Tall, Link and Dishevelled

You're linked, and you, and you, and you, and you, and also you, and how could I forget to mention you?

Also:
Post of the day.

One liner of the day:
COME HERE YOU NAUGHTY STUPID BOY!

Another Fun Pet For Your School!

A phial of the deadliest virus known to man will look just adorable in the centre of your classroom, and be educational, too!

Tell the children at the beginning of each day that if the phial breaks, they and the rest of the school will be turned into gibbering idiots before dying. This is sure to instill a calming effect in them, making for a nicer, well-ordered classroom. As the children walk daintily around the phial every day, they will learn prudence and care for our precious environment! Also, knowledge about germ warfare will undoubtedly prepare them for the time when they have children ...

Possible Characters for Novels #3

Horace Greely Lampington Urglemurg

The most interesting thing about Horace Greely Lampington Urglemurg (of the House of Urglemurg) is his name. In fact, the only interesting thing about him is his name. So much so, that one day, he decides that - in order to become a more interesting person, who is more likely to attract friends and be invited to impressive parties where he will meet fascinating people - is to get rid of everything else and only keep his name.
So he sells his brain on ebay and markets out his bodily organs to contractors on the Asian subcontinent. He lets somebody else have his job, his parents, his wife, and his children; and he even puts his shadow and his reflection on sale at a cheap second-hand store run by a shift-looking old man wearing, it seems, nothing but hessian bags with buttons on them.
Everything goes well for a while. Horace Greely Lampington Urglemurg is invited to no end of impressive parties, attended by any amount of fascinating people. Even if he is only available in name only, he still enjoys going. Then everything goes wrong: he meets a beautiful woman called Chloe Flowey who he realises he has fallen in love with; but she tells him that she will only become an Urglemurg in marriage to him if he has something more to show than a name.
Frantically, he spends the next weeks searching for his lost body parts, parents, children, (but not his wife: she has become a very important President of a very large country, and doesn't want anything to do with him), reflection, and shadow; but all have been sold - except his shadow. He hastily purchases this shadow and rushes back to the next party - only to find the fuckly Miss Flowey in the arms of another man ...

A Fun Pet For School!

Throw out the goldfish, and dump the school goat. Get for your school instead a lively load of writhing lovely luscious leeches! The children will love them! Make sure to bring them out every morning, and have the children stroke and cuddle them. Also, take them out for frequent walks - leeches on leashes! It's sure to become a new fashion trend!

Yes, a tank full of fully grown annelids is just the thing for your school! Plus, acquanting your children with the ways of spineless, blood-sucking worms will prepare them for the world of modern corporate business!

Stay tuned for more fun and practical pet suggestions for your school!

Mrs Socrates

Xanthippe was married to Socrates, the famous philosopher. She had a reputation for being particularly shrewish:

Then Socrates: The question would seem at any rate to be debatable. Suppose we defer it till another time, and for the present not interrupt the program of proceedings. I see, the dancing-girl is standing ready; they are handing her some hoops.

And at the instant her fellow with the flute commenced a tune to keep her company, whilst some one posted at her side kept handing her the hoops till she had twelve in all. With these in her hands she fell to dancing, and the while she danced she flung the hoops into the air-- overhead she sent them twirling--judging the height they must be thrown to catch them, as they fell, in perfect time.

Then Socrates: The girl's performance is one proof among a host of others, sirs, that woman's nature is nowise inferior to man's. All she lacks is strength and judgment; and that should be an encouragement to those of you who have wives, to teach them whatever you would want them to know.

Antisthenes rejoined: If that is your conclusion, Socrates, why do you not tutor your own wife, Xanthippe, one of the most difficult women of times past, present, or future?

Well now, I will tell you (he answered). I follow the example of the rider who wishes to become an expert horseman: "None of your soft- mouthed, docile animals for me," he says; "the horse for me to own must show some spirit": in the belief, no doubt, if he can manage such an animal, it will be easy enough to deal with every other horse besides. And that is just my case. I wish to deal with human beings, to associate with man in general; hence my choice of wife. I know full well, if I can tolerate her spirit, I can with ease attach myself to every human being else.

