICAN PARTY in America!, whose first (and greatest) achievement was to grant freedom to the Negro slaves in America.
I must make my philosophical position clear...individuals are not born in a vacuumn. They are insitutionalised; constructed by vittue of a set of existing ideas about culture, about sex, and about sexuality...
Often, the defence of 'white culture' is founded on the (false) assumption that it is innocent of internal bias - which it is not.
You won't find many people in today's Australia who think that Austrlaian culture is 'perfect'. Which pretty much knocks that assumption dead in the water.
Notice also TimT, you used the words "liberal community" in your defence. This is sort of what I mean...this concept is a conecept specifc to 'white culture'...you are assuming the innocent value of conecpts that are peculiar to yourself
There's two interesting arguments here:
a) "Liberal community" is a "concept specific to 'white culture'".
Interesting you question this - a core value of modern Australian society - yet feel no need to assert an 'alternative' set of values. I base a lot of my ideas on the assumption that "Liberty" and a "Liberal community" is a good thing - happy to admit that.
b) "You are assuming the innocent value of concepts peculiar to yourself"
Actually, I'm not sure that "Liberal community" is an innocent concept - since it implies letting a large group of people do what they want. Even in the most 'liberal' society, there will be murderers, sadists, and paedophiles. Letting people do what they want can be dangerous.
That's enough for now! Leave comments below...
UPDATE - Wow, he just stuck his hand inside his shirt and scratched his chest.
UPDATE - Oh God, I'm not supposed to give out details about the jobs I'm working on. Did I just violate this guys privacy?
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
Here is a short explanation of the correct terminology to use when talking about these anonymous posters.
Anonymouse: A person who leaves a snarky comment but is too cowardly/timid to leave their name.
Anonymice: The plural of Anonymouse. Having two or more Anonymice on your blog at the same time is a terrifyingly humorous spectacle.
Anonymoose: An anonymous poster who is brave enough to leave their name and/or contact details with their snarky posting.
Pop Culture References
The Anonymouse that Roared: Ealing Film, produced c. 1950, about an early example of the species Anonymouse.
Nancy Wake, the White Anonymouse: British war hero, who went under Nazi blog-lines to operate as a spy.
Bullwinkle the Anonymoose: American cartoon character, featuring heavily in blogs of the 1960s/70s.
UPDATE - And before I forget: Anonymousse (A french Anonymouse), Anonymous Animus (A battle between two Anonymoose) and of course Phenomenanonymous (A truly phenomenal collection of Anonymice). BTW - original idea for this posting came up on this thread.
my existance is meritles an spiratuelastic but im prety sure islem wont help me cos i dont no hot to fyl a polan er an orin.
HA HA HA | Email | Homepage | 06.12.04 - 11:38 pm | #
Ball Bag, I’ve emailed you. What IS that Ha man going on about. What is a “dont no hot to fyl a polan er an orin”
What is it? I am totally mystified. Is there a pillar of Islam the Imams are only telling him about? Is he actually abu Hamza and typing with his hook hand. What the fuck??
bint | Email | Homepage | 07.12.04 - 12:16 am | #
The ha chap is one of Harry’s students, and takes a bit of getting used to. What he means is, he doesn’t know how to fyl a polan er an orin. But he does know how to wait real qiuet an then yell ‘fuck’ in someons ear by suprise.
MNK | Email | Homepage | 07.12.04 - 12:26 am | #
Bint, HAHAHA fightens me quite a lot, he is deeply sinister and I suggest you don't enrage him. By the way, as far I can tell you haven't e-mailed me, but it is probably my mistake, I am a fucking idiot.
Ball Bag | Email | Homepage | 07.12.04 - 12:44 am | #
"Dont no hot to fyl a polan" is straightforward enough: he doesn't know how to fly a plane. "Er an orin" I'm not so sure about. I'll get back to you.
Harry Hutton | Email | Homepage | 07.12.04 - 12:53 am | #
BBI bet it is in your junkmail, because I have a saucy email address and a silly pseudonym. Have a look, and I’ll send you another one anyway.
