Tuesday, May 30, 2006

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?

Post of the day.

One liner of the day:

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 ...

Monday, May 29, 2006

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?

Sunday, May 28, 2006

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 ...

Friday, May 26, 2006

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!

Thursday, May 25, 2006

Anyone for a Cuppa?

White with pun.

Twee for two.

Wrong black.

Cafe late.


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

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

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!

Monday, May 22, 2006

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.

Friday, May 19, 2006


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.

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.


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 !

Sunday, May 14, 2006

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!


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:
"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.

Tim Elsewhere

Don't worry about me, I'm not really here.

Here I am in a serious tone, reviewing Woody Allen's Match Point.

I'm here, too - not so serious this time - discussing one of my favourite twentieth century writers alongside one of my not-so-favourite twentieth century writers.

And here's a Defence of Burger Rings I wrote as a guest post for Binnsy, who is soon to be added to my blogroll.

I'll be back soon enough with some more posts! Cheers!

Blog Duels To The Death I'd Like To See

Major Anya vs. Margo Kingston!
Caz vs. Drunka, in a mud-wrestling extravaganza!
Beautiful Atrocities vs. Belinda Carlisle!
Anonymous Lefty versus his actual identity!

List duels to the death you'd like to see in comments!

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

TimT, your Links Stink!

Agog Press


Andromeda Spaceways


Agent Fare Evader


Aunt Elinor Fights Crime!


Alfina the Vague

Nilknarf Abed

Avatar Briefs

Australian Skeptics


Gorilla Bananas

Bake 4 Me

Emerald Bile

Binnsy's Hovel

Bek's Blog


Boris Johnson


Beautiful Atrocities

Blithering Bunny


Box of Books

Burnt Karma

Mark Bahnisch

Chas Rover


Cheeseburger Gothic

Comic Mummy

Culture Strain

Clover the Lamb

Chase Me Ladies!

Currency Lad

Diogenes Lamp

Dr Feel Good

Dr Evil!



Dark Animus

Disgruntled Checkout Chicks


Election Tracker

Enmore Station

Evil Pundit

El Fatso Speaks

Friendly Feminists!

Friday, Six PM ...

Jen Garret



Gibbos Place

The Grinder

Iraq War Wrong

Intersecting Lines

If They Only Nu

Jellyfish Online

Jazzy Hands

Jenny Wynter



Killer Fact

Kathryn O'Halloran

The Lioness

Oh MAN, Dem Baptists get up to some WHACKED-out SHIT!

Tim Lambert

Lip Mag

Lip Mag Blog

Lustre Magazine

MirrrAOOOOW!!! It's Chairman Mao, the Burmese Cat!

Mark (Knockin' on the Golden Door)

Miss Q's Miscues

Mondy Boy's Adventure


Aunty Marianne

Mad Mutter Martha

Metal City

Le Manse du Moment

Munchy Munchy Moo Cow

Mirror Danse

Unrantiferous Misha

Myrrh Purrs


Mitchell Coombes



Nottlesby on the Wold

Nicholas Carvan



Observant Little

Observation Deck

Patty Bum Cracky

Paul and Carl's Daily Diatribe

P. Wallace Hedge


Pink Lemonade Diva


The Promise of Enemies

Presumed Nuclear War

The Rathouse

Raghda Zaid (Baghdad Girl)



Rebecca the Ranter

Red Said


Rise and Reverberate


Screaming Memes


El Rancho Sterne


Bernie Slattery


Sydney's Son

The Spin Zine

Suki Has An Opinion

Tony T


Texas Gurl

The Iraq War Was Universe

Tim Blair

Tim Dunlop

The Unpopulist

Vikki McNaughton


What's the Difference Between a Duck



Saucy Soulmate Action ...

Everything has its price in this modern day and age, so why shouldn't finding your soulmate be the same? There should be soulmate phonelines, soulmate newspaper advertisements, soulmate spam, and soulmate brothels ...

Scene 1:
A set of train tracks running through a run-down industrial area of town. On the left there is a sign saying 'The Wrong Side of Town', on the right, there is a sign saying 'The Wronger Side of Town'.
A hat crosses over the tracks from 'The Wrong Side' to 'The Wronger Side'. As it approaches the camera, it becomes clear that it is not actually a hat, but just a man wearing a hat. He is hunched into his overcoat, so much so, that his overcoat is an undercoat to a second overcoat, which in turn is ...
His eyes flick back and forth, suspicious of watchers. He walks down a street that is so shady, that even the shadows have shadows. It's the seedy area of town - sesame seed stores run down one side of the street, and poppy seed stores on the other.
Finally, he approaches a building, flicks one last wary look backwards, then enters inside ...