I'm fascinated by her. Did she deserve this reputation? Here she is again speaking with Socrates just before he is about to die:

On our going to the prison, the jailer who answered the door, instead of admitting us, came out and bade us wait and he would call us. "For the Eleven," he said, "are now with Socrates; they are taking off his chains, and giving orders that he is to die to-day." He soon returned and said that we might come in. On entering we found Socrates just released from chains, and Xanthippe, whom you know, sitting by him, and holding his child in her arms. When she saw us she uttered a cry and said, as women will: "O Socrates, this is the last time that either you will converse with your friends, or they with you." Socrates turned to Crito and said: "Crito, let someone take her home." Some of Crito's people accordingly led her away, crying out and beating herself. And when she was gone, Socrates, sitting up on the couch, began to bend and rub his leg, saying, as he rubbed: "How singular is the thing called pleasure, and how curiously related to pain, which might be thought to be the opposite of it; for they never come to a man together, and yet he who pursues either of them is generally compelled to take the other.

It seems to me that history has been a little too unkind to Xanthippe. If she was a little harsh to Socrates, that's probably understandable: all that philosophering about the marketplace can't have bought in the money, now, can it?

More Croucherisms

Saw Rachel at the Austin this Saturday and the previous Saturday (she's doing well, the wounds have healed), and was partial to more of her wit and wisdom, as well as some bon mots from her entourage of friends.

- Rebecca: mentioned a medical-induced sadomasochistic hallucination involving her and a cartoon puppy.

- Dr Evil came up with various gems:

Me: Dr Evil, you remember the difference between thinking things and saying things? Well ...

Dr Evil: There ain't no filter on this quad.

***

Me: So, why were you in hospital?

Dr Evil: Penis extension.

- Major Anya bought in a copy of Who magazine, and started conversation about the 'Tori wedding', starting the following conversation:

Major Anya: He's even got Tori's name tattoed on his arm...

Rachel: That's going to be expensive to remove. How long do you reckon they'll last?

Dr Evil: Three years. I reckon she'll have a kid first.

Major Anya: Nice frock, though.

*

Later, when J. walked in, Major Anya handed the magazine to him. and Rachel asked him the same question: "So, how long do you reckon they'll stay together for?"

J: (Glancing at the magazine for a second) Three and a half weeks.

And Rachel came up with the idea for another blog post:

Rachel: That sounds like a good idea for a post actually. Say we were talking about sex, incest, bestiality, and Christianity. They're all related...

And so I did. You can find more Croucherisms here.

Consider Onan

Let us pause to consider Onan.

He is the individual, mentioned in Genesis, who is singled out for the crime of 'spilling his seed'. In other words, Onan spanked the monke; he slapped the salami; he pulled the one-eyed trouser snake.

In short, Onan was a wanker: Onan is, in fact, one of the first recorded historical instances of a wanker. What is so unfortunate, in Onan's case, is that this is his only recorded historical deed. Imagine what effect this must have on his descendants! Would the House of Onan even dare to mix with polite company? The masturbatory tendencies of their elder patriarch and founding father may be in some sense reprehensible, but is it fair that the 'Sins of the Fathers be visited upon the sons/daughters'? Surely not!

Horrible crimes have been committed through history. The Old Testament records with vigour and clarity many of these crimes, and the retribution and judgment exacted against the individuals who have committed these crimes. But surely it is an exaggeration to say that Onan ranks, in his crime, alongside the devotees of Baal, for instance, who were said to sacrifice children to their cruel and maleficient Lord!

It is time to wipe the slate clean. Ladies and gentlemen, on this morning, I ask you to consider Onan. And to forgive.

A Happy Song For a Saturday Night

Getting very drunk,
Getting very drunk,
Getting very, getting very,
What you looking at punk?