Er an orin, is clearly Or an orange. He doesn’t know how to fly a plane or an orange. Like me, hey, Ha Ha Ha, guess what, I can’t fly a plane or an orange either. God, we should hook up...
bint | Email | Homepage | 07.12.04 - 1:01 am | #
It's an intriguing question: 'how does one fly an orange?' Actually, the answer to that is quite simple. All you have to do is go to a reputable Orange Flying Academy and get your licence.
I myself attended the Sydney School of Citronautics for a brief period of six months, after I left school, and learnt the basics of Orange-flying, including:
- Piloting the Orange
- Engine Maintenance
- What to Do in the Event of Mould
- The Effects of Peel on Wind Resistance, and
- What Poodles Have To Do With All Of This (quite a lot, actually)
My trainer was a lamington, and proved to be quite effective.
Unfortunately, all that we had to practise on were lemons, as the oranges were out of season, so when I left the school, I had merely attained a general citrus-flying licence. I did try Orange-flying for a bit, after that, until I got caught by a police sergeant for not having a proper Orange-Flying Licence.
Thankfully, the Officer in question turned out to be a bowl of Laksa soup, so I ate him. But I haven't had the courage to fly an orange since.
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
My aim is to be quite informal with this blog, because like most people I tend to crap on the best when I don't think too much. Of course, that statement suggests that sometimes I do think and that would be a gross lie and possibly defamatory.
Of course, she's having you on. Her blog is one of the most entertaining and thoughtful blogs around ... I think...
Secondly, the Checkout Chicks, who explain...
This blog isn't all about how much you guys suck, it's also about how much we suck.
So there you have it. Checkout Chicks suck. Click here to find out how much...
And guess what? I just noticed that I mixed up the URL's for the links. So I guess that means I suck too! I suck, you suck, we all suck together! Visit these blogs now and join in the festival of suckage!
UPDATE - Darlene has now moved here due to problems with blogger.
Sunday, December 05, 2004
Well, in the first place, there's no way you'd be able to make a judgement about my personality by simply referring to something as simple as a star chart.
In the second place, and more importantly, I'm not pedantic. I'm fastidious. And if you really want to find out more about my character, then I suggest you stop looking at the horoscopes, and start looking in respectable scientific sources, like the dictionary:
pe·dan·tic ( P ) Pronunciation Key (p-dntk)
Characterized by a narrow, often ostentatious concern for book learning and formal rules: a pedantic attention to details.
fas·tid·i·ous ( P ) Pronunciation Key (f-std-s, f-)
Possessing or displaying careful, meticulous attention to detail.
Difficult to please; exacting.
Excessively scrupulous or sensitive, especially in matters of taste or propriety.
Glad I could clear that up.
I'm not naming any names, but rest assured that the person has been contacted and given a strong reprimand for their irresponsible activities. They know who they are, and I recommend that they go and stand in the corner of the room and think about what they have done. Or, if they live in a tower and their house doesn't have any corners, I suggest they write out a thousand times 'I will not nominate Will Type For Food ever again'.
Having said that, I suggest that my readers (all two of them) head to the website:
And vote for somebody else. If you are a fascist, and enjoy eating babies, oppressing the working classes, etc, etc, I suggest that you vote for Tim Blair. If you are a Communist, and you are wont to indulge in Gulags and Pogroms and the worship of brutal dictators, may I recommend you cast your ballot for Ausculture? Thankyou.
Being sorry for something which you're not directly responsible for? It's a brilliant concept. Being sorry for another group which are not directly responsible for the something which has caused you to be sorry in the first place? Even brillianter. But being sorry for another group which are not directly responsible for a something which is not in itself a bad thing at all? It's genius, I tell you. Pure genius.
But I think, as an Australian, who has never left the country of my birth, I can go better....
I would therefore like to offer apologies on behalf of my fellow Americans. I would like to apologise for The Simpsons and Futurama and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which have brought joy to the hearts of millions. I would like to apologise for Thomas Edison and Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson. I would like to offer my heartfelt sorrow for ever having given the world Charles Ives, Aaron Copland, George Gershwin, Cole Porter, and Leonard Bernstein. And I am heart-cringingly rueful over having inflicted such diverse geniuses as Herman Melville, Edgar Allan Poe, J.D. Salinger, James Thurber and P.J. O'Rourke on the world. I am weeping and wailing and rending my hair at the very thought.