The camera pans slowly around the dusty, dirty dive, lingering on the faded carpet on the floor and the faded carp on the walls. Lounging around on lounges that are missing one or two arms; or two, three, or four legs are a series of middle-aged women, wearing glasses, and idly reading c
opies of Montaigne's Collected Essays, The Genealogy of Morals by Nietzsche, and Aristotle's Ethics.

The camera pans to a desk sitting in one corner of this shabby dive, which is manned by a woman chewing gum and looking bored, doing a copy of the latest Loveatt's Latin Crossword with her pen. The man (who shall now be known as Smith, for that is his name) takes off his hat and approaches this counter ...

Smith: (Looking around shiftily) Ha ... ha ... hi, are you the receptionist?

Girl Behind Counter: Naaaaaah, love ... I'm not a receptionist, I'm the frigging Easter Bunny. Of course I'm the receptionist, now can I receive you?

Smith: Um ... ha ha ... yeah, I'm looking for a fulfilling, emotionally deep, but passionate relationship with my soulmate? That lasts for, um, at least ten minutes?

GBC: Sure thing, hon. We do that all the time. But what about sex? Are you interested in any fucking?

Smith: Hey, what is this? I'm just here to get off on a pure spiritual connection! I'm not interested in any of that serious stuff!

GBC: (Rolls her eyes, chews gum, and whispers to herself, all at the same time) That's all they're always interested in. They're all the same ... (Speaking out loud) Calm down, love. We get all types here. We've got ta satisfy them all ...

Smith: I'm sorry. It's just, I ... and ... that is, I haven't ... I mean, I've never come to one of these places before, and ... look, this is kind of a one-off thing, alright? I don't mean to get serious, alright?

GBC: Okay, hon, that's alright. So what kind of soulmate are you looking for?

Smith: Um ...

GBC: We've got all types. The goddess type, that you can look up to, and worship, and adore, with a pure and chaste love; or we've got the deep and abiding friendship that turns into a love much more holy and spiritual over time; or we've got the flirtatious soulmate that shares your sense of humour, and ...

Smith: Stop! It's just the second sort that I want!

GBC: The deep and abiding friendship that turns into an eternal, spiritual love?

Smith: Yeah, but no longer than fifteen minutes.

GBC: Shall I just run through the costs for you, deary?

Smith: Ye... yes, please.

GBC: Okay. That's fifty dollars for a ten minute job, or two hundred dollars will get you an hour, or ...

Smith: Stop! I only need ten minutes! Plus, I'm not made of money.

GBC: Alright. Well, the deep and abiding friendship - Janet or Lottie specialise in that ... over there. (Pointing)

Smith: (Scanning the two) I'll take Lottie, please ... (Pointing to a girl slumped in her chair, almost asleep, with a copy of Plato's Republic.)

Lottie: (Sitting up) Sure thing, love. This way ... (They go into the corridor to find a room)

Scene 2:
Camera zooms slowly along corridor. We can hear sounds coming from doors on both sides.

Male Voice 1: Yeah! Yeah, read me some more of that Shakespeare, baby!

Male Voice 2: Oh! Say that our two souls were meant for one another, baby! Say that we were fated to meet this way - and stay together, forever! Say it, baby, say it!

Female Voice: Sure thing, honey. That's what I'm here for.

Male Voice 3: Kant's theory of eros! READ IT TO ME AGAIN!

Female Voice 2: Kan't do it, baby, if you don't have that tenner.

Male Voice 4: Oh honey - make it a Wittgenstein! Witt me, baby, one more time!

Camera finally zooms in on a door at the end of the hallway, bangs itself on the key hole, draws back. bangs itself again, draws back, then finally goes through. (Note to self: must grease key hole to stop this from happening.)
Inside, we find a bouidoir of amore, a la Casanova, Casablanca, Capablanca, or Cosi Nostra. Purple-edged purple-felt curtains line the walls, which would be quite bare without their covering. Smith is sitting on the edge of a chair in one corner of the room. Lottie casts a paltry sulk upon him, realises her mistake, and passes him a sultry pout instead.

Lottie: Excuse me while I slip out of something more comfortable ... (Making to remove her red dress, whic h she could hardly be said to be wearing anyway)

Smith: No ... NO thankyou! I ... I'm uncomfortable enough as it is...