Getting very drunk,
Getting very drunk,
Getting very, getting very,
Getting very phwoar cop a load of them ones!

Getting very drink
Getting very drank
Getting very, getting very,
Getting very drenk.

Gretting very dunk
Dretting very gunk
Dretting very, vretting dreary
Hey, ishn't ith m-m-my shouth again?

Getting very drunk,
What you looking at punk?
Getting very, cop a load of them ones
Shee yersh later, I don't need a taxi, I'll just .... BANG!!!

***

Woaaaah, my head ...

Dr ... Not Very

If you've been reading Rachel's blog, then you will be familiar with a blogger and friend who comments on her blog by the name of Dr Evil.

Well, after extensive research*, I am now able to reveal a scandal of - well, scandalous proportions: Dr Evil is not really Evil at all.

Let me marshall the facts for you. The case against Dr Evil is positively damning:

- It is well-known that the Dr's last name is 'Evil'. What is not so well-known is that his first two names are - 'Not Very'. Dr Not Very Evil. Does this sound like the name of a person with felonious, naughty and/or evil propensities?

- If the letters in Dr Evil's last name are rearranged, it is true, they form the word 'Vile' - an evil, nasty, terror-inducing name. However! If they are rearranged in another way, they also form the word 'Veil', which is a thing of beauty and niceness, and the positive, nature-affirming word, 'Live'!

- Dr Evil's real name - yes, he does have one - is 'Sean'. If you pronounce this word backwards, what do you get? That's right - you get NAES! Or .... er, to put it another way - NICE!

- Dr Evil is, by his own admission, a caring father and husband: this flagrantly contradicts his own self-styled 'Evilness'!

- Finally, and most horrifyingly of all: NOT ONCE whilst I was in Dr Evil's presence in the Austin Hospital whilst visiting Rachel last week did he present a plan, schedule, timetable, precis, summary, or even vague scheme for world domination.

Dr Evil is nothing less than an impostor; a person treacherously betraying the good name for evil for his own evil purposes. His evil purposes being, in this case, good purposes.

I have not encountered such a blatant scam since reading the blog Aras Vebra is the Best!

*Ha ha! Look, I typed the word research with a straight face!

Anyone for a Cuppa?

White with pun.


Twee for two.


Wrong black.


Cafe late.

Retroflective

I used to look back on things I said and did five, ten years ago with horror and remorse. Recently, I have found myself looking back more on things I said and did five or ten days ago with horror and remorse. This has changed, in recent weeks, to a tendency to look back on things I have said or done one or two days ago - often quite small things, I might add - with horror and remorse.

Where will it all end? I expect, quite soon, I will be deeply ashamed by things done and said as they happen. And then, the cycle will continue, with me anticipating tomorrow's events with dread and anguish. By the end of my life, I guess I will live in constant terror of the far distant future. Which is fair enough, I suppose, as I'll be dead by then.

On the bright side, at least I won't be worrying about my past anymore.

Responsibility so weighs me down.
Things said or done long years ago,
Or things I did not do or say
But thought that I might say or do,
Weigh me down, and not a day
But something is recalled,
My conscience or my vanity appalled.

- W.B. Yeats

I Am So Sick of Nature Poetry

I am so sick of nature poetry. Today, I was browsing in Readings and came across a book of poetry by David Brooks, an old lecturer of mine at university. It was full of the most insipid nature poems you could imagine. Not only is this thing boring, it's dishonest; you'd think that Brooks would have a little to say about life at university, marking students essays, editing anthologies, that sort of thing ... which is how he makes his money. Not a bit of it!

Wordsworth and the Romantics started it all, and it all went downhill from there. It's one thing to have a mystical experience like Blake, and 'see the world in a grain of sand'; it's another thing altogether to write, at great length, about insignificant items like a thorn and expect to learn something about 'society':

There is a thorn; it looks so old,
In truth you'd find it hard to say,
How it could ever have been young,
It looks so old and grey.