Actually, that's not nearly sorry enough. Why apologise on behalf of the real achievements of America? Why not apologise on behalf of their fictional achievements?
.... furthermore, I am feeling positively suicidal at having inflicted the awful BusHitler klone on the world. I am in absolute despair, in anguish, I tell you, for the AmeriKKKan empire which is in the process of subjugating the third world even as we speak. I'm sorry for ...
That's how sorry I am!
Saturday, December 04, 2004
Animal activist wants to 'live like a pig'
A South Australian animal rights activist has challenged the pork industry to let him live like a pig and allow the media to film the results.
Animal Liberation spokesman Ralph Hahnheuser has written to numerous major piggeries, seeking permission to confine himself to a sow stall for three weeks.
He says such a pen is just two metres long by 60 centimetres wide, with a concrete floor and no bedding.
I just couldn't stop laughing. Then I heard a tiny voice piping up at me from - from
"Free the chickens!" it squeaked. "Free the chickens today!"
I pulled the desk drawer open. An animal activist had taken up residence and he was marching back and forth, chanting something about chickens and freedom and human rights for animals.
"What are YOU doing in there?" I asked.
"Free the chickens!" he chanted again. "I'm here to protest against the dreadful conditions battery hens have to endure on a day-by-day basis! Do you know that battery hens hav"
I rammed the door shut, hoping he'd be gone by tomorrow.
He wasn't. When I sat down to work, he was still there. I could hear his voice wafting up out of the corners of the drawer. "I'm here to stay!" he chanted. "Chickens rights today! I'm here to stay!..."
When I opened the drawer to check in on him, I noticed that he'd started growing some type of fungus in one corner of the drawer from which he obtained nourishment.
That wasn't all, either. I went into my room later that day to get dressed, and discovered a man lying down amongst the shoes.
"Who the hell are YOU?"
"I'm ... a Heterosexual!" he said, rather loudly, looking as if he actually knew what he meant.
"Yeah?" I said.
"I've retreated to the closet - as a protest!" he said. "A protest against the disgraceful treatment of gay, lesbian and bisexual people by fascists like YOU!"
"By - me?"
"Yes, YOU! Admit it. You're a Heterosexual, aren't you? But you just can't find the nerve to go back into the closet where you belong!"
"What are you talking about?"
"If you had any courage, you FASCIST, you'd be joining me NOW, and helping to overcome years o"
SLAM. I'd get dressed some other time.
The hippy in my desktop drawer was getting louder the day after. "Think of the chickens!" he shouted. "Think of the CHICKENS! Won't somebody PLEASE THINK OF THE CHICKENS?"
Jerking the drawer open, I scowled down at him.
"Shut up!" I shouted. "You'll wake the neighbours up with all that racket!"
"I WANT to wake them up!" he chirped. "I want the whole world to know of the Disgraceful Conditions Battery Hens are Forced to Endure! I'm sure any day now the media will notice my actions, and then ..."
Bloody hell. Maybe if I bought some earphones then...
There were several more Heterosexuals who had retreated to my cupboard by that evening. They sprawled about amongst my underwear reading copies of Germaine Greer's The Female Eunuch.
One looked up at me.
"Fascist!" he snarled. "You're a disgrace to all Heterosexuals!"
And that wasn't all. Underneath my bed I discovered a tent-embassy of Bob Brown clones. They all sat about, peering at one another through glasses, mouthing the words "Peace", "Love", "Sustainability" and "Tofu", mantra-like, for hours on end. One of them had chained himself to my bed-post. When I spoke to him, he told me he was they were concerned that I was importing Genetically Modified foods into my house. Or something.
That night they'd started up a doof and the music went on for hours and hours and amongst the reek of the pot, I couldn't get up to sleep and "THAT'S IT!" I cried. "IN THE MORNING, YOU GUYS ARE GONE! YOU'RE OUT OF HERE!"