Lottie: Aw, come on, hone ... why the frown? Turn that frown upside down, turn that pout inside out ...

Smith: I p... p... paid my money to have a soulmate for ten minutes, and I want that.

Lottie: (In a bored voice) They're always the same, they never want to do anything different ... (To Smith) Alright, honey, tell me what you want to do ...

Smith: Well ... (crosses over to Lottie and whispers in her ear)

Lottie: Well ... alright, love. But only 'cause I like you.

At this point the camera fades out. I'm not sure how, maybe by panning to the faded carpet or the faded carp on the wall, and fading. It fades in, in a similar manner, to the same scene, five minutes later. (I've run out of money for any more sets) We hear Smith's voice:

Smith: Oh! Yes! Baby! Honey! Give it to me, honey!

Lottie: (In a bored voice, wooden voice, a little like a supermodel who has just taken up acting) We were always meant to be together ...

Smith: Our two souls will become one! Yeah, baby!

Lottie: I don't believe in love at first sight. I loved you even before I saw you.

Smith: Oh! Yeah! Oh! Oh!

(Cut to Smith in chair, looking at a portrait of the Mona Lisa)

Lottie: You mean less to me than life itself ...

Smith: (Weeps happily, mopping his tears with some rose petals he has in his pocket)

Lottie: You are the very centre of my random, meaningless, pointless unexistence ...

Smith: Ohhhh yeah, me too, baby!

Lottie: (Pulling a Mills and Boom book from the bedside counter) Um, now it says here, we have to embrace.

Smith: Ah, we can skip that bit. OH!

Lottie: Oh.

Smith: OH! OH! YEAH!!!

Lottie: Oh. Yeah.

Smith: OH!!! with triple exclamation marks!!!

Lottie: Oh with two ampersands, one hyphen, and seven ironic denouments ...

Smith: Yeah, baby! YEAH, BABY, YEAH! (Having achieved his eternal union, Smith draws a cigarette out of his pocket and lights up)

That was great for me, baby, how was it for you.

Lottie: Your ten minutes are up, love.

Smith: Say ... since we've been united in eternity, maybe it'd be fun to get a divorce now ...

Lottie: (Angrily) Say, honey, what kind of a sick venmue do you think this is? You'll get your divorces - two for the price of one - at the establishment across the road. Now get out of here, I'm tired.


Scenes like this could be occurring right around the country - even in your town,. If you see a soulmate club - please - tell your parents immediately, before it does you any lasting harm by encouraging you in the illegal and immoral desire to make a lifelong commitment to somebody special.

Monday, May 08, 2006

Prime Minister Primer

Tim Sterne has just finished a 2,500 words essay about Robert Menzies. Yes, that's right. He could have written more, but he stopped at 2,500 words exactly. Anything else would have been superfluous.

Anyway, I don't see why he should be the only one to write about a subject as wildly exciting as the Australian Prime Ministers. That's right, I'm going to do it too!

Unverified Facts About Australian Prime Ministers for the Uneducated Person

Edmund Barton
Edmund Barton was the only man unfortunate enough to be the first Australian Prime Minister, mainly because there were no Prime Ministers before him. He couldn't help it, so don't hold it against him.

Stanley Bruce, Lord Melbourne.
Not much is known about Stanley Bruce, apart from the facts on public record. When he was born he was either to be called Stanley Bruce or Bruce Stanley (depending on which way he came out, and what he was wearing at the time). He came from a long line of Stanley Bruces: his father was called Stanley, and his mother was called Bruce.
There has been some speculation that his sordid upbringing led him to taking up a career in politics, but such vile speculations are not for this blog.
In his spare time, he liked to compose simple little villanelles, grow tulips, and wear a variety of evening gowns for the pleasure of his three fox terriers, Spotty, Dotty, and Hotty.

Robert Gordon Menzies
Bob Menzies long and steady Prime Ministership of Australia is marked by the fact that he didn't do very much for a great deal of it: it was distinguished by its undistinction. Menzies started off by boldly doing very little, continued by courageously achieving not much, set not a great deal of goals for the next heroic stage of his career, achieved this, then finished it off (in a brilliant coup de grace) by retiring before anything untoward (ie, anything at all) happened.
After he made his resignation speech, a backbencher sneezed, and several state dailys picked up on this, and ran it as a headline in their papers. But Menzies could hardly be blamed for this.

Harold Holt
Harold Holt's main achievements as a Prime Minister were drowing and doing things that Gough Whitlam could take credit for.

