One must say that scientists who get to study orgasms must have much more fun than colleagues who look at worms under a microscope. - Darlene Taylor.
The Lifework of Dr. Unson - Orgasmologist
The following are excerpts from the personal diaries of Dr. Unson, one of the pioneers in the science of sex and pleasure. The Doctor was an orphan, lived alone, and suffered from many different illnesses. On many separate occasions he attempted to commit suicide, but his own incompetence stopped him from achieving even this. He derived no pleasure from his scientific studies – in fact, they bored him slightly - but he believed in the ‘inevitable progress of the sciences’, and it was to this end that he worked. He was, in short, one of the most miserable individuals to have ever graced the face of this earth.
Monday 1 October, 1951
This morning I will commit suicide.
*
Unfortunately, the rope with which I was hanging myself broke and I merely fell and bruised my head on the floor. I have failed to commit suicide, and now I shall have to live with the shame of having attempted suicide. Despair on despair.
*
I have started a new research project. It is called “The Human Orgasm, as displayed in the Male and Female of the species.”
*
Preliminary Notes:
I have for the past hour observed a roomful of men masturbating. Photographs were taken of their faces at various stages of orgasm. There is a strong correlation between the pleasure of the orgasm and the proportional ugliness of the grimaces. I shall in coming days attempt to plot this on a curve.
The room is now rather messy, and I shall have to send for Martha to clean it up.
*
God I wish I were dead.
Thursday 4 October
Grey sky today. Depressing weather. I stubbed my toe this morning and went to my GP. He said it had to be cut off. He mistakenly amputated my foot. Oh, if only I had majored in physiognomy at University, I could have exposed him for the fraud he is.
*
My work continues, and is bearing fruitful results. Today I scrutinised a warehouse of women moving various phallic implements in and out of their vaginas at periodic intervals. My researchers and I moved amongst the subjects, making notes.
*
Fuck my leg hurts.
*
The results of the experiments are interesting. Having now made our preliminary measurements, tomorrow I believe we shall try and persuade the subjects to attempt to achieve their orgasms in unison.
*
Sometimes I wish I had accepted Betty’s offer of marriage and that I had not killed her. I get so lonely.
Monday 8 October.
Great. I have just learned from the obituaries of the paper that my long-lost brother and only surviving relative is now dead. The tale of how we came to be separated and how we lost our parents on that night in the wilds of Zambia is indeed a strange and tragic one, and now it seems as if the burden of it falls upon me and me alone. Misery, misery.
On top of all this, my GP informs me that I have leprosy.
*
On the itinerary for today: Aural sex, and its influence on both the male and the female.
*
My life sucks.
Wednesday 11 October
After extensive consultations with my GP and Psychiatrist, I have determined a brief list of the mental disorders which I suffer from:
1) Manic Depression
2) Schizophrenia
3) Paranoia
4) Feeling of insignifance
5) Agorophobia
6) Claustrophobia
7) Conviction that I do not exist
8) Melancholia
9) General Angst.
Was so depressed by this list, that I tried to shoot myself. Then I realised that I had misplaced my gun, and was enraged at myself. Then I became terrified when I realised that my gun was lying around the place and that anybody could get hold of it. Those things are dangerous, and could easily hurt someone.
*
I have made an exciting discovery at work today: it seems that given the right conditions (sensual oils, hot baths, soothing music, massage, and clitoral stimulation) the female of the species can experience multiple orgasms. I shall be preparing a paper for Nature magazine immediately.
Friday October 13
Woe!
Saturday October 14
Despair!
Sunday October 15
I believe I shall lie in bed until I expire.
Sunday October 22
I have made a breakthrough in my research. Death shall have to wait. I believe that the only way to discover more about the orgasm is to experience it myself, in as many different ways and positions as possible. I shall arise and fetch my notebook and a prostitute.
*
Preliminary Notes: Sensations arising during intercourse.
(Please excuse my faulty grammar in this passage, as I find myself engaged in other activities while writing this) Mild warm feeling in my groin, shortness of breath, sweat, various odours emitting from various pores all over my body, grunting, moaning, urge to continue moving my nether regions rhythmically up and down, slight pain in my grin, gathering excitement, pain/warmth reaching crisis point, and …
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGH!!!
Sensations arising after intercourse.
Disappointment, slight shame, self-loathing, general distaste at the clamminess and stickiness produced, tiredness, need to catch my breath, and the gathering feeling of existential horror when I realise that I do not have enough money to pay the slut.
*
God, I’m glad that’s over. Nevertheless, my research must continue.
Saturday, October 29.
Over the past week, I have personally experienced the following acts;
- Aural sex
- Sodomy
- Other orificial sex
- The missionary position
- The doggy position
- Sado-masochistic sex
- Miscellaneous
On the whole, sado-masochism seems to produce the most satisfactory orgasm, since it brings with it at least the possibility that a mistake might be made, and annihilation will follow.
*
I have completed my paper for Nature. I believe I shall just pop out of my study for a moment and commit suicide.
After failing again to commit suicide, Dr. Unson retreated for a decade to his room. His seminal paper in Nature was originally received with indifference by the scientific community. Dr. Unson, by nature a retiring and prurient individual, grew to be quite ashamed of his work. It was not until 1968 that his genius was recognised.
Monday, October 1, 1968
Have just received the Nobel prize for my research into the orgasm which, they say, ‘has liberated thousands of women.’ I had hoped to forget about those shameful days, but it seems that my shame must be displayed for all the world to see.
*
Life is, as always, shit.
December 24, 1968
I am dictating this to my secretary, after having received a revelation so interesting that it gave me a cardial infarcatation. You know, maybe life isn’t so ba
At the age of 81, Dr. Unson died of a second heart attack. Though he left behind no children, his lifework on The Female Orgasm will live on for eternity.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Happiness Concluded, for Karen
The little Blue Bird of Happiness
Sits on my garden bed
I think I'll take my 44
And shoot the blighter dead
Lest the Cormorant of Futility
Come and perch upon my head.
Or the Hummingbird of Irritation
Suck the pupils from my eyes
And the Vaguely Anxious Vulture
Come with sharp dischordant cries
And suck the cerebellum from
My ocular cavities.
Then the Penguin of Cold Fury
And the Slightly Sadist Gull
Will come with evil gleaming eyes
And nest within my skull
And set up a battering and clattering
Within the bloodied hull.
And the waddling and the flapping and the cawing and the screeching
Of that aviary in my head
Shall make me want to end it all
With a bolt of steaming lead
All because that little Bluebird sat
In
MY-DAMNED-GARDEN-BED!
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Those Europeans Are Such Interesting People
And now, ladies and gentleman, from the race who brought you such delights as World Wars 1 and 2, the Fall of Rome and Gottedammerung itself … yes, it’s Germany, here to delight you in the 2003 Eurovision Song Quest with their killer song – LET’S GET HAPPY!
Odd, isn’t it – that a continent which has for millennium endured bitter racial, national, religious, and cultural divisions; which has suffered from droughts, floods, fire, and everything in between; has regularly undergone wars (both civil and uncivil); the great cultural movements of Western civilization, such as the renaissance, the enlightenment, modernism and post-modernism, parliaments, ministers, prime-ministers, and democracy – should, at the turn of the 21st century be bringing us music of such vapid insipidity as Germany’s Let’s Get Happy?
60 years before that many Europeans were starry-eyed fanatics marching to the beat of genocidal dictators; now they are – starry-eyed fanatics marching to the beat of a new song. How much has changed?
Well, to answer that question, let’s take a closer look at European culture over the years…
EUROVISION BEFORE IT WAS EUROVISION
The first Eurovision Song Quest was held in 1952 in France; but it began much earlier than that. It’s history goes right back to …
THE FALL OF ROME!!!
100 AD: The Germanic tribes invade Rome and burn the Eternal City to the ground. The Emperor Nero, amused by the German’s forthrightness, holds a musical festival to celebrate. All the prominent musicians of his day are invited. They then have to sit and listen while Nero fiddles and Rome burns. The name of the festival: Nerovision.
1725: J.S. Bach has a musical show-down with George Frideric Handel. J. S. Bach performs his 1718 hit My crumhorn vants to kill your Mutter to an adoring audience.
My crumhorn vants to kill your Mutter,
My crumhorn vants to kill your Mutter,
My clavier vants to burn your Dad,
It gets really angry when I make it mad…
(This hit was later appropriated, without acknowledgment, by Frank Zappa.)
Handel, who is backed by his hand The Oratorio Allstars, responds with a rousing rendition of The Hallelujah Chorus, with a spectacular laser-light show, concluding his show with a cameo experience by God himself. The audience, however, are puritans. They have no sense of humour, and are dulywho are unimpressed by the Deities appearance. The prize is awarded to Bach, who is so happy that he goes home and composes The 48 Preludes and Fugues that night. Handel scowls, hits a nearby Mason over the head with a lute, and returns to England.
1777 International Superstar Ludwig van Beethoven has a show-down with his musical adversary, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. He dazzles the audience by having his 5th symphony played by the Mannheim Symphony Orchestra, a group of travelling minstrels including those later to become stars, such as Al Jolson, Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie. However, Mozart rises to the occasion by composing an Electronic Clarinet Concerto and he is declared the winner. Beethoven retires from the stage in a huff and writes the Emperor Concerto.
1798 Napoleon is so excited by Celine Dion’s win in the 1988 Eurovision song competition that he invades Europe. When he is challenged by Lord Wellington that Celine Dion has not, in fact, won the competition yet, or, for that matter, been born yet, Napoleon is infuriated. He yells, “You English peoples! So bound by zese conventional time/space structures! Ave you not read your Derrida? Your Foucault? Your Bergman?”
He then goes ahead and challenges Wellington and his army to a duel on the field of Waterloo (he figures, since it’s named after one of his favourite Eurovision songs ever, that he can’t lose.)
1823 A group of hip-hopping bohemians calling themselves ‘The Romantics’, led by drug-taking hippy Samuel Taylor Coleridge, tour the continent to great success. Their song Lucy in the Sky with Laudanum is still remembered today:
Picture yourself in a boat on the river,
Mid tangerine mountains and marmalade skies,
But oh! A deep romantic chasm slanted
Methinks you’ve had a bit too much of that opiate, Wordsworth, old chap.
(This hit was later appropriated, without acknowledgement, by little-known British rock group The Beatles.)
1879: Richard Wagner remains an undiscovered talent. He has just completed his early opera Die Meistersinger von Nurnberg, but it is panned by the critics and opens to lackluster audiences. Wagner hits on the idea of creating the Bayreuth festival, devoted to his musical genius. Later that year, he performs his 10-hour tone poem, Generously Proportioned Wenches, to rave reviews. The chorus line has only 10 words in it:
Generously proportioned wenches, you make the classic world go round!
(This hit was later appropriated, without acknowledgment, by Freddy Mercury.)
But it is not until a few years later when his Ring cycle opens that his genius is completely recognised.
1926: Disgruntled by the fact that two of his star musicians – Igor Stravinsky and Serge Prokofiev – have escaped to Europe, Stalin sponsors a new music festival of ‘ideologically appropriate’ music, and invites all of his famous bureaucrats and yeah-sayers. It’s name: Bureavision. No one turns up. Stalin is so annoyed that he sends them off to the gulag anyway.
1932 Little known German musician Adolf Schickelgruber is remade by the promotion companies as “Adolf Hitler, international SUPERSTAR!” His hit-song, “Oh Liebling”, is performed in front of hordes of screaming fans. It goes:
Oh Liebling,
If you go mit me I’ll be your Fuhrer,
No maybe,
Ja, if you go mit me I’ll be your Fuhrer.
(This hit was later appropriated, without acknowledgement, by Australian Rock group The Spazzys).
Buoyed by his success, Adolf declares an international all-day, every-day festival devoted to his musical, artistic, humitarian, and all-round greatness: Fuhrervision.
He goes on to have many more hits, including the still-remembered song, Hi ho hi ho, it’s off to the Gestapo offices we go! before committing suicide in 1946.