Wordsworth goes on this way for another twenty-two stanzas. You wonder how anyone could stand him. I could write a poem about, say, a rock that sits by the road and derive just as much meaning and significance from it as Wordsworth did from his bloody thorn:

There is a rock, a little rock,
Its home is by the road;
And ever and anon I pass
Its pebbly abode.
"Sir Rock, good day - good day, Sir Rock!"
I shout as I pass by,
But, being a rock, it does not talk,
And thus makes no reply.

What does it do all day, this rock?
I really would not know:
The rock will never tell me
(I think about it, though)
Perhaps it spends its rocky day
With its sedimentary friends,
While ever and anon men pass
Before turning round the bend.

Nature poetry! Bah!

The Moral Progress of Man

Old Morality:
Give unto the poor.

Modern Morality:
Give unto the governments to give unto the public servants to render public services to the poor that they neither need nor understand.

Old Morality:
Do unto others as you would have done unto you.

Modern Morality:
Feel good about yourself, don't worry about anyone else.

Old Morality:
Thou shalt not kill.

Modern Morality:
But it's perfectly alright for unelected dictators to kill as many people as they like, so long as they keep it in their own country.

Old Morality:
If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out.

Modern Morality:
If thine eye offend thee, have you considered botox or one of the wide range of cosmetic surgery options that are available to you? I have the number of a good plastic surgeon, if you like.

Old Morality:
The meek shall inherit the Earth.

Modern Morality:
The loud shall inherit the goods taken from the meek.

Old Morality:
The truth will set you free.

Modern Morality:
'Truth' and 'free' are merely outdated moral constructs. Truly.

Old Morality:
Carpe diem - seize the day.

Modern Morality:
Seize the day, as long as you don't do anything potentially dangerous to your health; offensive to people of different ethnic backgrounds or genders; or against the law.

Old Morality:
Love one another.

Modern Morality:
Who cares about love? I'm just in it for the sex.

Old Morality:
Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

New Morality:
Life, except when it's inconvenient for others; 'liberty', insofar as such archaic definitions still exist; the pursuit of happiness, or the nearest available chemical substitute.

Old Morality:
Look before you leap.

New Morality:
Don't leap. That would be potentially hazardous to your health.

A Steaming Code of ...

Paris, France: It is a glorious summer's day; all are full of bon vivant and out of doors. At the cafes, mesdames and monsieurs sip cafe au lait and macchiato; while, by the boulangeries, crowds of petit children, on their way to the local academies, gather to see the bakers twist their bread in plaits, reef knots, rolling hitches, or sheepshanks. Gendarmes cycle merrily down the street upon concertinas merrily provided to them by the local authorities, waving bonjour to all they pass by; and poodles stop to sip champagne from the puddles in the ground.

It is exactly the sort of place where you would never expect to find the sanguinare opening of a worldwide drama so horrendous, so complex, and so bizarre, that it's ramifications will last down the centuries. Nothing has happened like that in the past, nothing will happen again like that in the future, and indeed, nothing like that is happening in the present. As a matter of fact, I'm not even sure why I mentioned the place.

The film The Da Vinci Code is about a man who discovers the Holy Grail. But to cut a short story long, the film The Da Vinci Code is about a man who is implicated in a murder which turns out to be a message which turns out to be an anagram that leads to a whole series of other secrets that are part of a global web of intrigue spun by a conspiratorial organisation of pagan worshippers, all of which leads, in the end, to a discovery so momentuous that it's all over in a moment.

If I'm making the film sound boring, then I'm doing too good a job of describing it. This film was not just boring, it was boring squared, times infinity, plus one. It is a horribly pretentious piece of work; every major step in the plot is laden with false portent, burdened with absurd interpretations, and lumped with horrendous miscontextualisations. Not only is Ron Howard's direction horrifyingly literal; not only is the cinematography terribly cliched (like that of a bad BBC religious documentary, made on a much cheaper budget); but Tom Hanks' acting in the lead role is awfully awful. Maybe that was Hanks' point; maybe he delibarately acted like William Shatner on an off day as a way of taking the piss out of the film.