Gough Whitlam
Gough Whitlam was a progressive, and like most progressive Prime Ministers, achieved a great deal. From the very beginning of his Prime Ministership, he busied himself by running up huge government debts, stacking the senate, involving his government in a number of scandals, and making decisions without consulting the opposition, the senate, or his own cabinet. He industriously claimed the earlier achievements of the Liberal Party for himself, and bustled about, excusing the crimes of numerous communist dictators.
Therefore, it can honestly be said of Whitlam that he may not have done Australians very much good, but at least he certainly did something.

John Howard
John Howard is the Prime Minister Australia doesn't know it has. He is referred to by his supporters as "That guy, you know," and his detractors as "Him!" or, "That evil little man!" When he goes home, his wife glares at him, and says, "Oh, You!". People at the shops simply greet him with, "Oh, hi, Mr ... " before trailing off and staring blankly at the ceiling.
Howard himself takes great pains to appear 'ordinary' and 'everyday', meaning, essentially, that he doesn't get noticed at all. He presumably likes it this way.
If voters in other democracies get the leader they deserve, voters in Australia got somebody they didn't know to work in a position they didn't quite realise existed, for ... no particular reason at all.

Adage Homage

1. When in Rome, do as the Ramones do.

2. When in Bayeaux, deux as the Bayeuxvians deux.

3. When in Buggery, don't (unless you're that way inclined)

4. When in Tasmania - GET OUT! - GET OUT WHILE YOU STILL CAN!*

*I didn't really mean that, Tasmanians. You guys are the BEST!

Sunday, May 07, 2006

Right Then, Who Was It?

Visitor 33,333, please raise your hand. I'm not going to punish you, I just want to know who you are.

Come on, kids! We're not leaving this blog until the visitor owns up!

Saturday, May 06, 2006

Post About Me

Apparently some people use these here blog-things for writing things about themselves, and letting friends know what happens in their lives. Not me, I use it pretty much to lie or publish things I can't get published elsewhere. Other bloggers write about themselves with much more honesty and wit than I could ever muster.

But still, fair's fair. Sometimes I do get in a reflective frame of mood, and post things about myself. This is one of those times.


- I feel guilty about not having caught up with Kathryn and David for some time. They were my first friends in Melbourne, even before I moved here, and they helped me a lot in that move. They're both fantastic people, and I should have let them know.

- The company I work for has just been - unexpectedly - sold to its major competitor. This is bad news for me, as it means at the end of this month I may be out of a job. Though it's simple and not exactly intellectually satisfying, I'm happy with my job at the moment and want to keep it. And the other transcribing jobs in Melbourne aren't that attractive. Prior to working within my current company, I did a number of short, unsatisfying typing jobs around the city; the worst was with a smarmy prick in Southbank who got his workers to type faster by threatening to fire them. I lasted two weeks in that job and got fired.

Anyway, I'm going to be keeping an eye out for good jobs in the next couple of weeks in light of the possibility that I'm made redundant.

- Last night, it was cold and raining, and I bought a honeycomb gelato on Bay Street. Tonight, I did my grocery shopping at ten-thirty at night, then came home and practiced the accordion. I live on the edge, man!

- I just finished listening to a Dandy Warhols CD. Frankly, their brand of faux faux rock (or pop unpop) is pretty irritating, but it's not as if I have much of a choice. It's either that or play my Zappa CD over and over and over again.

- My laptop is dead, but at least I managed to retrieve most of my files from it.

- My flatmate has a thing for bittersweet folk-and-country music, and everytime he plays it, it puts me in a meditative frame of mind, and I sit down to compose poems that are made entirely out of swear words.

- My hair is ridiculous. If the weather is windy, then it gets sculpted into the most absurd pieces of modernist art imaginable. When I go riding on the tram, I need to get an extra seat for it. The first thing Nabakov said to me at a grogblog was, 'does your hair have a blog, too?' I agreed that it should. That grogblog was three months ago.

I really should get it cut, but there's no way I trust any of the barbers here in Coburg.

The Sounds of Nature No. 2

The Neighbour's Dog In the Morning, Afternoon, Evening, And Night. As a Matter of Fact, All the Time.


Woof! Woof woof woof woof woof WOOF WOOF WOOF! Woof!










It's the same thing, day after day ...

Pretty Flowers

This is Mr John Arg.

He is a flower deranger.

You disgusting flower! You make me sick, you really do! You think you're so good, but ooh! Look, your petal is lopsided! You won't amount to anything - not even a vase by the window! And DON'T YOU WAVE YOUR STAMEN AT ME! You call yourself a daisy? You're pathetic!

