Over there

Well look at that. Here’s a piece I wrote about the AFL and the Royal Wedding, both of which subjects I know you are all intimately involved with. Oh, and it’s in poetry. Obviously the perfect thing to publish on a sporting website, then.

Dark Age Rage

Geoff was bagging medieval music the other day. And look, I suppose it's impossible not to make fun of a group that advertises itself (in Comic Sans Font, no less) as Melbourne's most exciting medieval music ensemble, or whose newest songs date to the 13th and 14th century, respectively. But still, I've got to admit that I like medieval music, I've studied it, and have a few CDs of it stashed away.

I suppose it can't compete in terms of originality with modern musical genres, like rock, pop, folk, alternative, indie, punk, rock-pop, folk-rock, funk, progressive-rock, folk-punk, progressive-alt-folk-punk-jazz, hip-hop, trip-hop, hip-hop/rock, progressive-jazz-rock, pub-rock, garage-rock, and pub-alternative-funk-jazz-hip-hop-progressive-folk-punk. What with all the 'rock this' and 'punk that' and 'funk you', God only knows where it's all going to go next, but taking a wild stab in the dark I'd say maybe some garage-independent-alternative-house-folk-rock-jazz-rock-folk-folk-jazz-funk band will make it big in the next couple of years.

As fans of medieval music (that's plural because I'm including the Baron in that description, I'm not aware of anyone outside our house who likes it) we have to content ourselves with other pleasures. The pleasure, for instance, of listening to something that is not years, not decades, but centuries old. The pleasure of being able to imagine ourselves in a time and place when modern concepts of harmony (stuff modern rock bands pretty much take for granted) were invented. And, I suppose it's not much, but the pleasure of rediscovering something that thousands, maybe millions of peoples listened to centuries ago, was forgotten, and only rediscovered in the past few years. It's not much... not much at all.

But let's put it another way:



GetsomeSteeleyeSpaninterya!

And the kids from Bundoora were scrabbling around in the ceiling

Apart from all the dogs, when the Baron and I visited, Bright (and surrounding towns) seemed to be full to the brim with Melbourne. It is, of course, a well known tradition in Melbourne that whenever someone has a week off, or a long weekend off, or a day off, or even an afternoon off, they must immediately off to the countryside.

The entirety of Hawthorn had decamped at the riverside, while the residents of Fitzroy and Northcote contented themselves by riding around in circles around the town, bumping into everybody else (Bright was a change in scenery for them, though not necessarily a change in lifestyle). I'm pretty sure that at least half of the population of Box Hill drove up and down the hill where we were staying, sometimes stopping to take pictures, and as for the residents of Camberwell, well, I think they pretty much accounted for the queues at the chocolate shop.

A Monday morning drive to the Buckland Valley cemetery found the suburb of Carlton driving around in four wheel drives, with a Yarraville contingent standing in an adjacent field and poking at the Hay bales. Meanwhile, reports were that Richmond residents had arranged to camp with their families in tactical locations up and down the various surrounding rivers flowing from or into the Ovens, complete with squalling babe, in order to provide entertainment for residents hailing from Collingwood, who were on the opposite side of the rivers, attempting to fish.

All in all it was a pleasant holiday, but quite a relief to get back to our own corner of Melbourne, the suburb of Lalor, and unfold our little patch of land again (for, of course, it is also a tradition in Melbourne that when going on break one must take all one's children, food, dogs, cats, chickens, goats, yaks, bees, and the rest of one's property with one) behind our letterbox.

An ideological interpretation of a popular song

An interpretation by the Men's Activist Commune of a popular Easter song

Throughout history, men have been oppressed by the brutal domination of the matriarchy. Also, something about hairy-lipped lesbians. This is why the Men's Activist Commune (MAC) would like to lead the way in reclaiming aspects of popular culture. Let's start with this song.

Hot cross buns! Hot cross buns!
One a penny! Two a penny!
Hot cross buns!
If you have no daughters
Then give them to your son!!
One a penny! Two a penny!
Hot cross buns!