First thing in the morning, I called in the pest exterminators. Best thing I'd ever done in my life. I went to the pub across the road while they fumigated the place. When the screams started, I was sipping on my beer contentedly. By the evening, I was picking my way amongst the carcasses of the dead hippies. The head of one actually detached from the light-covering hanging from the ceiling and drifted to the ground. I kicked it to the corner of the room.
Then there was a knock at the door.
When I opened it, there was a reporter standing there beside a cameraman, with a microphone stuck in my face.
"Mr. Train," she said, smile smeared over her plastic features, "We've been hearing that somebody has taken up residence in your deskto... oooeeer..."
She was looking over my shoulder at the head in the corner of the room. The camera swung to follow her gaze...
Friday, December 03, 2004
The Ontology of Dog
Praise DOG! the All-bitey,
Who hath bred our nation
Of Terrier, Beagle, Pointer, Chihuahua,
Praise DOG! the OmYipotent,
Who hath left his mark
On tree, lampost, shrubbery,
And bush in the park.
Yea, he hath given his Gospel
To all who can smell,
From backyard to backyard,
Kennel to kennel.
O DOG!, through the years,
Through the nights and the days,
I shall forever be barking
Hymns in thy praise!
O DOG! how I long
To walk by thee in heaven,
And feast for all time
On Good-O - and Devon.
Praise DOG! the All-bitey,
Who hath made our nation
Of Terrier, Beagle, Pointer, Chihuahua,
Poodle and Alsatian.
The second piece I wrote on the train on the way up, but didn't read it out because I didn't think it was good enough. It was called
Save the Planet
Save the whales,
Rescue the forests,
And end the patriarchal oppression of females!
Stop Global Warming
Plug the Ozone Hole
End our rapacious quest for oil, gas, and coal!
Show the Bourgeoisse Oppressors
That there is another way!
Make love! not war!
Immediately make World Peace compulsory
Enact it in law!
Sing songs and hold hands!
For all the oppressed-lesbian-chicken-third-world-
Vegan-victims of fashion!
And last but not least,
I'll SAVE THE EARTH! too -
But before I begin -
WHERE THE HELL'S MY TOFU???!!!???
As you can see, I tried to cram every existing leftist cliche into 20-odd lines. Not entirely happy with the results, but there you go...
In the past few days the comments section has degenerated into a kind of low tavern, with everyone cursing like scullions. I don't want to ban swearing altogether because, done skillfully, it can be very funny; but you've got to swear right.
Inevitably, this raises the question - if you swear in the course of a discussion about the nature of swearing, in order to make a point, does that really count as a swear word? So, if you say, 'let's talk about the word, "fuck",' are you really swearing? If swear words are only offensive when they are used gratuitously, then what can be more gratuitous than swearing in the course of a conversation devoted entirely to swear words?
What is it that makes swear words so offensive, anyway?
Is there a division of the linguistic sciences which deal with swear words - something like, say, Swearology? If there isn't, there should be. Swear words can be very useful. They can turn a bad poem into a passable one:
Fucking April is the frigging cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land...
In the bally room, the blimming women come and bleeding go
Speaking of Michael-bloody-Angelo.
It's not as if we can ever get rid of swear words, anyway. I mean, imagine we decided to abolish all swear words in the English language, and replace them with other, inoffensive words? Pretty soon we'd develop a whole new swearing vocabulary.
And what's wrong with swearing, really? It's a natural part of life, and everybody does it. Popes shit, nuns piss, and princes swear:
...Albert Edward, the Prince Wales, was shot by an anarchist and said, "Fuck it, I've taken a bullet."
What's your favourite swear word? Mine isn't really a swear word at all, not by modern standards: "Bloody hell!" It's straightforward, to the point, and it's as Australian as meat pies and beer. Anyway, I've put a new poll up at the side on this topic. Vote now!
Thursday, December 02, 2004
Almost as fast as a moderately speeding bullet...
He can leap over 3-and-a-half story buildings in two or three bounds.
Look! Up in the sky! (No, not that high...)
Is it a fly? Is it a zeppelin? NO! It's...