You think you're a lily? Really? You stupid, stupid weed. You're not a lily - you're just a lowly, limp little buttercup! Haven't you heard those voices in your head, those voices of doubt, telling you that you're not supposed to be here?
Listen to them, you pathetic little buttercup!
Listen to them!

Hey, you! Yeah, you - you hibiscus, sitting there! Look at me when I'm talking to you! You see those snapdragons hiding in amongst the clover, over there? Well, they're out to get you! Yeah! They're going to rip you to shreds, petal by petal! You must STOP them, hibiscus - STOP them before it's too late!

The Results:

There are now flower-deranging academies, societies, and clubs in many Australian cities. It is a simple yet rewarding past time for the whole family.

Just remember not to be nice to a flower. It's very difficult to derange them when they're happy.

Friday, May 05, 2006

The Sounds of Nature No. 1

My Flatmate At His Computer


Tap tap tap tap tap.
Tap. Taptaptaptap. Tap. TaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptapTAP!



*Whirrr rrrrrrrr rrrrrrrrrr rrrrrrrrrrr .... *phutt.*

(*Dramatisation. May not have actually happened. )

Blogger Is Sensitive To The Needs of Disabled People

If you click into the comments box below, you'll notice that blogger has added a new icon below the word verification box:

If you hover the cursor over the image, a message appears:

Listen and type the numbers you hear.

Blogger apparently goes by the logic that people in wheelchairs are also unable to read properly. This would come as a great surprise to people actually in wheelchairs. On the other hand, it's very thoughtful of blogger to provide them with this new disability: if people in wheelchairs play their cards right, they could find themselves in possession of a lucrative new income stream from governments.

I'd like to suggest that blogger adds not one, but several images to its comments page ...

If you are in a wheelchair, you are clearly unable to see. Please click on the image of a man in a wheelchair that you are unable to see in order to activate the audio recognition code.

If you are missing one, two, or more hands, you should have no problems with using the keyboard. Blogger apologises for any convenience caused.

Oh my God, you're missing a head! Please ensure that your voice recognition software is attached before continuing.

Fi yuo have dylsexia, you may also have prblemso with tpying cmometns on this site.
pleasE be carfeul wtih your spelilgn, as ew owuld not wtan yuo to make an y spllingg erorrorrorrs.

Wednesday, May 03, 2006

Mr Manners Says ...

Got a problem telling a salad fork apart from the other forks? Not sure whether to say 'I beg your pardon' or 'I do apologise'? Just ask Mr Manners!

You write an essay entitled 'Hitler was right' and hand it in to your lecturer. He/she refuses to mark it on the grounds that it is 'offensive'.

You really need to be more sensitive when titling your essay. Perhaps your lecturer was a Stalinist, and took offense at your failing to mention the great Soviet leader?
Also, in these postmodern times, where the very notion of ethics has been successfully deconstructed, who are you to insist what is 'right' and 'wrong'?

Next time, it would be more courteous to title your essay 'Hitler Had Some Good Points, Too!'

You are the host of a dinner party for several sensitive and intelligent people, and for the meal, you serve a delicious bowl of dog-steak in pie. Several of your guests vomit, and you can't work out why.

In these days, people are becoming increasingly aware of the effects of high cholesterol or high glycaemic index on their blood pressure.

Next time, you might consider serving flambeed cat, sauted koala, or any number of other, healthier meals.

You are giving a speech at a meeting of the International Bleeding Heart Pinko Socialist Left. You mention in passsinbg your slit-eyed dago wop darkie chink harpie kyke slurry neighbours. Everyone looks at you strangely.

You idiot! Socialist meetings are full of slit-eyed dago wop darkie chink harpie kyke slurries, and chances are, one of them might even be your neighbour!

Next time, try not to state the bleeding obvious.

You're having some hot and spicy S&M sex with your girlfriend. You're playing the naughty but nice schoolboy, and she's playing the stern but exacting schoolmistress. She's in the middle of giving you a good hard caning. You shift your position on the bed a little, and she falls and breaks the cane. You blush a little and say sorry.

Sorry? Saying sorry just doesn't cut it around here, young man! She's here to discipline you, and to punish you by causing pain in as lacerating a manner as possible. This is not about comfort or enjoyment, you spineless worm! You just stay still and take your punishment like a boy!

Time to bring out the spiked paddles.

A person trying to give up smoking asks you for a cigarette, and you give them one.