Now just look at those lines

If you have no daughters
Then give them to your sons!

It is quite simply appalling how this unfairly privileges, yet again, one gender over another. Yet you won't hear the politically-correct whoofters or the negative nanny-state nellies complain about this one, won't you? Therefore, MAC would like to propose a simple change:

If you have no sons
Give them too the other ones!

What could be simpler and more positive than that? MAC fails to see what problem anyone could have with this. Another change is also possible:

Brothers, sisters, mothers,
Fathers, daughters, sons!

You hear the left-wing lala-landers whinging all the time about inclusivity and tolerance, but when it comes down to it, not one of them would be willing to make these changes to this song, or others. This is disgusting! Also, remember, hairy-lipped lesbians.

This post has been brought to you by the Men's Activist Commune (MAC). Proudly growing our own tofu without Feminine Domination since 1972! Happy Easter.

WillTypeForFood does not endorse the contents of this post. WillTypeForFood actually doesn't know how it got there. WillTypeForFood just woke up one morning, and whizzo, all of a sudden it had just appeared on WillTypeForFood's computer. No, seriously.... um, okay. Yeah, happy easter...!

The canine life of Bright

The Baron and I are in Bright. Today, I'd say we have encountered roughly 16 dogs. Here are a few of them.

1. Wilbur. Fine, upstanding, and very very hungry beagle. (In fact 'very very hungry beagle' has to be a tautology). As I said yesterday, 'Wilbur's not an omnivore. He's an omnom-nom-nom-nomnivore.'

2. A great fat golden creature, who barked at us this morning, and, with the sun glistening off his coils and ripples, propelled himself towards us seemingly by the force of his barks alone. (It being debatable whether the four bits at the ends of his body were legs, or merely further coils and ripples on his magnificent bulk).

3. A large Alsatian, who poked his head over the fence of a Wandiligong property, regarded us cheerfully for some moments before barking enthusiastically. I attempted to enter into the spirit of the occasion by throwing my arms up in the air, screaming hysterically, and running away. I like to think this gave him pleasure.

4. A white dog with black spots, or possibly a black dog with white patches, who sternly stood on the other side of the road in Wandiligong, regarding us. He eventually ran over to our side to sniff Wilbur's posterior in a foreboding manner, before running back over the road. Following this, he got ready to come over again, and would have done so, too, had not a car zoomed down the road at that moment. Said white-black dog stepped forward and back repeatedly, and ended up turning around and around in rapid circles of utter confusion and frustration.

5. A tiny fox terrier who seemed to be suffering from a hoarse voice, which must have confused him. I mean, how could someone so small eat a horse?

Miss pique

The spell check on my computer doesn't allow 'pissweak', but instead suggests 'misspeak'.

Thinking 'misspeak' is 'pissweak' is a pretty pissweak misspeak, if you ask me.

The return of Angry Barky Dog

Speaking as a hick from the sticks proud proprietor in the goodly suburb of Lalor, they really like their dogs out here. Usually sitting just on the other side of the gate of someone else's property. Often waiting at that gate for the moment when the Baron and I an unsuspecting innocent citizen of Lalor walks by, in which they will snarl and let loose with an extraordinary melisma of barks. And generally adding to the serenity and tranquility of outer suburb life by howling, yipping, yelping, and whatevering for any or no reason whatsoever.

Yes, from a dog's perspective it must be a pretty good life out here:
- A pleasant day mostly spent hanging out with one's humans
- Lots of fun sitting behind the gate, waiting for the Baron and Tim unsuspecting strangers to walk up
- Feeling righteous anger and fierce rage as the barks well up in you
- Shouting out HEYWHATAREYADOINGHEREGETOUTAHERE as the strangers walk by
- Watching them jump right out of their skin as you shout at them
- Sending them off with a fresh round of barks
- Waiting for the whole cycle to occur again

I have to say I'm quite enjoying it, too. Sometimes when I discover a dog-house I walk past it several times just to encourage these impressive displays of canine rage. One such house is opposite to the shops, on the way to the station, and so I had been making a point of walking right past it every morning. Having been scared out of my skin several times by this particular creature, I had got to the point where I had been looking over the fence in order to mentally prepare myself for the moment when I would be scared out of my skin by the efforts of the barking dog. Once, in fact, the humans were standing around, but the dog was nowhere to be seen, so I found myself looking over into the front yard owned by people I did not know, and looking right into their eyes as I did so. Yes. Well.