Odd, isn’t it – that a continent which has for millennium endured bitter racial, national, religious, and cultural divisions; which has suffered from droughts, floods, fire, and everything in between; has regularly undergone wars (both civil and uncivil); the great cultural movements of Western civilization, such as the renaissance, the enlightenment, modernism and post-modernism, parliaments, ministers, prime-ministers, and democracy – should, at the turn of the 21st century be bringing us music of such vapid insipidity as Germany’s Let’s Get Happy?
60 years before that many Europeans were starry-eyed fanatics marching to the beat of genocidal dictators; now they are – starry-eyed fanatics marching to the beat of a new song. How much has changed?
Well, to answer that question, let’s take a closer look at European culture over the years…
EUROVISION BEFORE IT WAS EUROVISION
The first Eurovision Song Quest was held in 1952 in France; but it began much earlier than that. It’s history goes right back to …
THE FALL OF ROME!!!
100 AD: The Germanic tribes invade Rome and burn the Eternal City to the ground. The Emperor Nero, amused by the German’s forthrightness, holds a musical festival to celebrate. All the prominent musicians of his day are invited. They then have to sit and listen while Nero fiddles and Rome burns. The name of the festival: Nerovision.
1725: J.S. Bach has a musical show-down with George Frideric Handel. J. S. Bach performs his 1718 hit My crumhorn vants to kill your Mutter to an adoring audience.
My crumhorn vants to kill your Mutter,
My crumhorn vants to kill your Mutter,
My clavier vants to burn your Dad,
It gets really angry when I make it mad…
(This hit was later appropriated, without acknowledgment, by Frank Zappa.)
Handel, who is backed by his hand The Oratorio Allstars, responds with a rousing rendition of The Hallelujah Chorus, with a spectacular laser-light show, concluding his show with a cameo experience by God himself. The audience, however, are puritans. They have no sense of humour, and are dulywho are unimpressed by the Deities appearance. The prize is awarded to Bach, who is so happy that he goes home and composes The 48 Preludes and Fugues that night. Handel scowls, hits a nearby Mason over the head with a lute, and returns to England.
1777 International Superstar Ludwig van Beethoven has a show-down with his musical adversary, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. He dazzles the audience by having his 5th symphony played by the Mannheim Symphony Orchestra, a group of travelling minstrels including those later to become stars, such as Al Jolson, Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie. However, Mozart rises to the occasion by composing an Electronic Clarinet Concerto and he is declared the winner. Beethoven retires from the stage in a huff and writes the Emperor Concerto.
1798 Napoleon is so excited by Celine Dion’s win in the 1988 Eurovision song competition that he invades Europe. When he is challenged by Lord Wellington that Celine Dion has not, in fact, won the competition yet, or, for that matter, been born yet, Napoleon is infuriated. He yells, “You English peoples! So bound by zese conventional time/space structures! Ave you not read your Derrida? Your Foucault? Your Bergman?”
He then goes ahead and challenges Wellington and his army to a duel on the field of Waterloo (he figures, since it’s named after one of his favourite Eurovision songs ever, that he can’t lose.)
1823 A group of hip-hopping bohemians calling themselves ‘The Romantics’, led by drug-taking hippy Samuel Taylor Coleridge, tour the continent to great success. Their song Lucy in the Sky with Laudanum is still remembered today:
Picture yourself in a boat on the river,
Mid tangerine mountains and marmalade skies,
But oh! A deep romantic chasm slanted
Methinks you’ve had a bit too much of that opiate, Wordsworth, old chap.
(This hit was later appropriated, without acknowledgement, by little-known British rock group The Beatles.)
1879: Richard Wagner remains an undiscovered talent. He has just completed his early opera Die Meistersinger von Nurnberg, but it is panned by the critics and opens to lackluster audiences. Wagner hits on the idea of creating the Bayreuth festival, devoted to his musical genius. Later that year, he performs his 10-hour tone poem, Generously Proportioned Wenches, to rave reviews. The chorus line has only 10 words in it:
Generously proportioned wenches, you make the classic world go round!
(This hit was later appropriated, without acknowledgment, by Freddy Mercury.)
But it is not until a few years later when his Ring cycle opens that his genius is completely recognised.
1926: Disgruntled by the fact that two of his star musicians – Igor Stravinsky and Serge Prokofiev – have escaped to Europe, Stalin sponsors a new music festival of ‘ideologically appropriate’ music, and invites all of his famous bureaucrats and yeah-sayers. It’s name: Bureavision. No one turns up. Stalin is so annoyed that he sends them off to the gulag anyway.
1932 Little known German musician Adolf Schickelgruber is remade by the promotion companies as “Adolf Hitler, international SUPERSTAR!” His hit-song, “Oh Liebling”, is performed in front of hordes of screaming fans. It goes:
Oh Liebling,
If you go mit me I’ll be your Fuhrer,
No maybe,
Ja, if you go mit me I’ll be your Fuhrer.
(This hit was later appropriated, without acknowledgement, by Australian Rock group The Spazzys).
Buoyed by his success, Adolf declares an international all-day, every-day festival devoted to his musical, artistic, humitarian, and all-round greatness: Fuhrervision.
He goes on to have many more hits, including the still-remembered song, Hi ho hi ho, it’s off to the Gestapo offices we go! before committing suicide in 1946.
Saturday, May 21, 2005
What He Said
Metal City: Death of the Stiff - the Slightly Shorter Version
This film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap
Which, you could argue, is the point - since Star Wars has always been a pastiche. I disagree, though - the original trilogy is a pastiche, the prequels are far different creatures, spawned from a wannabe-auteur who is so insular and ineffectual as an artist that he can only create from within the vacuum of his own sphere: Star Wars has never been less relevant - or interesting - than it is at this point, because Star Wars is only capable of drawing from, being influenced by, and commenting on... itself. The Star Wars universe may be the ultimate in self-referential circle-jerking - and by trying to generate its own mythology from WITHIN its own mythology, it falls flat on its face. This was my main problem with the film - it was climax without context, repeated for two hours and thirty minutes. Every half an hour or so, there was another sequence which was SUPPOSED to be chilling and moving, and was supposed to make my spine tingle and my eyes water - all the signs were there. Swelling, dramatic music, anguish-gripped faces, soggy, waterlogged camera shots that suggest all the mopey resignation of a dog who's bone has just been stolen. But, in the end, what was I actually watching? Who is Anakin Skywalker? Who is Padme? What is a Jedi - really? Who ARE these people, and just WHAT am I watching? Oh, that's right. I'm watching 'Star Wars' - except that 'Star Wars' ceased to be a cycle of films in 1983, and has since been a vehicle to self-propogate its own mystique, fuelled by a multi-billion dollar marketing empire, at the expense of any semblance of artistry or soul.
This film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap
Please read it all. It's a long, obscene, and oh-so-hateful review of the latest Star Wars film. Of course, as I said to David the other night, I don't hate anything - even something as undeniably crap as Star Wars. I just mildly dislike them. But he is right. Uncle David of Metal City is always right.
This film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap
Which, you could argue, is the point - since Star Wars has always been a pastiche. I disagree, though - the original trilogy is a pastiche, the prequels are far different creatures, spawned from a wannabe-auteur who is so insular and ineffectual as an artist that he can only create from within the vacuum of his own sphere: Star Wars has never been less relevant - or interesting - than it is at this point, because Star Wars is only capable of drawing from, being influenced by, and commenting on... itself. The Star Wars universe may be the ultimate in self-referential circle-jerking - and by trying to generate its own mythology from WITHIN its own mythology, it falls flat on its face. This was my main problem with the film - it was climax without context, repeated for two hours and thirty minutes. Every half an hour or so, there was another sequence which was SUPPOSED to be chilling and moving, and was supposed to make my spine tingle and my eyes water - all the signs were there. Swelling, dramatic music, anguish-gripped faces, soggy, waterlogged camera shots that suggest all the mopey resignation of a dog who's bone has just been stolen. But, in the end, what was I actually watching? Who is Anakin Skywalker? Who is Padme? What is a Jedi - really? Who ARE these people, and just WHAT am I watching? Oh, that's right. I'm watching 'Star Wars' - except that 'Star Wars' ceased to be a cycle of films in 1983, and has since been a vehicle to self-propogate its own mystique, fuelled by a multi-billion dollar marketing empire, at the expense of any semblance of artistry or soul.
This film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap this film is crap
Please read it all. It's a long, obscene, and oh-so-hateful review of the latest Star Wars film. Of course, as I said to David the other night, I don't hate anything - even something as undeniably crap as Star Wars. I just mildly dislike them. But he is right. Uncle David of Metal City is always right.
I Am A Number
709, that's me. I have forsaken name and identity and become another figure in the corporate world. All that is important about me is written on a yellow time card which I have to remember to slip into a machine every morning and every night.
I am beginning to forget everything about the outside world. All day I type words and figures into the database, recording the results of a survey of workers from a large Australian company:
You people are a joke
I included a personal phone number in the last survey and you didn't call me. Why didn't you call me?
No one ever acts on these surveys anyway.
A. is a good place to work...
I hate my supervisor
Don't worry. All the results filled out on the survey will either by ignored or fed into the paper-shredder. And I will soon have forgotten the English language and speak in a new, clean, corporate language consisting solely of numbers.
43843754867329?
4643865923939439456838456932486874349636....
Actually, just between you and me, I do have a thing for the cute little office worker a few desks behind me. Her name is 467.
467, I just met a girl called 467,
And suddenly a name
Will never be the same to me,
467, 467, 467.
See you later. Er, I mean, 38745879549.57.
I am beginning to forget everything about the outside world. All day I type words and figures into the database, recording the results of a survey of workers from a large Australian company:
You people are a joke
I included a personal phone number in the last survey and you didn't call me. Why didn't you call me?
No one ever acts on these surveys anyway.
A. is a good place to work...
I hate my supervisor
Don't worry. All the results filled out on the survey will either by ignored or fed into the paper-shredder. And I will soon have forgotten the English language and speak in a new, clean, corporate language consisting solely of numbers.
43843754867329?
4643865923939439456838456932486874349636....
Actually, just between you and me, I do have a thing for the cute little office worker a few desks behind me. Her name is 467.
467, I just met a girl called 467,
And suddenly a name
Will never be the same to me,
467, 467, 467.
See you later. Er, I mean, 38745879549.57.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Ways To Amuse Yourself
You're standing on the corner of Street X and Road Y. You've got some cash and time to spare. Here's what you do: hail the nearest taxi cab. Then jump in, and say to the driver:
"Take me to the corner of Street X and Road Y!"
"But," the driver will reply, "We're already there!"*
"Good, good - but don't drive so fast!" your reply will be.
Keep on talking in this manner until you have convinced the driver to do just that. Then begin looking out the window with great interest. Remark on the scenery. Wave at the people passing by. Chat idly with the driver. Then, when you get bored with this, shout:
"Stop the car here! This is fine!"
Once you hop out of the car, look in amazement as the taxi-driver drives away. Say to a passerby, "Hey! He moved the car! I never knew it could do that!"
Then walk off.
*If he doesn't, and starts driving around the city searching for it, the results will be even more amusing.
"Take me to the corner of Street X and Road Y!"
"But," the driver will reply, "We're already there!"*
"Good, good - but don't drive so fast!" your reply will be.
Keep on talking in this manner until you have convinced the driver to do just that. Then begin looking out the window with great interest. Remark on the scenery. Wave at the people passing by. Chat idly with the driver. Then, when you get bored with this, shout:
"Stop the car here! This is fine!"
Once you hop out of the car, look in amazement as the taxi-driver drives away. Say to a passerby, "Hey! He moved the car! I never knew it could do that!"
Then walk off.
*If he doesn't, and starts driving around the city searching for it, the results will be even more amusing.
Fashion Advice
Why would you ever take fashion advice from me? I'm a man: the only fashion rule I know for sure is that you shouldn't wear underpants on your head. And I don't always follow that one, either.
I Hope You're Pleased With Yourselves
Harry Hutton has just banned everybody from his blog. You uncouth swine, you - it's all your fault!
UPDATE - It's okay now, you're allowed back in.
CRANKY UPDATE - *******************************!!!!