Whatever. In conclusion, The Da Vinci Code is a film to take your mother too (if you want to bore her to death). Every person can find one thing to enjoy in it (and some people can find everything to hate in it). It has thrills, spills, chills, horror and dread: (it is, in short, dreadfully dead.) I give this film five stars out of five. (One star for effort, the other four or the nice icecream I bought in the lobby.)

"But don't you see!" he gasped in the darkness of the crypt, grasping her lithe body in his two firm hands. "It's you! The Holy Grail is you!"
"I don't know anyone called Gail, and I don't see why she should be holey." she said angrily. Then, turning her face to his, she commanded: "Kiss me, hardly!"
So, being a decisive man, that is just what he did do. Five minutes later, he discovered that in the dark he had been making love to a coffin, but he soon made up for his mistake.

Peotry

Ode From a Forsaken Apartment

The space which once held
Your table and chair
Is now lonely and cold
And sorrowfully bare.

The bookshelf, without the books
Brought by yourself
Is bookshelf no more:
It's just a shelf.

Now comes the night:
And every room
Once dazzled with light
Is wrapped in gloom.

And the stairway! Which once
Led from here to there
Now, devoid of your presence,
Leads - nowhere.

UPDATE!
O how horrible it is.

No-one beds in the bedroom,
No-one bathes in the bathroom,
No-one launders in the laundry,
No-one lounges in the loungeroom,
No-one hauls things through the hallway,
No-one kitches in the kitchen:
O, how horrible it is
To be an unabided-in abode.

Jakers!

There's a type of cartoon for children's television being made at the moment that focuses on ordinary people doing ordinary things in an ordinary way. Sometimes, the ordinary people doing ordinary things are portrayed as animals. This brings an element of surrealism to the cartoon, without diverging too radically from the idea that nothing too exciting should happen to the characters over the fifteen or twenty minutes that it takes the show to end. The idea is not to scare the children: or, to put it another way, not to offend the parents.

It's all a bit silly, really, because there's nothing more anarchic than animation. Animation can do all the things that other filmmakers can't; it can go from one side of the world to the other in a few strokes of the pen just as easily as go from one side of the universe to the other.

Jakers: The Adventures of Piggley Winks - which is showing on the ABC, Mondays to Fridays from 9.00am at the moment - is not completely free of these annoying conventions, but at least it manages to have some fun with them. The main character is a piglet -

- Piggley Winks, obviously. Check out that knitted cardigan!

One of the other conventions in cartoons is that the characters will never change, never get better, never get worse, and never advance in any way. Which is good for dramatic continuity, but can after a while make for a boring type of show. Jakers turns this on its head, for one thing; the show begins and ends with a Grandpa Piggley - in fact, the same Piggley in the modern world - telling stories to his two grandchildren about his own childhood, fifty years ago. So we know before he even starts telling the story that things have changed. And it's usually established fairly early on in the program that he's a bit of a liar, as well, so we know that he's going to exaggerate the story in some places. This level of character development, in itself, is unusual for cartoons.

Piggley is usually seen with his two friends - Ferny (a cow), and Dannan (a duck). Piggley's world is not just multicultural, it's multi-species. And bizarrely, all the different animals are the same size. The 'adventures' that they get up to aren't that adventurous, but are made more entertaining by the interplay of the characters; Piggley is resourceful and impulsive; Ferney, easygoing and gentle; Dannin, shrewd, but up for a good time.
Piggley lives on a farm, and this allows the producers to introduce another surreal element. The other animals on the farm - cows and sheep - are portrayed like ordinary farm animals; not like children or adults. Or, not quite: when Piggley and his friends are not around, bizarrely, the head-ram of the sheep stands up and begins to speak to his flock. This sheep is voiced by Mel Brooks! He alternately lectures and hectors his flock, trying to encourage them into various self-improving activities. In one bizarre program*, he decides to dye the wool of all of the other sheep so that his flock will be easier on the eye, or something. (It's hard to keep up with his train of thought, but hey, he is Mel Brooks after all. It's difficult to not like a sheep with those sort of credentials.) Finally, in a short, surreal segment, the entire flock of sheep have had their coats dyed, and dance around, ballet style, to the tune of Tschaikovsky's Dance of the Flowers from his Nutcracker suite.