Anyway, Angry Barky Dog at this property seemed to disappear for a while. I got so disappointed by this disappearance that I eventually gave up walking down that street, and turned off to the station before I got to the shops.

However, on Friday for some reason I didn't, and was blithely walking along that street when a bloodcurdling series of savage barks and a fierce scrabbling of paws against a metal gate made me jump right out of my skin with terror and horror and heart palpitations and happiness. ANGRY BARKY DOG HAD RETURNED!

So, I guess the moral of this story is
a) Always look into someone else's front yard for their dog.
b) Never look into someone else's front yard if they are standing in it themselves, which you will be able to find out just by looking into their front yard.
c) Get a dog so you can scare the living daylights out of all the other grannies and grandpas toddling down the street.
d) Woof!
I think I'll go with option d).

Judging a cover by its book

I've started reading a book recently - it makes quite a nice change to not reading a book, which is what I was doing, quite successfully, with Charles Dickens The Pickwick Papers. This is not to say that I didn't enjoy The Pickwick Papers, it's just that it was so dense, and Dickens writing is so, well, Dickensian, that at the end of every chapter (or sometimes at the end of every paragraph, or sentence) I was compelled to stop reading and do other things. For a month or so.

I eventually stopped reading The Pickwick Papers at the place where you're conventionally required to stop reading it, that place being the place that is marked The End. And though you might think that at that point I was quite relieved, I was actually rather sad. I suppose I'll just have to stop reading it at the start again sometime.

Anyway, the book I've started reading is Tim Winton's Cloudstreet. Being a big, serious, Australian-produced tome, you'd obviously expect it to be the sort of book that teachers have been using to clobber students over the head with, both literally and metaphorically, with predictable results: the students have hated it. But the book is good. I found a sentence at the beginning of an opening chapter that really stopped me:

Just near the crest of a hill where the sun is ducking down, the old flatbed Chev gives up the fight and stalls quiet.

Okay, maybe it doesn't seem quite so impressive subtracted from the rest of the book, but from the first few words I expected it to be in past tense, and then the use of a timeless image and the present tense, see... aw, gee, I hate sounding like a student essay.

So the writing in the book is pretty well wonderful. The writing on the book, however - well, let me just quote the back cover to you:

From separate catastrophes two rural families flee to the city and find themselves sharing a great, breathing, shuddering joint called Cloudstreet, where they begin their lives again from scratch. For twenty years they roister and rankle, laugh and curse until the roof over their heads becomes a home for their hearts.

Tim Winton's funny, sprawling saga etc etc etc...

Yuck! Eugh! Fawgh! And that is the kind of overly descriptive, overly pretentious blurb-writing that I could stop reading, over and over again. In fact, I could stop reading that back cover blurb so much that I kind of wish I had never started to read it in the first place. And I can just imagine school students being confronted with a Tim Winton book and turning to that back blurb and throwing the whole book away, cover and contents - this writing would be some people's first and last experience with a Winton book.

So: what books have you stopped reading lately? Are you likely to pick them up again?