You f****** **** ****ers!!!
(*******************************)
All Australians are banned! Curse those Irish bastards from Emerald Bile!
UPDATE - It's okay now, you're allowed back in.
CRANKY UPDATE - *******************************!!!!
You f****** **** ****ers!!!
(*******************************)
All Australians are banned! Curse those Irish bastards from Emerald Bile!
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Darp v. Tim Blair v. Margo v. The World!!!
Have you been following the Darp vs. Tim Blair vs. Margo Kingston vs. the World discussion on the blogosphere just recently? It's really quite simple, and very entertaining if you take the time to have a look at it. Here's a brief rundown:
- Once there was a guy called Darp.
- He had a blog.
- There was another guy called Tim Blair.
- He had a blog.
- And another blog.
- And, following that, another blog.
- Not all at the same time, you understand, each after the other.
- Tim Blair's blog was moderated by a person called Andrea Harris.
- Who had a blog too.
- There was also a woman called Margo Kingston.
- She had a Webdiary, which is exactly like a blog except that it's not.
- Tim Blair didn't like Darp.
- Darp had ideological differences with Tim Blair. (Meaning he didn't like Tim Blair right back)
- Tim Blair didn't like Margo Kingston.
- Margo Kingston had significant ideological differences with Tim Blair. She also thought he was evil.
- Tim Blair made frequent posts about Margo.
- Darp complained that Tim Blair usually made fun of Margo Kingston's looks, and 'didn't challenge her on anything of substance'.
- Tim Blair complained that Darp's complaint that he made fun of Margo Kingston's looks was wrong, and that if it wasn't wrong, the least he could do was find evidence of this.
- Darp complained that he couldn't be bothered to find evidence against Tim Blair's complaint that his complaint about Tim Blair making fun of Margo Kingston's looks was wrong.
- Tim Blair complained about this in a post on his blog, and repeated his challenge to Darp.
- Darp promised to do some research and to find the evidence.
- He then waited until others found the evidence ...
- And published it on his blog.
- Although the evidence in itself wasn't that good.
- And Tim Blair replied that Darp still hadn't met the challenge.
- Margo said nothing.
So, is Margo really ugly? Is Darp right? Is Tim Blair wrong? Or is his criticism of Darp's refutation of his challenge about Darp's complaint about (etc, etc) Margo Kingston's looks valid?
And who really cares?
Find out, in the next exciting installment of Darp v. Tim Blair v. Margo v. The World!!!
- Once there was a guy called Darp.
- He had a blog.
- There was another guy called Tim Blair.
- He had a blog.
- And another blog.
- And, following that, another blog.
- Not all at the same time, you understand, each after the other.
- Tim Blair's blog was moderated by a person called Andrea Harris.
- Who had a blog too.
- There was also a woman called Margo Kingston.
- She had a Webdiary, which is exactly like a blog except that it's not.
- Tim Blair didn't like Darp.
- Darp had ideological differences with Tim Blair. (Meaning he didn't like Tim Blair right back)
- Tim Blair didn't like Margo Kingston.
- Margo Kingston had significant ideological differences with Tim Blair. She also thought he was evil.
- Tim Blair made frequent posts about Margo.
- Darp complained that Tim Blair usually made fun of Margo Kingston's looks, and 'didn't challenge her on anything of substance'.
- Tim Blair complained that Darp's complaint that he made fun of Margo Kingston's looks was wrong, and that if it wasn't wrong, the least he could do was find evidence of this.
- Darp complained that he couldn't be bothered to find evidence against Tim Blair's complaint that his complaint about Tim Blair making fun of Margo Kingston's looks was wrong.
- Tim Blair complained about this in a post on his blog, and repeated his challenge to Darp.
- Darp promised to do some research and to find the evidence.
- He then waited until others found the evidence ...
- And published it on his blog.
- Although the evidence in itself wasn't that good.
- And Tim Blair replied that Darp still hadn't met the challenge.
- Margo said nothing.
So, is Margo really ugly? Is Darp right? Is Tim Blair wrong? Or is his criticism of Darp's refutation of his challenge about Darp's complaint about (etc, etc) Margo Kingston's looks valid?
And who really cares?
Find out, in the next exciting installment of Darp v. Tim Blair v. Margo v. The World!!!
Sunday, May 15, 2005
Position Vacant
STEREOTYPIST WANTED
Must be able to Stereotype at a speed of over 40 biases per minute (40bpm). We want the faster prejudgers in the business!
PS No blacks, rednecks, whites, left-wingers, right-wingers, centre-wingers, men, women, homosexueals, heterosexuals, transexuals, bisexuals, hermaphrodites, androgynites, animals, vegetables, minerals, aliens, upper class, lower class, middle class, any other class, chinese, koreans, asians of any type, french, italians, americans, australians, people with red hair, people with blond hair, people with hair or people with no hair, amputees, non-amputees, people who would like to be amputees, people who have ever known amputees and everyone else, no children, adults, old people, babies, people with non babies, orphans, people who watch Seinfeld, people who watch the Simpsons, people who don't watch the TV at all, people in general etc etc etc.... We are an ENE (equal nonopportunity employer.)
Must be able to Stereotype at a speed of over 40 biases per minute (40bpm). We want the faster prejudgers in the business!
PS No blacks, rednecks, whites, left-wingers, right-wingers, centre-wingers, men, women, homosexueals, heterosexuals, transexuals, bisexuals, hermaphrodites, androgynites, animals, vegetables, minerals, aliens, upper class, lower class, middle class, any other class, chinese, koreans, asians of any type, french, italians, americans, australians, people with red hair, people with blond hair, people with hair or people with no hair, amputees, non-amputees, people who would like to be amputees, people who have ever known amputees and everyone else, no children, adults, old people, babies, people with non babies, orphans, people who watch Seinfeld, people who watch the Simpsons, people who don't watch the TV at all, people in general etc etc etc.... We are an ENE (equal nonopportunity employer.)
Reading While Walking
There are, of course, one class of people walking the footpath who are entirely noble and wonderful. They are those who read and walk at the same time. It is a task that is hard to accomplish, fun to try. A little like listening to two different people talking over one another in two different languages or solving quadratic equations in your sleep. You inevitably miss little things, like that kid running right up to you on the footpath, or the red lights telling you not to go across the street, or the truck hurtling towards you as you are deeply involved in the climax of another chapter.
Just remember:
- Glance up every paragraph or so to make sure you're not about to walk off a cliff or something.
- If you happen to trip over somebody, like a frame-walker, just remember to jump up and keep on walking before they trap you in their frame and maul you to death with stories about how rude young people are.
- Stop for red lights if you see them. If not, don't worry. Just relax until the bike, car, bus, truck, tram, train, or marching band has gone over you, read a few more pages, then get up and keep on where you were meant to go.
I myself have finished several books in this manner.
Just remember:
- Glance up every paragraph or so to make sure you're not about to walk off a cliff or something.
- If you happen to trip over somebody, like a frame-walker, just remember to jump up and keep on walking before they trap you in their frame and maul you to death with stories about how rude young people are.
- Stop for red lights if you see them. If not, don't worry. Just relax until the bike, car, bus, truck, tram, train, or marching band has gone over you, read a few more pages, then get up and keep on where you were meant to go.
I myself have finished several books in this manner.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
How To Have a Political Argument
Political arguments are not like normal arguments. In the course of a normal argument, several points are made and each person involved goes away feeling just that little bit smarter and more informed on an issue.
In a political debate, on the other hand, neither side understands what the other side is saying, nor would they care to. In fact, it's even rarer for a person making a political argument to understand what they themselves are saying, either. It is in this atmosphere of mutual incomprehension that the best - indeed, the only proper - political arguments are made.
Another thing. You should never have a political debate without consuming copious amounts of alcohol first. It's a well known fact that Bob Hawke would never have been one of Australia's greatest prime ministers if he hadn't been an alcoholic. It is one of the tragedies of modern politics that the great tradition of parliamentary alcoholism has gone out of style. The more alcohol is drunk, the greater the incomprehension and befuddlement*. It also makes a handy excuse the day afterwards - you can blame any silly things you said on the alcohol. I recommend martinis, and can personally vouch for their ability to stimulate a lively political debate in which mutual confusion reigns supreme.**
A final point - no matter what you say in a political debate, no matter how little you understand about the topic, no matter how poorly expressed you thoughts are, and no matter how great your confusion - you are always right. This point must always be remembered and, indeed, it is the only thing you ever need to understand during a political debate.
*And therefore, the more political the debate becomes - see my first point.
**Other good drinks are gin and tonic, brandy, and vodka. Avoid wine or champagne, which leads to excessive leftism, and beer, which results in Unionism. Stay right away from the coffee drinkers. They're communists.
In a political debate, on the other hand, neither side understands what the other side is saying, nor would they care to. In fact, it's even rarer for a person making a political argument to understand what they themselves are saying, either. It is in this atmosphere of mutual incomprehension that the best - indeed, the only proper - political arguments are made.
Another thing. You should never have a political debate without consuming copious amounts of alcohol first. It's a well known fact that Bob Hawke would never have been one of Australia's greatest prime ministers if he hadn't been an alcoholic. It is one of the tragedies of modern politics that the great tradition of parliamentary alcoholism has gone out of style. The more alcohol is drunk, the greater the incomprehension and befuddlement*. It also makes a handy excuse the day afterwards - you can blame any silly things you said on the alcohol. I recommend martinis, and can personally vouch for their ability to stimulate a lively political debate in which mutual confusion reigns supreme.**
A final point - no matter what you say in a political debate, no matter how little you understand about the topic, no matter how poorly expressed you thoughts are, and no matter how great your confusion - you are always right. This point must always be remembered and, indeed, it is the only thing you ever need to understand during a political debate.
*And therefore, the more political the debate becomes - see my first point.
**Other good drinks are gin and tonic, brandy, and vodka. Avoid wine or champagne, which leads to excessive leftism, and beer, which results in Unionism. Stay right away from the coffee drinkers. They're communists.
Friday, May 13, 2005
Ways to Make the World A More Perfect Place #6
We all hate getting called up by Telemarketers, and Telemarketers hate calling us up. I've seen them. They sprawl around on chairs and gaze at the ceiling and throw little wads of paper around the room. So why do they do it?
I suggest a different system. Instead of calling us up and being polite to us in order to sell us goods and services, we could call the Telemarketers instead and shout at them. In turn, they could verbally abuse and swear at us.
This is something that everyone can agree on, and would make a great contribution to world peace and general niceness, don't you think?
I suggest a different system. Instead of calling us up and being polite to us in order to sell us goods and services, we could call the Telemarketers instead and shout at them. In turn, they could verbally abuse and swear at us.
This is something that everyone can agree on, and would make a great contribution to world peace and general niceness, don't you think?
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
For All Mothers
In honour of all Mother's out there, I have written this Mother's Day* poem:
THE MIRACLE OF BIRTH: A TONE POEM
Oh.... ewwwwrgh... yeeeerghh... ha ... ha ... ha ... ha ... OH ... GOD ... ha ...ha ...ha ...ha ... DOCTOR.... ha ...ha ...ha ...ha ...ha ... I .... DON'T .... THINK .... ha ... ha ... ha ... IT'S ha ...ha ...ha ...ha ...ha ...ha ... GOING TO ... ha ...ha ...ha ...ha ... FIT.... ha ...ha ...ha ...ha ...ha ... yeeeeeeARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGHHHHHH!!
Waaaaaaaaaaah!!! Waaaaaaaaaaah!!! Waaaaaaaaaaah!!! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh!!! (etc)
Congratulations, Frau Hitler! It's a BOY!!!
*I am aware that Mother's Day has been and gone, so you don't have to point that one out.
THE MIRACLE OF BIRTH: A TONE POEM
Oh.... ewwwwrgh... yeeeerghh... ha ... ha ... ha ... ha ... OH ... GOD ... ha ...ha ...ha ...ha ... DOCTOR.... ha ...ha ...ha ...ha ...ha ... I .... DON'T .... THINK .... ha ... ha ... ha ... IT'S ha ...ha ...ha ...ha ...ha ...ha ... GOING TO ... ha ...ha ...ha ...ha ... FIT.... ha ...ha ...ha ...ha ...ha ... yeeeeeeARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGHHHHHH!!