Neat, eh? I'm also working on this:
Flatman - By day he's a marketing executive - by night he wrestles with modern dieting techniques. Can he survive his regular bouts with bulimia and anorexia?
Any alternative suggestions? Thoughts? Let us know in comments!
Today it was beautiful and cool; it was cloudy in the morning and there was drizzle until noon; I got water in my hair and on my clothes and in the pages of my book while I waited for the bus and I was loving it. The way summer should be.
Enough of this nonsense, I say. With the miracle of modern science, we should surely be able to ensure that Australians no more suffer from long, hot summer days, but instead benefit from endless cool weather. In short, I am proposing the introduction of a new ice-age. This could be achieved in several ways:
- we could pump vast amounts of sulfur into the atmosphere, which would have the effect of blocking out the hot rays of the sun and cooling our planet down;
- we could have a nuclear war, thus precipitating the onset of the once-feared nuclear winter;
- we could shift the planet several degrees away from the sun, thus negating its effects;
- or we could simply outlaw summer by an act of parliament
Frankly, I don't care how we do it. I just want it to happen. By 2100, I want to see icebergs floating down Hunter Street! I want to see wall-to-wall ice; the planet covered in a vast, flat white sheet, desolate, icily beautiful:
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea
And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropped
They slept on the abyss without a surge -
The waves were dead - the tides were in their grave;
The moon their mistress had expired before....
George Gordon, Lord Byron, Darkness
UPDATE - The Nerdling has the right idea. She's on her way to Antarctica, and after an initial bout of seasickness, has put up several beautiful posts about the trip.
Tim, your links stink, you fink!
- John Bangsund's Threepenny Planet
- Broken Biro
- Poetry 24
- Superlative scribbles
- Kirstyn McD!
- Rorrim a tsomla almost a mirror
- More Sterne
- Cam the man from the Dan.
- Too hot to Raaaaaaandallllllll!
- Erin's Excellently Everlasting Effervescements!
- Slammy Infamy
- Hail Paco!
- Baron Blandwagon, purveyor of cyberbunnies, hawker of Roger Corman, and Misruler of the Multiverse
- The Bolta. Aiyeeeeee!!!!!
- Bad Apple Audrey
- The cartoon church
- Sir Martinkus
- A Zemblanian abroad and at home
- A hodge podge of hotzeplotz
- THE SLAMMA!
- Jottlesby's nottings, or should that be Nottlesby's jottings?
- The Snarking of the Hunt
- Jazzy Hands
- David of Metal City
- David the Barista
- The Blogger on the Cast Iron Balcony
- Be an Opinion Dominion Minion!
- ... and Fel
- His brilliant career - from whale sushi to crumbed prawn
- Jo Blogs
- Yet another Tim
- Was two peas, now three peas
- ... Still Life - now with extra rotating cats!
- An Amazingly Awesome Australian Ampersand!
- Blink and you'll miss 'er
- Red in the land of the tigers!
- Wire of Vibe
- Chase him, ladies, he's in the cavalry!
- The Non-palindromical Editrix in Germanium
- Old Sterne
- The briefs...
- ... and the brieflets
- The Purple Blog
- Blairville, lair of all that is wicked and perfidious
- The enticingly acronymical CSH
- EXTREEEEEEEME WYNTER!
- Mark of California
- Silent Speaking
- Lexicon the Mexican
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- Exciting Business Venture
- Family and Stuff
- Merry Christmas Eve
- Wherein Tim Looks At Some Timeless Artistic Master...
- Journey to the Ends of the Earth
- For Red
- Where Was I Again?
- My Tips
- My Favourite Things
- I'm Just Saying
- Vote One Carry Hutton, and Other Assorted Items.
- The Sausage Version
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- Kite Yodelling
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- A Nonny No - #2
- I Value Your Opinion
- Can't Talk
- A Nonny No - A Comment on Blog Terminology
- No Animals Were Harmed
- Sucking Hell!
- I'm Not Pedantic
- Tsk Tsk
- Ultra Apologies
- The Hippy In The Desktop Drawer
- Stuttering Joyous Leaves
- Let's Talk Trash
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- Performance Poetry Update
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- Please Sir, Can I Have Some More?
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