Cities of wonder and amazement and opobalsamum

For a spot of interest, you might like to cast your eyes this way. It's a list of the greatest cities in human history. Some (like Rome and London) you will know of already, others you may never have heard of, and number two and four on the list sound like noises you make when you're throwing up. My personal favourites are the first two on the list -

JERICHO: The world's largest city in 7000 BC
Population: 2000

URUK: The world's largest city in 3500 BC
Population: 4000

Look at the population numbers! These days those are the populations you'd get in a fairly humble country town. They were apparently the bustling urban hubs of activity back in the day. When I read this yesterday, I started imagining what it would be like for Mr and Mrs Yokel from the countryside visiting these cities of their day. The public transport is excellent, you just have to wait on the street corner and a camel will come round in just three hours! And there's so much variety at the market - one and a half types of beans on sale*! And the people live 'in'** amazing one-story buildings - they call them groundscrapers. And if you just pop into the post office, then they can sacrifice your... well, ahem, they can sacrifice just about anything for you.

Anyway, my camel has punctured its tyre, so I've got to go call the RCCV***. Check out the article, it's good.

*Actually 'one and a half' is also the number for the types of beans I am personally able to tell by name in the present day. And one of those names I call them by is 'baked'.

**'In': an amazing new word used to describe what happens to people who are 'in' buildings.

***RCCV: Royal Camel Club of Victoria.

Employment advice

WRONG:
"I'm sorry I'm late to work because I stopped in Thornbury to check out how my zines were going only I walked the wrong way to the shop and had to turn back and retrace my steps and then got into conversation with the guy at the store and then when I got to the bus stop the bus to Moreland Station had just gone so I had to wait for the next one and by the time I got to Moreland Station the only train I could catch was the one that got me to work fifteen minutes after the bit where I would have been only five minutes late."

And that is why you shouldn't ever tell the truth about being late to work. Not only is it easier to remember a lie afterwards, but it's far far easier to sound convincing while you are doing the lie.

RIGHT:
"I'm sorry I'm late to work, I got attacked by lions."

Maybe you shouldn't throw in this line, though:

"It won't happen again."

Because, hey, you never know.

VERY IMPORTANT BLOG POST*

The other night I dreamed a joke. I mean, it had very little narrative, made less sense, and there was no point to the punchline whatsoever, but it was nevertheless a joke.

One day an Ancient Roman looks up and sees that the sun has stopped right in the middle of the sky. It's being blocked by the moon and can't get anywhere.

Oh no!!!, says the Roman. What are we going to do now? The sun is going to stay there all the time now, and we'll all burn!

So he thinks about this problem for a bit, and then says to himself, Aha, I know! We'll send for an Ancient Greek. They always know what to do!

So the Roman sends a message off to Greece, and after many days** it reaches them. A Greek immediately hops on a boat and comes over to Rome. Not a problem, says the Greek, when the Roman tells him the problem. I'll just get out my lever and we'll have things fixed in a jiffy.

So he tries to lever the moon above the sun. No go, he just can't do it. Next, he tries to lever the moon under the sun. Can't do that either. Finally, he manages to lever the moon right into the middle of the sun, which eats it all up, and proceeds across the sky.

At last, cries the Roman! We're saved! Thank you Ancient Greek! How much do we owe you?

Oh, says the Greek. Beware of Greeks bearing gifts!

See what I mean? Absolutely ludicrous. And it makes no bloody sense whatsoever. That's dreams for you.

And then everything turned into chocolate slice. And then I woke up. The end.

*All important blog posts have titles in caps.

** Though of course these many days only last for one day, because of the predicament outlined above.

Farty speculations

Not that you probably want to know this, but we walked through a fart last night. Consultation on the matter established without a shadow of a doubt that neither of us were responsible for it; rather, said flatulence was simply there, malingering, in the middle of the traffic island as we crossed the street.

Previously, I had thought vaguely, in that vague way I have of thinking, that once farts are released into the world, they disperse, spread, and are quickly absorbed into the surrounding environment. Not so, according to the olfactory evidence last night: they simply go on and on, around the word, flying hither and yon, a free gaseous spirit, finding fresh noses to grace. What follows from this is rather alarming: everything that everyone has ever farted is continuing around the world now; and the quantity is continue to grow as the amount of people who are farting increase. Pretty soon, it won't be long before the amount of people are overwhelmed by the gathering balls of flatulence, a great apocalypse of wind.