Waaaaaaaaaaah!!! Waaaaaaaaaaah!!! Waaaaaaaaaaah!!! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh!!! (etc)
Congratulations, Frau Hitler! It's a BOY!!!
*I am aware that Mother's Day has been and gone, so you don't have to point that one out.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Random Horniness
I'm blogging in a public library. They've been playing Ravel's Bolero for the past half-hour. I think I'll just nip over and ask the librarian if she wants a jolly good shagging. The 80-year-old one with the rimmed glasses. How can she say no?
In Case of Nervous Breakdown, Please See Your Work Supervisor
I started a new data-entry job today - it should go for two weeks or so. I've been reacquainting myself with those endlessly repetitive and detailed activities that make this mundane work so ... well, mundane:
Supervisor: Welcome to Niggle and Bludge, Australia's Premium Data Entry firm. I'll be your Supervisor for today!
You: Hi, I'll be your slave for today.
Supervisor: The job is quite simple. All you have to do is take this slip of paper here, type this up here, put this here, remembering to mark this here, and note this here, bearing in mind that when this happens to do this, when that happens to do this, and making sure to do this if something else happens. It's all very easy, really. Just don't forget to do this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, and not that. Oh, and don't forget to sign this when you've finished. Productivity will be closely monitored. If you don't do this by the end of the hour, you will be devoured by a cage of starving nubile, naked, virginal blonde women. Don't worry, you'll be fine.
You: ...Oh... but why don't I just do this here? Won't that make things much easier?
Supervisor: You ruined the system! YOU RUINED THE SYSTEM! DIE, YOU FUCKER! (Takes out gun and shoots you in the head) That's not the way we DO THINGS AROUND HERE!!!
You: Sorry, just asking.
Supervisor: If you have any problems, just report to me, and I'll attach these electrodes to your genitals and give you a couple of thousand volts. Have a nice day!
So yeah, I had a good day.
Supervisor: Welcome to Niggle and Bludge, Australia's Premium Data Entry firm. I'll be your Supervisor for today!
You: Hi, I'll be your slave for today.
Supervisor: The job is quite simple. All you have to do is take this slip of paper here, type this up here, put this here, remembering to mark this here, and note this here, bearing in mind that when this happens to do this, when that happens to do this, and making sure to do this if something else happens. It's all very easy, really. Just don't forget to do this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, and not that. Oh, and don't forget to sign this when you've finished. Productivity will be closely monitored. If you don't do this by the end of the hour, you will be devoured by a cage of starving nubile, naked, virginal blonde women. Don't worry, you'll be fine.
You: ...Oh... but why don't I just do this here? Won't that make things much easier?
Supervisor: You ruined the system! YOU RUINED THE SYSTEM! DIE, YOU FUCKER! (Takes out gun and shoots you in the head) That's not the way we DO THINGS AROUND HERE!!!
You: Sorry, just asking.
Supervisor: If you have any problems, just report to me, and I'll attach these electrodes to your genitals and give you a couple of thousand volts. Have a nice day!
So yeah, I had a good day.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Tim Blair Goes Too Far
No, I'm not talking about the 'Tim Blair Makes Fun of Margo's Appearance' debate. I'm referring to this:
PROVOCATIVE ONE-LETTER POST INTENDED TO LURE COMMENTS
j
Really! One letter posts? It might have seemed like a fun idea at the time, but it's not too difficult to imagine what might happen. Soon people might be posting a 'g', or a 'f' or even single items of punctuation such as '?', ',' and '-' - for the sole purpose of stimulating comments. Soon, offensive messages such as -
'hgoenh[lkdwlm'
might be posted on the internet.
Oh, sure, there's nothing wrong with a 'j' - but think of where it might lead. It's a slippery slope, people!
PROVOCATIVE ONE-LETTER POST INTENDED TO LURE COMMENTS
j
Really! One letter posts? It might have seemed like a fun idea at the time, but it's not too difficult to imagine what might happen. Soon people might be posting a 'g', or a 'f' or even single items of punctuation such as '?', ',' and '-' - for the sole purpose of stimulating comments. Soon, offensive messages such as -
'hgoenh[lkdwlm'
might be posted on the internet.
Oh, sure, there's nothing wrong with a 'j' - but think of where it might lead. It's a slippery slope, people!
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Footpath Rage
<fulmination mode>
Honestly. Other people walking on the footpath are so ridiculous. There should be a law against them. It's getting so that a gentleman can't go for his morning constitutional nowadays without running into gangs of Loiterers, Pamphleteers, Jostlers, Hip-swivellers, or Elderleys.
The Loiterers stand about in groups of two outside shop windows, strategically placed so that they disrupt your manly stride.
The Pamphleteers, so called because they stand on street corners waiting for you to pass by and wave pieces of paper in your face demanding that you Save The Whales/Save The World/Save Your Soul/Make Great Savings Now! Don't these people have anything better to do with their lives? Streets are for walking, not talking.
The Jostlers who elbow you out of the way rudely.
The Hip-Swivellers Blonde, stick-figure-thing young lovelys wearing jeans and not much else. The way their buttocks rotate as they walk is a true wonder of nature. Perhaps they could place a pair of motion-activated flashlights upon their buttocks, thus alerting gentlemen of their presence at night.
The Elderlys ie, old people who get together in groups of three or four and take up the whole footpath. They then proceed to walk very slowly and carefully down the footpath, making sure that you are unable to get past them. If you attempt to do so, they will use their frames and walking sticks as deadly weapons. I am of the firm belief that these old people do it on purpose, and gather together in gangs during the mornings to discuss which footpath they shall walk down and whose path they shall obstruct.
One longs for the days when Walking was a gentleman's profession. Nowadays it seems they'll let anyone onto the streets. I think I'll start taking a car horn with me, so that when I get caught behind the next bunch of elderlys, I can honk it loudly in their ears until they move.
That'll show 'em.
</fulmination mode>
Honestly. Other people walking on the footpath are so ridiculous. There should be a law against them. It's getting so that a gentleman can't go for his morning constitutional nowadays without running into gangs of Loiterers, Pamphleteers, Jostlers, Hip-swivellers, or Elderleys.
The Loiterers stand about in groups of two outside shop windows, strategically placed so that they disrupt your manly stride.
The Pamphleteers, so called because they stand on street corners waiting for you to pass by and wave pieces of paper in your face demanding that you Save The Whales/Save The World/Save Your Soul/Make Great Savings Now! Don't these people have anything better to do with their lives? Streets are for walking, not talking.
The Jostlers who elbow you out of the way rudely.
The Hip-Swivellers Blonde, stick-figure-thing young lovelys wearing jeans and not much else. The way their buttocks rotate as they walk is a true wonder of nature. Perhaps they could place a pair of motion-activated flashlights upon their buttocks, thus alerting gentlemen of their presence at night.
The Elderlys ie, old people who get together in groups of three or four and take up the whole footpath. They then proceed to walk very slowly and carefully down the footpath, making sure that you are unable to get past them. If you attempt to do so, they will use their frames and walking sticks as deadly weapons. I am of the firm belief that these old people do it on purpose, and gather together in gangs during the mornings to discuss which footpath they shall walk down and whose path they shall obstruct.
One longs for the days when Walking was a gentleman's profession. Nowadays it seems they'll let anyone onto the streets. I think I'll start taking a car horn with me, so that when I get caught behind the next bunch of elderlys, I can honk it loudly in their ears until they move.
That'll show 'em.
</fulmination mode>
Friday, April 29, 2005
Absence
Been away for a while. Haven't felt like blogging that much. Actually, I'm not even back now. This post is being written by a ghost writer with my name, age, and appearance. He seems to be like me in every way, but he's not me. Handy, huh?
I just have to feed him the occasional cherry-topped cake and he keeps typing away. I think I'll keep him.
I just have to feed him the occasional cherry-topped cake and he keeps typing away. I think I'll keep him.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
The Foot Blog
Posted a corker of a comment the other day. Considering it has almost nothing to do with the subject being blogged about, it's simultaneously one of the worst and the best things I'll ever write. Here it is, in all its glory....
Speaking of feet, I used to speak with feet ... my brother's feet, that is. He called it 'foot' and we used to hold long conversations at the dinner table.
In this modern digital age, maybe it could start up a blog...
THE FOOT BLOG
Friday
;serfiosrthljsfgkljkladjrgfkl
Saturday
Hey, I don't mind the guy on the other side ... for a left foot, he isn't so bad. But the owner stepped in something today and hasn't cleaned it off yet, and he's been smelling all day.
Sunday
*Wonders* Cosmetic surgery can do wonders nowadays. Maybe I should consider being amputated, and starting off a life of my own, free of that smell old left foot...
Monday
I went and saw the doctor today. Arranged the amputation for Tuesday.
Tuesday
LIVE AMPUTATION BLOGGING
Hello, here I am in the doctor's surgery, ready for a spot of live amputationg blogging. I've got my laptop here ready for the moment and .... YEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWCH!
Wednesday
My foot hurts.
And considering my foot is all I have now, you'll understand if I'm a little late out of bed.
Thursday
I feel free! I feel liberated! I think I shall go out into the wide world and see what it has to offer for a foot freed of his bipedal constraints!
Friday
I miss my body.
END OF FOOT BLOG
Two days later, the foot was caught by police trying to stitch himself onto a nearby elephant. When asked what he was doing, he said he was just looking for 'some-body to cling on to'.
Speaking of feet, I used to speak with feet ... my brother's feet, that is. He called it 'foot' and we used to hold long conversations at the dinner table.
In this modern digital age, maybe it could start up a blog...
THE FOOT BLOG
Friday
;serfiosrthljsfgkljkladjrgfkl
Saturday
Hey, I don't mind the guy on the other side ... for a left foot, he isn't so bad. But the owner stepped in something today and hasn't cleaned it off yet, and he's been smelling all day.
Sunday
*Wonders* Cosmetic surgery can do wonders nowadays. Maybe I should consider being amputated, and starting off a life of my own, free of that smell old left foot...
Monday
I went and saw the doctor today. Arranged the amputation for Tuesday.
Tuesday
LIVE AMPUTATION BLOGGING
Hello, here I am in the doctor's surgery, ready for a spot of live amputationg blogging. I've got my laptop here ready for the moment and .... YEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWCH!
Wednesday
My foot hurts.
And considering my foot is all I have now, you'll understand if I'm a little late out of bed.
Thursday
I feel free! I feel liberated! I think I shall go out into the wide world and see what it has to offer for a foot freed of his bipedal constraints!
Friday
I miss my body.
END OF FOOT BLOG
Two days later, the foot was caught by police trying to stitch himself onto a nearby elephant. When asked what he was doing, he said he was just looking for 'some-body to cling on to'.
Because I Have Nothing Better to Post About
Generic Political Rant
Waffle waffle waffle bla bla waffle waffle bla bla ignorant lefties waffle bla bla stupid righties.
Yada yada yada yada John Howard yada yada yada moving forward yada being held back bla bla bla bla bla upon the ladder of opportunity.
Therefore, Mr. Speaker, it would seem, Mr. Speaker, to be an exact and certainly indubitable probability, relatively speaking, that the bla bla bla bla hegemonic influence bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla.
And so waffle waffle rousing metaphor waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle meaningful anecdote waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle applause point waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle and furthermore etc etc historical reference + dramatic pause...
I therefore conclude, Mr. Speaker, that the Honourable Member for Somewhere-or-other is a cunt.
Waffle waffle waffle bla bla waffle waffle bla bla ignorant lefties waffle bla bla stupid righties.
Yada yada yada yada John Howard yada yada yada moving forward yada being held back bla bla bla bla bla upon the ladder of opportunity.
Therefore, Mr. Speaker, it would seem, Mr. Speaker, to be an exact and certainly indubitable probability, relatively speaking, that the bla bla bla bla hegemonic influence bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla.