This is just never done.

When they ask you for a cigarette, take out a textbook on the dangers of smoking and read them a chapter or two; tell them about the increased likelihood of lung and chest cancer, and the effect of smoking on unborn babies and young children; remind them that passive smoking can seriously impact on the health of workmates and friends; and don't forget to mention the link between tobacco and harder drugs, and between smoking and bushfires. Take them to a class of people who have given up on cigarettes, and show them a series of pictures of people in the advanced stages of lung cancer, and of the effects of tar and nicotine poisoning on their diet. Make them take the cigarettes out of their pockets and throw them, one by one, down the toilet.

Then, when all that is done, take two cigarettes out of your pocket, light up, and give one to your friend.

They will appreciate it so much more.

Your ex-girlfriend tells you to stop stalking her.

She has a good point. Stalking ex-girlfriends is most impolite.

Why don't you stalk the pretty girl you met at the bus stop instead? You have better chances with her.

A manic depressive friend asks you to kill him, so you do.

Be a little considerate.

Give them time to say thank you and write a suicide note to their family, as well as include you in their will.

You give your blind friend a lifetime's suybscription to Playboy as a birthday present. He is offended.

Fool, Playboy doesn't publish in Braile.

But Hustler does.

You're in the middle of wild extra-marital sex with the wife of your best friend's brother. Your best friend walks into the room, and you both stare uncomfortably at one another for several moments. You laugh uneasily, uncertain of what to do.

Again, you have failed to be considerate.

Why don't you ask him to join in?

You are at a poetry reading. You go on stage, drop your pants, and crap all over the floor. Several audience members get up and leave.

Ever since one conceptual artist canned his own excrement, crap has been passe, as far as the avant garde is concerned. And being passe is the rudest thing of all.

Next time, why not try reingesting your own excrement? It's original, it's stylish, it has flair, and it could be interpreted as an excellent symbolic commentary on the Middle East. I have the number of the Australian Arts Council, if you're interested.

You are treating your fiancee to a fine night's dining. Everything is going well, until dessert is served. It consists of three kinds of icecream, hundreds and thousands, maple syrup, boysenberry topping, banana, pear, and whipped cream, all served upon a pert and nubile Asian woman with fucking fantastic tits.
Your fiancee slaps you, spits on your face, and throws your ten thousand dollar engagement ring in the rubbish on the way out.

You cretin! It's nothing without the cherry on top!

Next time, choose a restaurant that serves naked desserts with flair.

Mr Manners can be found giving advice at the nearest pub or club.

(Post cheerfully inspired by this comment at The Spin Starts Here. )

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

A Weakend of Footbrawl

My flatmate is a Collingwood supporter, so when I told him I was thinkin of going to a game on Sunday, he was full of suggestions.

A fine shower of rain followed us as we got on the train at Moreland and got off at Spencer Street Station. The fine shower followed us as we walked over the bridge and the Docklands, and bought tickets at the stand at the front of the stadium. We were cutting it fine; the game was starting at 2.10, and we bought the tickets at 2.11. The donuts they were selling at the front of the stadium tasted fine. It was, in short, a fine Melbourne day.

Inside, we were surrounded by black and white. I felt like I was in a newspaper column. They had the most ridiculous team chants:

C! O! L! L! I! N! G! W! O! O! D! COLLINGWOOD!

If the supporters managed to get past the double 'L' they usually got confused at the 'N'. They either thought they were at the start, at the end, or at some random point in between.
One lonely Adelaide supporter stood behind the seats and made a habit of shouting loudly whenever the Collingwood supporters didn't. It made a sort of counterpoint. The game didn't go his way, though. By the end of the second quarter, the Collingwood score was almost double Adelaide's score.
I saw an old football couple briefly, both standing by the rails eating from a large bowl of wedges, wrapped in club colours. When the siren sounded for the third quarter they disappeared among the seats below.

At the end of the third quarter I went and got two more donuts. Those things really were delicious. Warm, with cinnamon-and-sugar icing, and jam filling. It was a great view outside the stadium; a low-lying cloud had come down and enveloped the tops of the Melbourne skyscrapers.
By the end of the game, almost everyone was in good spirits. Another old club supporter came up saying, over and over again, 'We're back! We're back!' My flatmate was more circumspect, but on the train back, he said it was a great game. 'Yeah,' I said to him, 'That's because you won.' He didn't deny it.
People tell me I should get a football team. I don't know about that.

What's your team?
Email: timhtrain - at -

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