Or - and these thoughts just occur to me now - it was an example of long-range flatulence, a highly targeted emission from a sinister farting sniper; or maybe a case of localised, pre-emptive bottumular emissions, a sulfurous time bomb laid in wait for our attendance. Maybe it was even a time traveling fart!

There is a final possibility that occurred to me: maybe, like the tree that falls in the forest that needs someone to see or hear it fall, the humble fart that travels around the world needs a subjective observer to be verified and fully realised. Maybe without our appreciation it can never exist, and thus as we traveled by, this humble fart was finally satisfied, and could vanish in - well, not in a puff of smoke, because that's already what it was, but - a lack of a puff of smoke? Yeah, one of those.

Things which I know make no sense but which I still believe

I am worried about viruses with keystroke capture technology finding out passwords, so when I go to a site like blogger or email I type in the passwords really fast.

I have got into the habit of thinking that cars behave like trains or trams. Recent conversations had on the car: "Only one two more stops to go and then we're home!" Or: "And when we get back and park at Lalor Station, it's just another 10 minute walk back home."

Conversely, I also think trains behave like cars, and make up stories about them as they go past: that one's out for a Sunday morning drive, that one looks like it's taken a wrong turn and is a little bit lost, that one could do with some help with its parking.

When I am in a suburb, town, city, or even state that I know other people live in, I expect them any moment to turn up on a random street corner. "Oh look, we're passing Doncaster, we'll probably see Tim soon." "Yay, Montmorency, bet we'll see Laura and Dorian walking by." "Hey, we're in Sydney, I reckon Dale or Shelley will turn up soon."

Eat my bathroom

Left a cinnamon stick in the bathroom this morning while I was taking a bath and forgot to take it out when I was finished. It must be the nicest tasting bathroom in the whole of Melbourne by now.

Does anyone want to come over and eat some of my bathroom? Go on, I won't mind.

Various bits about various things

You will have probably heard that Andrew Bolt is going to host a television program, The Bolt Report. I'm not particularly interested in watching this program, I don't watch the television anyway, and the show hasn't yet gone to air so I can't not watch it even if I don't not want to, but I don't see why this shouldn't stop me complaining about it. It won't stop anyone else, after all.

So I thought I'd complain about it now, and say that that racist thing that Bolt said at some indeterminate point in the future was really racist, and that I was simply shocked and appalled by the appalling, shocking, horrible, nasty, mean, and possibly really quite accurate observation that he will have made at whatever soon-to-come time he will make that observation.

***

Ever since whenever it was that Bolt started running his blog, of course, he's inspired a legion of critics, including Media Watch, and Blair/Bolt Watch. Then there are sites like Mediawatchwatch which is either a right-wing or left-wing or other site specialising in left-wing or right-wing or other criticisms of the right-wing or left-wing or other websites. Is it going to be long before we get absurdities such as The Bolt Report Watch Report Report Scrutineer, and the Media Watch Report Report Investigation Daily Niggle? Just because I enjoy partisan rants doesn't mean I take them very seriously anymore.

***

They're a billion dollar business, they cause thousands of deaths every year in public hospitals right across the country, to some - fatally misled - young people, they have a false air of glamour about them, and they are extremely addictive. Not only that, but they're extremely bloody annoying too. But we don't hear anyone going on about plain packaging for government, now, do we? Most of that list above is also true about cigarettes and cigars and pipes, of course, but a cigarette never has the bad social grace to irritate us all during press conferences, or go about scolding people who open up the newspaper to the political page in enclosed spaces. And I suppose it hasn't technically been proven yet that politics causes cancer, but it's only a matter of time before it's statistically demonstrated that everything is carcinogenic - and I'm pretty sure politics is included in the 'everything' category.

Anyway, I'd really like to see a kind of plain packaging campaign for government too. It would really cheer things up. If the television turned to olive every time Abbott or Gillard came on air to announce one of their latest announcements, I couldn't be happier.