And so waffle waffle rousing metaphor waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle meaningful anecdote waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle applause point waffle waffle waffle waffle waffle and furthermore etc etc historical reference + dramatic pause...
I therefore conclude, Mr. Speaker, that the Honourable Member for Somewhere-or-other is a cunt.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Ways to Make the World a More Perfect Place #5
Nudist men should be genetically engineered so they have pouches* at the sides of their waist**. That way they could be as free and natural as God/Gaia/deity-of-your-choice intended but still be able to put their hands in their pockets.***
*Though I guess they shouldn't have mucus in them, like kangaroo pouches.
** Waist not, want not, I always say.
***Richard Glover came up with a similar idea a while ago, but I swear, this idea just came to me in the shower.
*Though I guess they shouldn't have mucus in them, like kangaroo pouches.
** Waist not, want not, I always say.
***Richard Glover came up with a similar idea a while ago, but I swear, this idea just came to me in the shower.
Paradoxymoron
Vanessa tries to explain the difference between a paradox and an oxymoron. Xeno's paradox is mentioned.
The Tortoise challenged Achilles to a race, claiming that he would win as long as Achilles gave him a small head start. Achilles laughed at this, for of course he was a mighty warrior and swift of foot, whereas the Tortoise was heavy and slow.“How big a head start do you need?” he asked the Tortoise with a smile.“Ten meters,” the latter replied.Achilles laughed louder than ever. “You will surely lose, my friend, in that case,” he told the Tortoise, “but let us race, if you wish it.”“On the contrary,” said the Tortoise, “I will win, and I can prove it to you by a simple argument.”“Go on then,” Achilles replied, with less confidence than he felt before. He knew he was the superior athlete, but he also knew the Tortoise had the sharper wits, and he had lost many a bewildering argument with him before this.“Suppose,” began the Tortoise, “that you give me a 10-meter head start. Would you say that you could cover that 10 meters between us very quickly?”“Very quickly,” Achilles affirmed.“And in that time, how far should I have gone, do you think?”“Perhaps a meter – no more,” said Achilles after a moment's thought.“Very well,” replied the Tortoise, “so now there is a meter between us. And you would catch up that distance very quickly?”“Very quickly indeed!”“And yet, in that time I shall have gone a little way farther, so that now you must catch that distance up, yes?”
“Ye-es,” said Achilles slowly.“And while you are doing so, I shall have gone a little way farther, so that you must then catch up the new distance,” the Tortoise continued smoothly.Achilles said nothing.“And so you see, in each moment you must be catching up the distance between us, and yet I – at the same time – will be adding a new distance, however small, for you to catch up again.”“Indeed, it must be so,” said Achilles wearily.“And so you can never catch up,” the Tortoise concluded sympathetically.“You are right, as always,” said Achilles sadly – and conceded the race.
That was by Lewis Carrol. It's a paradox because ... well, because ... um, hey look! Alice falling through a hole in the earth!
In Carroll's day there was considerable popular speculation about what would happen if one fell through a hole that went straight through the center of the earth. Plutarch had asked the question and many famous thinkers, including Francis Bacon and Voltaire, had argued about it. Galileo (Dialogo dei Massimi Sistemi, Giornata Seconda, Florence edition of 1842, Vol. 1, pages 251–52), gave the correct answer: the object would fall with increasing speed but decreasing acceleration until it reached the center of the earth, at which spot its acceleration would be zero. Thereafter it would slow down in speed, with increasing deceleration, until it reached the opening at the other end. Then it would fall back again. By ignoring air resistance and the coriolis force resulting from the earth's rotation (unless the hole ran from pole to pole), the object would oscillate back and forth forever. Air resistance of course would eventually bring it to rest at the earth's center. The interested reader should consult "A Hole through the Earth," by the French astronomer Camille Flammarion, in The Strand Magazine, Vol. 38 (1909), page 348, if only to look at the lurid illustrations.
Now I'm not sure whether that is illustrative of Xeno's paradox, or of paradoxes in general, but that's certainly interesting. Though I think that Alice might get a bit bored in the end.
Anyway, to get back to the point - the difference between a paradox and an oxymoron. 'Paradox' is a term for an apparent contradiction, while an oxymoron is a contradiction in terms. Simple.
The Tortoise challenged Achilles to a race, claiming that he would win as long as Achilles gave him a small head start. Achilles laughed at this, for of course he was a mighty warrior and swift of foot, whereas the Tortoise was heavy and slow.“How big a head start do you need?” he asked the Tortoise with a smile.“Ten meters,” the latter replied.Achilles laughed louder than ever. “You will surely lose, my friend, in that case,” he told the Tortoise, “but let us race, if you wish it.”“On the contrary,” said the Tortoise, “I will win, and I can prove it to you by a simple argument.”“Go on then,” Achilles replied, with less confidence than he felt before. He knew he was the superior athlete, but he also knew the Tortoise had the sharper wits, and he had lost many a bewildering argument with him before this.“Suppose,” began the Tortoise, “that you give me a 10-meter head start. Would you say that you could cover that 10 meters between us very quickly?”“Very quickly,” Achilles affirmed.“And in that time, how far should I have gone, do you think?”“Perhaps a meter – no more,” said Achilles after a moment's thought.“Very well,” replied the Tortoise, “so now there is a meter between us. And you would catch up that distance very quickly?”“Very quickly indeed!”“And yet, in that time I shall have gone a little way farther, so that now you must catch that distance up, yes?”
“Ye-es,” said Achilles slowly.“And while you are doing so, I shall have gone a little way farther, so that you must then catch up the new distance,” the Tortoise continued smoothly.Achilles said nothing.“And so you see, in each moment you must be catching up the distance between us, and yet I – at the same time – will be adding a new distance, however small, for you to catch up again.”“Indeed, it must be so,” said Achilles wearily.“And so you can never catch up,” the Tortoise concluded sympathetically.“You are right, as always,” said Achilles sadly – and conceded the race.
That was by Lewis Carrol. It's a paradox because ... well, because ... um, hey look! Alice falling through a hole in the earth!
In Carroll's day there was considerable popular speculation about what would happen if one fell through a hole that went straight through the center of the earth. Plutarch had asked the question and many famous thinkers, including Francis Bacon and Voltaire, had argued about it. Galileo (Dialogo dei Massimi Sistemi, Giornata Seconda, Florence edition of 1842, Vol. 1, pages 251–52), gave the correct answer: the object would fall with increasing speed but decreasing acceleration until it reached the center of the earth, at which spot its acceleration would be zero. Thereafter it would slow down in speed, with increasing deceleration, until it reached the opening at the other end. Then it would fall back again. By ignoring air resistance and the coriolis force resulting from the earth's rotation (unless the hole ran from pole to pole), the object would oscillate back and forth forever. Air resistance of course would eventually bring it to rest at the earth's center. The interested reader should consult "A Hole through the Earth," by the French astronomer Camille Flammarion, in The Strand Magazine, Vol. 38 (1909), page 348, if only to look at the lurid illustrations.
Now I'm not sure whether that is illustrative of Xeno's paradox, or of paradoxes in general, but that's certainly interesting. Though I think that Alice might get a bit bored in the end.
Anyway, to get back to the point - the difference between a paradox and an oxymoron. 'Paradox' is a term for an apparent contradiction, while an oxymoron is a contradiction in terms. Simple.
Like to read this piece of mine and argue vociferously with me? Then go to Vibewire and read this post, which, depending on where you stand, is either...
a) A slavish piece of Government propaganda, aimed at crushing student unions,
b) A timely piece written in support of Voluntary Student Unionism
c) Yeah, whatever.
a) A slavish piece of Government propaganda, aimed at crushing student unions,
b) A timely piece written in support of Voluntary Student Unionism
c) Yeah, whatever.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Ways To Make the World a More Perfect Place #4
Instead of having to climb the stairs ourselves, we should be able to hire lithe and nubile young climbers to do it for us. At the rate children are paid nowadays, it should cost, oh, only 5 cents per flight of stairs.
And while standing in queues, customers should be provided with a lounge and a daiquiri so they can relax. I am particularly firm on this last point: waiting in queues is the bane of modern existence, and I'm not going to stand for it any more!
And while standing in queues, customers should be provided with a lounge and a daiquiri so they can relax. I am particularly firm on this last point: waiting in queues is the bane of modern existence, and I'm not going to stand for it any more!
Friday, April 15, 2005
I Love the Taste of Marx in the Morning
You know, I've always liked food. You can eat it. Apparently leftists like food too. You can throw it. Tim Blair notes this endearing characteristic of the left, writing:
This is a marvellous thing. Perhaps the right-wing could do something similar. Only, where leftists through cream pies, perhaps a more sedate, conservative right-winger could throw omelette with a side-serving of bass, lightly fried, topped with a garnish of parsley and basil and a drink of red wine.
Political commentators in the daily newspapers could be replaced by food critics:
The debate in parliament today was an easily digestible combination of Trotsky, with a sprinkling of Mao Tse Tung and a garnish of Hayek for good measure. Although the mixture of flavours went down fairly well, it turned a little sour at the end.
I give this debate 3/5.
I've found the writing of our political commentators a little hard to stomach from time to time. This culinary approach to political debate can only improve matters.
Forced to select between ideas
and pies, leftists are prone to opt for the latter...
This is a marvellous thing. Perhaps the right-wing could do something similar. Only, where leftists through cream pies, perhaps a more sedate, conservative right-winger could throw omelette with a side-serving of bass, lightly fried, topped with a garnish of parsley and basil and a drink of red wine.
Political commentators in the daily newspapers could be replaced by food critics:
The debate in parliament today was an easily digestible combination of Trotsky, with a sprinkling of Mao Tse Tung and a garnish of Hayek for good measure. Although the mixture of flavours went down fairly well, it turned a little sour at the end.
I give this debate 3/5.
I've found the writing of our political commentators a little hard to stomach from time to time. This culinary approach to political debate can only improve matters.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Call Me The Chairman
I have just finished my first night at work, doing some data entry on the night shift. After spending some time tapping in a series of numbers into the computer, my buttocks began to meld into the chair. In time, we shall merge fully, my spin running into the chair, and we shall form a symbiotic entity, known as The Chairman, who shall live in the office and be deposited under the table when he needs to sleep, and be fed with instant coffee for breakfast.
Actually, I'm thinking of quitting. I may be offered another night shift typing position tomorrow.
UPDATE - I got fired! Easy come, easy go.
Actually, I'm thinking of quitting. I may be offered another night shift typing position tomorrow.
UPDATE - I got fired! Easy come, easy go.
Blog Predictions
Following the recent demise of two of the best blogs, now would seem to be the right time to take stock of what's happening in the world of blog. Where are the blogs going, and what will the bloggers be doing in a years time? Yes, it's...
BLOG PREDICTIONS 2005
- Marty of The Rat Pack, currently one of the crankiest right-wingers around (and he's still at Uni!), just keeps on getting crankier. By 2006, he's so cranky that he drops the A-bomb on Canada, Cuba, and other havens of lefty-hippy-peaceniks such as Tasmania. Then, deciding that he can't get much crankier than that, Marty retreats to a cave and becomes a tofu-munching Hari Krishna.
- Defying his own expectations and others predictions, DREADNOUGHT becomes Pope and the Catholic church enters a magnificent new era of splendour and decadence.
- David wins the Pulitzer prize - well deserved, despite the fact that he is neither living America nor born in America.
- Proving that there's nothing she can't do, webmistress Andrea Harris bans Tim Blair from his own blog - then she goes even further and bans herself.
- Gempires becomes a Carmelite nun and retires to a nunnery, only engaging in the occasional threesome with her fellow nuns (every other day or so, and twice on Sundays).
BLOG PREDICTIONS 2005
- Marty of The Rat Pack, currently one of the crankiest right-wingers around (and he's still at Uni!), just keeps on getting crankier. By 2006, he's so cranky that he drops the A-bomb on Canada, Cuba, and other havens of lefty-hippy-peaceniks such as Tasmania. Then, deciding that he can't get much crankier than that, Marty retreats to a cave and becomes a tofu-munching Hari Krishna.