Every episode is rounded off with some kind of moral, relating to the story that Piggley has told his grandchildren. You know, 'Hard work is its own reward', that kind of thing. But the producers even deal with this subversively; because, as Piggley says to his parents at the end of one episode, 'Oh no! I'm never going to make that mistake again! From now on, all my mistakes are going to be brand new ones!'

That's rather a good moral. I think we should all try to live up to that. From now on, let's make all our mistakes brand new ones!

*ie: The one I saw today !

Hex Runt's Cunning Stunts

Fishing for kisses or kissing fishes? Either way, it sounds like a dubious proposition.

Post Whose Sole Purpose Is To Link To Another Post

Croucherisms.

An Educational Poem for Mother's Day

An Educational Poem for Mother's Day

Child, your Mother will have often said
That soon it shall be time for Bed:
Then, Child, you should strive to be within it
Before the stopwatch runs a minute.

If ever Mother says to you
"Child! Close your mouth before you chew!"
Then bind your lips with superglue!
From henceforth, Child, you must pour
Meals through your nose by means of straws.

But if you stub your little toe,
And Mother says your foot must go,
Then chop BOTH feet off! - at the knees! -
Walk on your hands! - don't whine or wheeze!

Acquiesce to her demands
And learn from all her reprimands!
Try your very best to be
The most well-behaved of progeny!

And if Mother bursts in through the door
With a head besmeared in grime and gore
And bids you shut it in the drawer -
Then do it now! - and make it snappy!
(You wouldn't want to make her crappy!)

Be good, my child! Do her behest!
For Mother always did know best!

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!

Our Team Versus Their Team

Our Team: We're from the country, maaaaate. Sure, we were most of us born in Toorak. But we're true blue Aussies, maaaate. Fair dinkum, 'n' stuff.	Their Team: Stuck up rich w-oooftahs from the inner city. Probably Toorak. Um, hang on a moment ...
Our Team Mascot: The Raging Bull!	Their Team Mascot: The Prissy Poodle.
Our Team Anthem: ... in Mon-Oh-Sill-Ah-Bulls.	Their Team Anthem: ... a six-part choral fugue with immaculate baroque harmony in the manner of J.S. Bach.
Our Team Name: The 'ARRRRGS' - one syllable. No one realy knows how to spell it or pronounce it. We just shout.	Their Team Name: Contains one hyphen, two correctly-placed apostrophes, two commas, a period, and both upper- and lower-case letters, deployed in the appropriate places. Fucked if we remember what it is.
Our Team Sing: "Go! Go! Go! ARRRRRRRRG!" "Kill! Kill! Kill! ARRRRRRRRG!" "Burn! Rape! Destroy! ARRRRRRG!" "Something! Incredibly! Violent! ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRG!"	Their Team Sing: Jolly good show, chaps, Now let's all play A jolly good game On this jolly nice day. O, we are so happy, And gay, gay, gay!"
Our Team Manouevres: - The 'Jump' - The 'Bump' - The 'Thump 'n' Clump' - The Triple Play 'Thrash, Crash, 'n' Mash' - The 'Solar Plexus' - The Fucking Swear At Them Until They Start Cryin', An' Then Bash Their Fuckin' Face In (Or, the 'Tourettes')	Their Team Manouevres: - The 'Run 'n' Hide' - the 'Squirm' - The 'Squeal 'n' Steal' - The 'Nijinsky and Ballet Russe Quadruple Play (Or, the 'Pirouettes')
Our Team Sponsor: The Broadmeadows 'Smash 'n' Bash Car Wreckers'	Their Team Sponsor: The Camberwell Happy Happy Joy Joy Flower Arranging Society.