***

Saw Ben Pobjie's, very funny, show on Wednesday (opening night). His basic theme seems to be life is horrible and death is even worse so let's be happy about it. Oh, and there was something in there about Bronwyn Bishop masks as well. Previously I'd heard him in interview on Aural Text, following the very atheist Catherine Deveny, speaking with the presumably atheist Jeff Sparrow and Alicia Sometimes. (They also played a tape of some other comedian talking about how he didn't believe in God, too). Bizarrely, in this company, he was worried about admitting to his own atheism. Seriously Ben! - in that company, probably the only way you could embarrass yourself (and possibly get a couple of outraged RRR callers) would be a simple and unabashed belief in God.

*

Dazed the other day, drowsy yesterday, dizzy yesterday evening, but today, I'm quite chipper, actually. I imagine that in a few days, however, the beautiful cycle will repeat itself and I will be overcome by a sleepy fug at work and lay my head down on the keyboard as soon as the supervisors are looking in the opposite direction. It's part of the whole beautiful cycle of life and sleep and unemployment.

Dozy dizzy daisy

If I was any more dazed today I'd be a daisy.

Coffee sandwiches, gingerbags, and teabread

Last night I reminded the Baron to remind me in the morning to take coffee, sandwiches, gingerbread and teabags to work.

This morning I reminded myself to remind the Baron to remind me to take coffee, sandwiches, gingerbread and teabags to work.

So I did, and so she did, and I have the coffee sandwiches, gingerbags and teabread all ready. But if I hadn't remembered to get her to remember to make me remember, imagine how bad things could have been.

Yes, the coffee sandwiches will be delicious, and no, you can't have any, thanksverymuch.

Non-sequiturs from my life

I couldn't get any coffee grounds from the cafe, which will be disappointing to the mushrooms. I showed others the apple, which is pleasing for Harriet. I did not eat the fig. Dad got stuck in his pajamas, but the Mormons had special underwear, and Joseph Gordon Levitt shouted penis thanks to the manic pixie dream girl. Soul Food is in Collingwood, but that's tomorrow.

Light verse

1. Poem 1) went on a diet.

2. Poem 2) went on a date.

3. Poem 3) didn’t go anywhere or do anything, she just stayed at home with her cats and her book and her chocolate fudge pudding -

She was happy about her weight.

Blog post number something or other

Twenty blog posts in March. Twenty blog posts in February. And twenty blog posts in January, too. I seem to have fallen into a nice rhythm this year with my blog posting, for some inexplicable reason.

Scrutinising the available datum within a mathematical/analytical frame of reference, I think we can deduce that the amount of blog posts I have produced in March, February, and January of this year is more than the amount of blog posts that I have produced in some other months when there were less blog posts than in March, February, and January; but it is less than the amount of blog posts I have produced in months when I have written more than 20 blog posts a month. If I apply myself, in this month I will also be able to produce more than the amount of blog posts I have written in some previous months but less than the amount of blog posts I have written in other previous months, too. It might be hard work, but I can do it.

I wonder if I've started unconsciously setting myself quotas, so that if I reach the 20 blog post mark I somehow, mysteriously, don't want to do any more. Maybe the same thing will happen this month (this is the seventh post, I've only got 13 to go)? Maybe I should take up a numerical scheme to number each blog post to help me remember? But then, what if I should accidentally come up with an idea for an extra lot of blog posts after I reach my monthly quota, and accidentally continue posting in this month?

These are questions, all right. Very questionable questions indeed.

This has been blog post number something or other from Tim.

Where did I go wrong?

You know, in lots of ways this being a cat-human thing is really good. I mean, for instance, right at the moment Bea is curled up on the chair at the corner of the room. This anecdote about a cat curled up on a chair really doesn't go anywhere, (not anywhere further than the chair in the corner of the room) but there you go. I might go over and give her a pat in second.