- Defying his own expectations and others predictions, DREADNOUGHT becomes Pope and the Catholic church enters a magnificent new era of splendour and decadence.
- David wins the Pulitzer prize - well deserved, despite the fact that he is neither living America nor born in America.
- Proving that there's nothing she can't do, webmistress Andrea Harris bans Tim Blair from his own blog - then she goes even further and bans herself.
- Gempires becomes a Carmelite nun and retires to a nunnery, only engaging in the occasional threesome with her fellow nuns (every other day or so, and twice on Sundays).
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Those Whacky Prostitutes (And Other Stories)
Three Nights Ago: I'm out drinking with the guys. Let's call them Dale and David, 'cos that's what their names are. Anyway, I'm out drinking with them, or should I say, I'm in drinking with them, at the pub on the first floor of the Carlton Hotel, which is where I'm staying at the moment. George is downstairs, Pete is behind the bar, and there are a couple of prostitutes lounging around on the lounge chatting to Pete. When I go to ask Pete how much for a bag of chips, the black haired prostitue pipes up and says, "Ten bucks, love."
It's good to drink, but at twelve-thirty I decide to go to bed. I don't have to get wasted to enjoy a good nights sleep.
I crawl into bed, the top bunk, and briefly squint across at Adam's bunk on the other side of the room - what the hell does this guy do all night? he doesn't sleep, that's for sure - before turning the lights off. I don't need to get wasted to sleep properly.
Or maybe I do. At 3.00, I'm woken by a key in the door. There are voices outside, so I assume that it's Dale and David arriving back. The door opens and the lights go on. It is Dale, but it's not David. Actually, it's the prostitute who spoke to me before.
Jerkily, probably still half-asleep, I pull on a few clothes on and jump to the floor.
"I think I need to go to the toilet for a second," says the prostitute.
When she's gone, this is what Dale says to me - and this is verbatim:
Dale: I'm going to fuck this bitch tonight. (Giggles) I haven't had a root for three months. I'm going to bang her good. (Giggles again, doesn't stop.)
Whatever. I don't know what the hell I'm going to do for the rest of the night, but sleeping, it seems, is not on the itinerary.
Or is it? Dale starts wondering what happened to the prostitute, so he goes to the toilet. She's not there. And she's taken fifty dollars of his! He dashes down the stairs to look in the bar. I lean over the banister for a while. In a few minutes, David comes up stairs, and Dale goes outside to look for her.
David is drunk. Very drunk. He's a nice guy, but he tends to ramble and has an aggressive manner. So when he's drunk, he rambles very much - and is even aggressiver. For the next half-hour or so, I sit on my bed leaning forward and listening to David ramble on and on about bitches and Asians.
Eventually I lie back on the bed.
Me: I'm just going to, you know, turn this light off, and, you know, we can go to sleep.
David: (Rambles some more).
About half-an-hour later, Dale comes in, lies down on the bed until the alarm goes off. It's 4.00am. He gets up, turns the light on, pulls his clothes on, turns the light off, and goes to work.
Two nights ago: Still don't know where Adam is. He hasn't come into the room at all - just leaves his stuff on the top of the bed.
I'm sleeping. Then at 3.00am the door opens and in comes Adam, followed by a security guy. Adam pulls all his bags together, looks around under the bed for his mobile phone charger and some other things. Eventually the security guard says, "Come on man. Let's go". And they do.
Whatever. I think I'll just lie back on the bed and go to sleep.*
Or not.
Dale is snoring. Snoring heavily. He always does. Actually, he didn't even notice Adam and the security guard come in - he's too busy snoring, and occasionally mumbling while he snores. Normally, it doesn't worry me - but now it does. I can't sleep. Keep on drifting off, then I'm snatched back to consciousness by Dale's snores.
Eventually, Dale wakes up, sits up, turns on the light, pulls on his clothes, turns off the light, and goes to work. Bliss.
Or not.
Some idiot is walking up and down Bourke Street screaming, "Heeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!! Heeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!! Heeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!"
No more sleep. Again. I think I'll swear. Excuse me for a second.
Me: (Deep breath) FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU...
*we'll call it room for the purposes of this conversation, though 'box' or 'cupboard' might be a more appropriate description
* I later found out Adam was dealing heroin.
It's good to drink, but at twelve-thirty I decide to go to bed. I don't have to get wasted to enjoy a good nights sleep.
I crawl into bed, the top bunk, and briefly squint across at Adam's bunk on the other side of the room - what the hell does this guy do all night? he doesn't sleep, that's for sure - before turning the lights off. I don't need to get wasted to sleep properly.
Or maybe I do. At 3.00, I'm woken by a key in the door. There are voices outside, so I assume that it's Dale and David arriving back. The door opens and the lights go on. It is Dale, but it's not David. Actually, it's the prostitute who spoke to me before.
Jerkily, probably still half-asleep, I pull on a few clothes on and jump to the floor.
"I think I need to go to the toilet for a second," says the prostitute.
When she's gone, this is what Dale says to me - and this is verbatim:
Dale: I'm going to fuck this bitch tonight. (Giggles) I haven't had a root for three months. I'm going to bang her good. (Giggles again, doesn't stop.)
Whatever. I don't know what the hell I'm going to do for the rest of the night, but sleeping, it seems, is not on the itinerary.
Or is it? Dale starts wondering what happened to the prostitute, so he goes to the toilet. She's not there. And she's taken fifty dollars of his! He dashes down the stairs to look in the bar. I lean over the banister for a while. In a few minutes, David comes up stairs, and Dale goes outside to look for her.
David is drunk. Very drunk. He's a nice guy, but he tends to ramble and has an aggressive manner. So when he's drunk, he rambles very much - and is even aggressiver. For the next half-hour or so, I sit on my bed leaning forward and listening to David ramble on and on about bitches and Asians.
Eventually I lie back on the bed.
Me: I'm just going to, you know, turn this light off, and, you know, we can go to sleep.
David: (Rambles some more).
About half-an-hour later, Dale comes in, lies down on the bed until the alarm goes off. It's 4.00am. He gets up, turns the light on, pulls his clothes on, turns the light off, and goes to work.
Two nights ago: Still don't know where Adam is. He hasn't come into the room at all - just leaves his stuff on the top of the bed.
I'm sleeping. Then at 3.00am the door opens and in comes Adam, followed by a security guy. Adam pulls all his bags together, looks around under the bed for his mobile phone charger and some other things. Eventually the security guard says, "Come on man. Let's go". And they do.
Whatever. I think I'll just lie back on the bed and go to sleep.*
Or not.
Dale is snoring. Snoring heavily. He always does. Actually, he didn't even notice Adam and the security guard come in - he's too busy snoring, and occasionally mumbling while he snores. Normally, it doesn't worry me - but now it does. I can't sleep. Keep on drifting off, then I'm snatched back to consciousness by Dale's snores.
Eventually, Dale wakes up, sits up, turns on the light, pulls on his clothes, turns off the light, and goes to work. Bliss.
Or not.
Some idiot is walking up and down Bourke Street screaming, "Heeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!! Heeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!! Heeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!"
No more sleep. Again. I think I'll swear. Excuse me for a second.
Me: (Deep breath) FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU...
*we'll call it room for the purposes of this conversation, though 'box' or 'cupboard' might be a more appropriate description
* I later found out Adam was dealing heroin.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Little Peter Rabbit
Little Peter Rabbit had a fly upon his nose,
Little Peter Rabbit had a fly upon his nose,
Little Peter Rabbit had a fly upon his nose,
And he blew and he blew some more.
Little Peter Rabbit had some tinea on his toes,
Little Peter Rabbit had some tinea on his toes,
Little Peter Rabbit had some tinea on his toes,
It hurt quite a lot, I'm sure.
Little Peter Rabbit had a goitre on his leg,
Little Peter Rabbit had a goitre on his leg,
Little Peter Rabbit had a goitre on his leg,
It was a frightful bore.
Then when he was in the garden, he got caught in Mr. McGregor's trap,
Then when he was in the garden, he got caught in Mr. McGregor's trap,
Then when he was in the garden, he got caught in Mr. McGregor's trap,
'Twas a scene of blood and gore.
"Boil some water!" said McGregor, "An' we'll 'ave some fly an' rabbit stew!
"With some tinea in there too, an' a goitred leg or two!
"Boil some water, dear," he said, "An' we'll 'ave some fly an' rabbit stew -
Like we've never 'ad before!"
"But McGregor!" snapped his wife, "You know you cannot chew!
"On a goitred leg or two, much less 'ave a rabbit stew!"
"But McGregor!" snapped his wife, "You know you cannot chew,
Because you 'ave lockjaw!"
So weeping Mr. McGregor had to let poor Peter go,
And weeping Mr. McGregor had to let poor Peter go,
Yes weeping Mr. McGregor had to let poor Peter go,
And he won't eat rabbit any more!
Little Peter Rabbit had a fly upon his nose,
Little Peter Rabbit had a fly upon his nose,
And he blew and he blew some more.
Little Peter Rabbit had some tinea on his toes,
Little Peter Rabbit had some tinea on his toes,
Little Peter Rabbit had some tinea on his toes,
It hurt quite a lot, I'm sure.
Little Peter Rabbit had a goitre on his leg,
Little Peter Rabbit had a goitre on his leg,
Little Peter Rabbit had a goitre on his leg,
It was a frightful bore.
Then when he was in the garden, he got caught in Mr. McGregor's trap,
Then when he was in the garden, he got caught in Mr. McGregor's trap,
Then when he was in the garden, he got caught in Mr. McGregor's trap,
'Twas a scene of blood and gore.
"Boil some water!" said McGregor, "An' we'll 'ave some fly an' rabbit stew!
"With some tinea in there too, an' a goitred leg or two!
"Boil some water, dear," he said, "An' we'll 'ave some fly an' rabbit stew -
Like we've never 'ad before!"
"But McGregor!" snapped his wife, "You know you cannot chew!
"On a goitred leg or two, much less 'ave a rabbit stew!"
"But McGregor!" snapped his wife, "You know you cannot chew,
Because you 'ave lockjaw!"
So weeping Mr. McGregor had to let poor Peter go,
And weeping Mr. McGregor had to let poor Peter go,
Yes weeping Mr. McGregor had to let poor Peter go,
And he won't eat rabbit any more!
Monday, April 04, 2005
CLOSET HOMOPHOBE!!!
Committed redneck, gay-hater and homophobe Hal Harkleman recently spent two months behind doors, masquerading as a 'homosexual', in order to discover more about their 'lifestyle'. He has now written a startling book about his experiences - titled Behind Doors with the Backdoor Bandits!
Harkleman seemed relaxed and comfortable when our resident redneck, Bruce Baldwin, spoke to him in his Broadmeadows residence recently...
BB: So, what are they like, really? Gays, I mean? Sometimes it seems hard to believe they really exist!
HH: I know, it's strange, isn't it? And you know something even stranger? They're normally very ordinary people!
BB: Really?
HH: Yes, really. Whenever they're not bending over, taking it up the back chute, making like the backstreet boys, or generally sucking the saveloy, they're actually very nice!
BB: Wow!
HH: Yep. Really!
BB: But ... what about all that limp-wristed stuff? You know, the hand-flapping, the air-kisses, the 'hello, Sailor!' type stuff?
HH: Well... to tell you the truth...
BB: Yes?
HH: (Leaning in, whispering) They just do it to have us on.
BB: What?
HH: Really! In private, they're all, 'G'day Bob, nice ter meet yer, Joe, 'ave another beer mate!' - just like you and me!
BB: Even... even the mincing? They put that on too?
HH: Oh, the mincing! I can tell you something about that! You see, they have classes!
BB: Classes?
HH: Yes! They teach you how to walk like a fag! Really! Here, I'll show you ... (standing up, swinging his hips poofter style) you move your legs like this, and your hips like this, and ...
BB: Here, steady on mate, you're not a poofter now!
HH: Sorry... I forget sometimes...
BB: So tell me... there's something I'm dying to know...
HH: Yeah?
BB: Did you really... you know ... take it up the arse?
HH: What?
BB: Did you slurp on the sausage? Did you kiss the cabanossi?
HH: Well, I made romanski with the kransky, if that's what you mean...
BB: Well, mate, doesn't that make you a flaming ... homosexual?
HH: (Rises up and punches BB in the face) Ey, what I did, mate, was purely for scientific research! Who cares if I had a bit of fun on the side?
BB: Jeez mate! ... sorry I asked ... one more question though...
HH: What?
BB: Well... what's it like?
HH: I can show you if you like.
BB: Fuck off, you flaming queer! (Turns off tape, looks around furtively, leans in to HH) Alright, you can give it to me once or twice between the back flaps, but that doesn't make me a bloody nancy boy, OK?
Harkleman seemed relaxed and comfortable when our resident redneck, Bruce Baldwin, spoke to him in his Broadmeadows residence recently...
BB: So, what are they like, really? Gays, I mean? Sometimes it seems hard to believe they really exist!
HH: I know, it's strange, isn't it? And you know something even stranger? They're normally very ordinary people!
BB: Really?
HH: Yes, really. Whenever they're not bending over, taking it up the back chute, making like the backstreet boys, or generally sucking the saveloy, they're actually very nice!
BB: Wow!
HH: Yep. Really!
BB: But ... what about all that limp-wristed stuff? You know, the hand-flapping, the air-kisses, the 'hello, Sailor!' type stuff?
HH: Well... to tell you the truth...
BB: Yes?
HH: (Leaning in, whispering) They just do it to have us on.
BB: What?
HH: Really! In private, they're all, 'G'day Bob, nice ter meet yer, Joe, 'ave another beer mate!' - just like you and me!
BB: Even... even the mincing? They put that on too?
HH: Oh, the mincing! I can tell you something about that! You see, they have classes!
BB: Classes?
HH: Yes! They teach you how to walk like a fag! Really! Here, I'll show you ... (standing up, swinging his hips poofter style) you move your legs like this, and your hips like this, and ...
BB: Here, steady on mate, you're not a poofter now!
HH: Sorry... I forget sometimes...
BB: So tell me... there's something I'm dying to know...
HH: Yeah?
BB: Did you really... you know ... take it up the arse?
HH: What?
BB: Did you slurp on the sausage? Did you kiss the cabanossi?
HH: Well, I made romanski with the kransky, if that's what you mean...
BB: Well, mate, doesn't that make you a flaming ... homosexual?
HH: (Rises up and punches BB in the face) Ey, what I did, mate, was purely for scientific research! Who cares if I had a bit of fun on the side?
BB: Jeez mate! ... sorry I asked ... one more question though...
HH: What?
BB: Well... what's it like?
HH: I can show you if you like.
BB: Fuck off, you flaming queer! (Turns off tape, looks around furtively, leans in to HH) Alright, you can give it to me once or twice between the back flaps, but that doesn't make me a bloody nancy boy, OK?
Saturday, April 02, 2005
I May Be an Environmentalist, but I'm Not a Bloody Greenie
Hey environmentalists, I hear you man, I really do. Like, the environment is a really good thing and nature is really pretty and we shouldn't chop all the trees down and stuff. You're right. But before I consider becoming a full blown tree-hugging Bob Brown-loving hippy, you're going to have to fix up some major problems with your philosophy. You know how you say 'man is a part of nature', right? That's cool, but then you go on about the difference between the man-made world and the natural world. Get over it. Trees are nature and architecture is nature and cars and roads are nature, too.
Oh, and ditch all that propaganda about how we need to 'save the world'. The world ain't gonna be blown up, man. Over its time, it's survived ice-ages, heat-ages, repeated hits by comets, the destruction of its ozone layer, and much, much more besides - and life on planet Earth has survived too, and thrived. We're not ever going to save the planet. We're just going to make things a bit more comfortable for ourselves.
Oh, and then there's all that other stuff you guys go on about...
The Greenhouse Effect So I hear a lot of scientist dudes talk about climate change and how it might be affected by the activities of homo sapien. So I hear a lot of politicians and greenies talk about how 'human-induced climate change' will cause 'more floods, more hurricanes, more droughts - more of everything.' So what? Just because you say it's going to happen doesn't mean it will happen. I don't see why I'm supposed to believe all of you concerned people when you make contradictions like saying there's going to be more floods and more droughts. Like, come on, dude!
Floods= More Water
Droughts = Less Water
Which is it going to be?
And anyway, we hear a lot about how bad the world is going to be because of human induced climate change. But suppose we stopped human induced climate change? Do we ever hear predictions about how bad the world is going to be then? Hey, it could be worse - look at the world as it is now. In the previous twelve months, we've had several killer earthquakes, a gigantic bloody tsunami which killed thousands of people, and a couple of tornadoes as well. Whose to say that the world without human induced climate change won't be far, far worse than the world with human induced climate change? Get a proper argument, my friend.
Energy You're right. We can't keep on burning coal and oil forever and a day. We're going to run out sometime. And when we do, we'll be in deep doo-doo, unless we do something about it now. So why are you greenies so hung up on the idea of wind power and solar power? Look at some of the other alternatives:
Nuclear Power - Efficient and safe. Three quarters of the scare stories you hear about nuclear energy and nuclear waste aren't true, and most of the rest are vastly exaggerated. Fact is, we know enough about nuclear energy now to do it, and to do it safely. Stop being so freaking timid about the whole thing, and start looking at it as an alternative energy source.
Dam Power - Hey, this sounds like a freakishly clean and efficient energy source, why don't we give this one a go?
Geothermal Power - Yet another alternative which could work well. But no one mentions it.
Biodiesel Power - I dunno whether this causes any of those Carbon Dioxide gases, but let's give this one a go too.
Wave Power - Wooah, dude, another energy source that no one ever talks about - but it could work and it could work well.
For the life of me, I don't know why you guys are so stuck up on Wind Power and Solar Power, which are possibly the most expensive to manufacture, and the most inefficient in terms of output. See, the whole thing is, the modern world in all its thriving, overpopulated glory was made possible by efficient energy resources which generated enough power and profit to allow us to live in such comfort. You say we need to look at alternatives, I say - you're right, so why don't we start?
Genetically Modified Foods What's wrong with this stuff, anyway? What gives you dudes such a hang-up about it? Here's a new technology, that - given time - could develop new crops which use less natural resources (like water) and yield far greater harvests. This is good stuff! And I don't see why you're so worried about them damaging our biodiversity. Dude, wake up! They're new crops, they're adding to our biodiversity.
I don't see what the hang up is. Aren't greenies supposed to be liberal and progressive and stuff? So wake up, be liberal and progressive and accept this liberal and progressive new technology!
Overpopulation So Bob Brown says we should have less people in Australia. But he also says we should have vastly increased immigration. Um, major contradiction alert, my friend! Which is it gonna be - more people, or less? I say more people. Commissar Brown says, um, wooah, dude, that's just too heavy for this time in the morning...
Oh, and one other thing, dudes. The economy. You guys have a wee-bitty-problem with this. Trees are nice, but money doesn't grow on them. Grass is pretty, but it doesn't feed the economy. The thing that feeds the economy is money, and we need a strong economy to have a healthy society. Think about all the things that rely on this (afore-mentioned) strong economy: health, out-of-work pensions, back-to-work-pensions, rehabilitation, the arts, food, electricity... the list goes on and on. So stop thinking you can just chuck taxes at the latest environmentalist fad (wind power, solar power, bla bla bla) and give the money back to taxpayers. They usually know the best way to spend their own money.
More: See Evil Pundit
Oh, and ditch all that propaganda about how we need to 'save the world'. The world ain't gonna be blown up, man. Over its time, it's survived ice-ages, heat-ages, repeated hits by comets, the destruction of its ozone layer, and much, much more besides - and life on planet Earth has survived too, and thrived. We're not ever going to save the planet. We're just going to make things a bit more comfortable for ourselves.
Oh, and then there's all that other stuff you guys go on about...
The Greenhouse Effect So I hear a lot of scientist dudes talk about climate change and how it might be affected by the activities of homo sapien. So I hear a lot of politicians and greenies talk about how 'human-induced climate change' will cause 'more floods, more hurricanes, more droughts - more of everything.' So what? Just because you say it's going to happen doesn't mean it will happen. I don't see why I'm supposed to believe all of you concerned people when you make contradictions like saying there's going to be more floods and more droughts. Like, come on, dude!
Floods= More Water
Droughts = Less Water
Which is it going to be?
And anyway, we hear a lot about how bad the world is going to be because of human induced climate change. But suppose we stopped human induced climate change? Do we ever hear predictions about how bad the world is going to be then? Hey, it could be worse - look at the world as it is now. In the previous twelve months, we've had several killer earthquakes, a gigantic bloody tsunami which killed thousands of people, and a couple of tornadoes as well. Whose to say that the world without human induced climate change won't be far, far worse than the world with human induced climate change? Get a proper argument, my friend.
Energy You're right. We can't keep on burning coal and oil forever and a day. We're going to run out sometime. And when we do, we'll be in deep doo-doo, unless we do something about it now. So why are you greenies so hung up on the idea of wind power and solar power? Look at some of the other alternatives:
Nuclear Power - Efficient and safe. Three quarters of the scare stories you hear about nuclear energy and nuclear waste aren't true, and most of the rest are vastly exaggerated. Fact is, we know enough about nuclear energy now to do it, and to do it safely. Stop being so freaking timid about the whole thing, and start looking at it as an alternative energy source.
Dam Power - Hey, this sounds like a freakishly clean and efficient energy source, why don't we give this one a go?
Geothermal Power - Yet another alternative which could work well. But no one mentions it.
Biodiesel Power - I dunno whether this causes any of those Carbon Dioxide gases, but let's give this one a go too.
Wave Power - Wooah, dude, another energy source that no one ever talks about - but it could work and it could work well.
For the life of me, I don't know why you guys are so stuck up on Wind Power and Solar Power, which are possibly the most expensive to manufacture, and the most inefficient in terms of output. See, the whole thing is, the modern world in all its thriving, overpopulated glory was made possible by efficient energy resources which generated enough power and profit to allow us to live in such comfort. You say we need to look at alternatives, I say - you're right, so why don't we start?
Genetically Modified Foods What's wrong with this stuff, anyway? What gives you dudes such a hang-up about it? Here's a new technology, that - given time - could develop new crops which use less natural resources (like water) and yield far greater harvests. This is good stuff! And I don't see why you're so worried about them damaging our biodiversity. Dude, wake up! They're new crops, they're adding to our biodiversity.
I don't see what the hang up is. Aren't greenies supposed to be liberal and progressive and stuff? So wake up, be liberal and progressive and accept this liberal and progressive new technology!
Overpopulation So Bob Brown says we should have less people in Australia. But he also says we should have vastly increased immigration. Um, major contradiction alert, my friend! Which is it gonna be - more people, or less? I say more people. Commissar Brown says, um, wooah, dude, that's just too heavy for this time in the morning...
Oh, and one other thing, dudes. The economy. You guys have a wee-bitty-problem with this. Trees are nice, but money doesn't grow on them. Grass is pretty, but it doesn't feed the economy. The thing that feeds the economy is money, and we need a strong economy to have a healthy society. Think about all the things that rely on this (afore-mentioned) strong economy: health, out-of-work pensions, back-to-work-pensions, rehabilitation, the arts, food, electricity... the list goes on and on. So stop thinking you can just chuck taxes at the latest environmentalist fad (wind power, solar power, bla bla bla) and give the money back to taxpayers. They usually know the best way to spend their own money.
More: See Evil Pundit
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Belated Ridiculous Post
This is a post I wrote about a week ago as a kind of response after seeing The Incredible Melk on stage. I'm still not sure whether it's any good or if it's just dumb, but I'm putting it up anyway.
You know, when I was a young boy of about five years old and I had plans to kidnap the Easter Bunny and steal all of its chocolate and assassinate Santa Claus, I used to dream about Delta Goodrem. It would be running about in a cage, looking for a way to escape - the Easter Bunny, not Delta Goodrem - but I'd catch it and make rabbit pie. I'd be wearing my best Delta Goodrem dress and singing 'Innocent Eyes' while I skinned the bunny, and playing the piano while I did so. But those were long years ago, and I was small, and Delta Goodrem hadn't even been born, which made matters rather difficult.