But not once, in all the time we've had these cats, have they bought in a rare or endangered species of bird. It's extremely irritating, because for years I'd been hearing about cats hunting and catching endangered species of birds (or bilbies, I'm not fussy) and bringing them home as presents for their humans. But they haven't brought home anything! Seriously, the biggest thing these cats hunt is apples. Have I done something wrong? Should I be training them every night with flashcards of extremely exotic birds looking particularly delicious? What?

Proposals for television shows

This is your death!
After the corpse is dramatically taken from its grave and animated with the spirit of its departed owner, it is confronted in a dramatic fashion with all the people who have made its death possible, and/or been with it during the course of its death. There is the relative who failed to notice its debt problems, the criminal who first fired the gun, the doctor who removed the bullet but failed to stem the flow of blood in time, and the police lieutenant who failed to apprehend the murderer just minutes before they committed the murder. All participants in the show look extremely awkward and anxious about their presence on the show, and the corpse looks suitably pissed off and bitter about the whole affair. (Also, quite possibly, it looks pissed off and bitter about the maggots writhing through its skull). This half-hour program is a sure-fire hit, and will make audiences feel bad about themselves for weeks afterwards!

Stirring team anthems written for vegetables #997

We are the turnips my friend
We'll keep on growin' till the end
We are the turnips
We are the turnips
No time for beetroots
'Cos we are the turnips
Of the world!


Sample turnips

Apposite opposition proposition

What if, instead of having an Opposition, the Australian Parliament had an apposition?

(The Barons verdict on hearing this excellent proposition of mine: 'I'm not sure how that would work'. And, you know, I think it makes it sound even more appealing to me, because when I consider the current government-opposition arrangement, I'm not sure how that works either, or even if it does work.)

Someone tell the Nazguls to stop sniffing paint cans

You probably know that I don't like Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. I especially don't like that bit in the second book, The Two Towers that bit where it really drags because they're just going to Mordor going to Mordor going to Mordor, you know? That's right, the bit I don't like in the second book is all of it, and a little bit more. (Open up The Return of the King and they're still at it, trudging through another set of dreary chapters).

And you know what I think they need in Lord of the Rings? A good train. That's right, some decent public transport infrastructure would really spruce things up. Imagine if all Frodo had to do would be to catch the 10.45 to Mordor, how that would speed things up! Granted there'd be a few stops along the way, various elves and Nazguls to pick up, I suppose, but it'd just be like the Craigieburn train. Nothing a few ticket inspectors couldn't sort out.

Now I know Tolkien's dead, and wouldn't have ever agreed to a train in his book even if he was alive, and I know Frodo's already thrown the ring into Mount Gloom or Mount Doom or whatever they call it, but it's never too late to agitate for a good high-speed rail project, is it? Especially something as vital to national enhancement as the Mordor-Middle-Earth express. All aboooooooooooard!

Modest and reasonable

A modest and reasonable poem about a subject that people are always modest and reasonable about.

The Ultimate Absolute Complete and Utterly Final Global Warming Poem

Gaia dying
Gaia dying
Planet frying
Koalas sighing
Kittens crying
Kittens crying
Gillard lying
Abbott denying
Bob Brown trying
Cities drowning
Forests drying
Sparks flying
Bush bushfiring
Kittens crying
KITTENS CRYING
Oil men buying buying buying
Obama DEFYING
Children WHYing?
KITTENS CRYING
KITTENS CRYING
Evidence solidifying
Climate scientists verifying
Flannery testifying
Abbott lying
Gillard denying
Bob Brown trying
Bob Brown TRYING
Bob Brown tiring
Shoppers shopping
This guy ‘hi-ing’
That guy ‘hi-ing’
Everyone DYING
People DYING
Penguins DYING
Polar bears DYING
Extremely rare bilbies DYING
Whales DYING
Fairies DYING
T-shirts DYEING
Hair DYEING
CAPTAIN PLANET FLYING
Captain Planet dying
Solar power men firing
Oil men hiring hiring hiring
Future prospects – terrifying!
Ocean rises – horrifying!
Gaia dying
Gaia dying
Planet frying
Koalas sighing
Kittens crying
KITTENS CRYING!