In case you are wondering what I'm on about, I went to a show tonight. The Incredible Melk has put together a show called The Incredible Melk, for all people who looked up to Delta Goodrem. It's a show for the girly girls, even if that girly girl is more of a man's man, or a lumberjack, or a computer spare-parts salesman. It's an all-rapping supershow, full of witty lyrics, and samples from the Melk's Karma Sutra, not to mention snippets from her incredibly fabulous life with Delta and other superstars. So it's definitely worth going to, even if you are more of a Bec Cartwright fan rather than a Delta man.
Anyway, I guess the point I am trying to make is that rabbit pie tastes really really good, that you should all have a wonderful wonderful easter and try to come to Mel's show. It's good.
You know, when I was a young boy of about five years old and I had plans to kidnap the Easter Bunny and steal all of its chocolate and assassinate Santa Claus, I used to dream about Delta Goodrem. It would be running about in a cage, looking for a way to escape - the Easter Bunny, not Delta Goodrem - but I'd catch it and make rabbit pie. I'd be wearing my best Delta Goodrem dress and singing 'Innocent Eyes' while I skinned the bunny, and playing the piano while I did so. But those were long years ago, and I was small, and Delta Goodrem hadn't even been born, which made matters rather difficult.
In case you are wondering what I'm on about, I went to a show tonight. The Incredible Melk has put together a show called The Incredible Melk, for all people who looked up to Delta Goodrem. It's a show for the girly girls, even if that girly girl is more of a man's man, or a lumberjack, or a computer spare-parts salesman. It's an all-rapping supershow, full of witty lyrics, and samples from the Melk's Karma Sutra, not to mention snippets from her incredibly fabulous life with Delta and other superstars. So it's definitely worth going to, even if you are more of a Bec Cartwright fan rather than a Delta man.
Anyway, I guess the point I am trying to make is that rabbit pie tastes really really good, that you should all have a wonderful wonderful easter and try to come to Mel's show. It's good.
A Difficult Matter
Vikki has a dog to train. Training dogs is a difficult matter. How much do you train them? How much are they capable of learning? Once I had a fox terrier who I taught to sing Puccini's Nessun Dorma while in costume, complete with actions. But she could never reach the high C, and the poor bitch had to be shot. Actually, that's wrong. I'd never teach a dog to sing Puccini. Rogers and Hammerstein is more their thing.
Why do we insist on teaching dogs the same old thing? Why do we teach dogs to come on the order 'come', to sit on the order 'sit', and to stay on the order 'stay'? Things could be made much more interesting. One of my ambitions in life - apart from getting a shrunken head, travelling to Antarctica and Mars, becoming obscenely rich and buying myself a full symphony orchestra - is to get a dog for a pet. I will then train it to come on the order 'Elephant', to sit on the order 'Lamington', and to stay on the order 'Warp Drive Nine, Commander Picard!' Or something of the sort. It will keep me amused in my old age.
I think I'll get a coffee.
Why do we insist on teaching dogs the same old thing? Why do we teach dogs to come on the order 'come', to sit on the order 'sit', and to stay on the order 'stay'? Things could be made much more interesting. One of my ambitions in life - apart from getting a shrunken head, travelling to Antarctica and Mars, becoming obscenely rich and buying myself a full symphony orchestra - is to get a dog for a pet. I will then train it to come on the order 'Elephant', to sit on the order 'Lamington', and to stay on the order 'Warp Drive Nine, Commander Picard!' Or something of the sort. It will keep me amused in my old age.
I think I'll get a coffee.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
But It Certainly Was an Experience
I'm staying at the moment in a cheap backpacker hostel. It's the sort of place that you tell other people about later and say, 'But it certainly was an experience.' I'd much rather be living in a ten-story penthouse with a wife, three kids off at college, with a personal liquor cabinet and a private study and library for me to read, write, relax, and drink.
Here's a website I found which describes the place. I've attached the description below, along with my translation, to tell you what it actually means...
Strategically well positioned...
You will wake up at three every morning to the sound of the first tram going past!
the Carlton Hotel is an age-old backpacker pub...
So many cigarettes have been smoken in the kitchen that even the tiles stink of nicotine!
with the ace up its sleeve surely being its 24 hour licence.
You might as well not bother going to sleep. Not that you'd want to hang around in the pub, either - the beers cost $6.00 a pint.
Bearing this in mind, it is not surprising to find all sorts propped up here in the wee hours of the morning: most Melbournites have probably never even been here.
That's because most people who live here don't really want to tell anyone about it.
The Carlton is often the sort of place you'd stop at because of its functionality; given its hours and late night bottle shop it's hard to beat if you're desperate for a quick no-fuss pot.
True: I lived with a pot smoker for about a week. The owners don't mind. I wouldn't be surprised if they sold the stuff.
With backpacker accommodation on-site, you are guaranteed to meet all sorts of weird and wonderful travellers from around Australia and the globe.
Including: several junkies, potheads, one schizophrenic, one gambling addict, one out-of-work guy who is training to be a pastor, drunks, and one neo-nazi...
Bugger the experience, I want my ten-story penthouse NOW.
Here's a website I found which describes the place. I've attached the description below, along with my translation, to tell you what it actually means...
Strategically well positioned...
You will wake up at three every morning to the sound of the first tram going past!
the Carlton Hotel is an age-old backpacker pub...
So many cigarettes have been smoken in the kitchen that even the tiles stink of nicotine!
with the ace up its sleeve surely being its 24 hour licence.
You might as well not bother going to sleep. Not that you'd want to hang around in the pub, either - the beers cost $6.00 a pint.
Bearing this in mind, it is not surprising to find all sorts propped up here in the wee hours of the morning: most Melbournites have probably never even been here.
That's because most people who live here don't really want to tell anyone about it.
The Carlton is often the sort of place you'd stop at because of its functionality; given its hours and late night bottle shop it's hard to beat if you're desperate for a quick no-fuss pot.
True: I lived with a pot smoker for about a week. The owners don't mind. I wouldn't be surprised if they sold the stuff.
With backpacker accommodation on-site, you are guaranteed to meet all sorts of weird and wonderful travellers from around Australia and the globe.
Including: several junkies, potheads, one schizophrenic, one gambling addict, one out-of-work guy who is training to be a pastor, drunks, and one neo-nazi...
Bugger the experience, I want my ten-story penthouse NOW.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Where the Hell Am I
I'm back in Melbourne, that's where.
And why the hell am I there (that is, here?)
To put it simply, I have no work to do in the countryside. It was just over one week ago today that I headed back to Serpentine and my brother to find out what was going on, and I stayed there for just over three days. Here's how the conversation went:
(Arriving at the door of my brother's house with a bag in hand)
Lachlan:Hi.
Me: Hi.
Lachlan: So how was Melbourne?
Me: Good.
Lachlan: OK.
Me: So is there any work here?
Lachlan: No.
Me: Any idea when more work will come up?
Lachlan: No.
Me: Alright. I'll see you later then.
Lachlan: See you.
(I pick up my bags and leave)
That's, more or less, the only thing that happened for the entire time I was in Serpentine. (Oh, and I seem to recall watching an episode of Doctor Phil, and going to Bendigo once.)
So, here I am in Melbourne; for the past few days I've been looking for odd jobs around Melbourne; if something reasonable comes up in the next few weeks, I'll consider staying here for a few months. If not, I'll head back down to Serpentine and finish the job there.
In the meantime, I've been having fun hobnobbing with bloggers and generally making a nuisance of myself. Tonight I'll be going to the Incredible Melk's show at the Kitten Club, and strongly urge all other readers to do so. Even if you're not in Melbourne - and even if you don't exist.
That is all.
And why the hell am I there (that is, here?)
To put it simply, I have no work to do in the countryside. It was just over one week ago today that I headed back to Serpentine and my brother to find out what was going on, and I stayed there for just over three days. Here's how the conversation went:
(Arriving at the door of my brother's house with a bag in hand)
Lachlan:Hi.
Me: Hi.
Lachlan: So how was Melbourne?
Me: Good.
Lachlan: OK.
Me: So is there any work here?
Lachlan: No.
Me: Any idea when more work will come up?
Lachlan: No.
Me: Alright. I'll see you later then.
Lachlan: See you.
(I pick up my bags and leave)
That's, more or less, the only thing that happened for the entire time I was in Serpentine. (Oh, and I seem to recall watching an episode of Doctor Phil, and going to Bendigo once.)
So, here I am in Melbourne; for the past few days I've been looking for odd jobs around Melbourne; if something reasonable comes up in the next few weeks, I'll consider staying here for a few months. If not, I'll head back down to Serpentine and finish the job there.
In the meantime, I've been having fun hobnobbing with bloggers and generally making a nuisance of myself. Tonight I'll be going to the Incredible Melk's show at the Kitten Club, and strongly urge all other readers to do so. Even if you're not in Melbourne - and even if you don't exist.
That is all.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
How to Make a Perfect World #3
Train stations should be arranged in alphabetical order, so it's easy to tell when you have to get off.
Actually, instead of having to hop on a train and travel to different suburbs, things would be so much easier if the different suburbs came to you. Obviously the people in those suburbs would have to hold on tight, but that's a small price to pay. And if we eliminated trains from our public transport system, it would help to alleviate the costs of our bloated public services.
I think I might write to John Howard with these ideas, they're just too good to keep to myself...
Actually, instead of having to hop on a train and travel to different suburbs, things would be so much easier if the different suburbs came to you. Obviously the people in those suburbs would have to hold on tight, but that's a small price to pay. And if we eliminated trains from our public transport system, it would help to alleviate the costs of our bloated public services.
I think I might write to John Howard with these ideas, they're just too good to keep to myself...
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
A Few Days In Melbourne
Fascinatingly Obvious
Australia is a bizarre country. Most of its huge area is filled with Next-to-nothing, with the occasional Something in between. Melbourne is definitely a Something, a huge mass of stuff clumped down on the edge of Victoria and the ocean. Barely an hours drive from central Melbourne and you'll find country. Cities aren't always like this; barely an hours drive from central Sydney and you'll find outer Sydney.
Like most of Australia's Somethings, Melbourne is full of people doing - well - Something Else. I'm not sure what this Something Else is, but Melbournians seemed to do it very well. The fact that a lot of it seems to have something to do with food, fashion, art, architecture, reading and writing doesn't really help -
Food: Something you put in your stomach
Fashion: Something you put on your body
Art: A series of bright colours you look at
Architecture: A series of large geometrical shapes that you put yourself in
Writing: Words on a page or text on a blog
Reading: Looking at the page/blog in question and looking like you understand what it means.
The most you can say is that Melbournians do all this stuff with style and flair - and they do.
Khadem's Muse
I slept four nights in Melbourne, the first night in the house of the wonderful Kathryn, and the other three nights in cheap accommodation in the city, with a middle-aged middle-eastern man named Khadem, Khamed, Khaleb, Khabel, or something else. His accent was so heavy, that I couldn't understand half of what he said; and when I did understand what he said, I couldn't believe it. And he said a lot.
"I am Egyptian ... from Iraq... in Saudia Arabia... I can speak French... because I am from Morocco... I have many degrees... a Master in Economics... I play Othello, yes... but it was only in High School, I do not remember who Desdemona was ... I am a poet ... much loved, yes, I am much loved in Arabia... and musician, too... not good, but I write many songs."
He had with him two instruments, a guitar and an Al-oud (a kind of Arabian lute). The first night I expressed interest in this; the next evening, when I came in, he was holding it over his head. "Somebody kick it," he explained to me, showing me the back, which he had repeatedly patched up with a white plaster. Later, he tuned the instrument up and began playing it like a mandolin while singing softly. It began to grow dark when he finally put the instrument down, exclaiming that, "It is no good."
He explained to me that, "I write many tunes... Yes, I am very creative after f*king a beautiful woman. Yes, I am writing much after making love with a beautiful woman."
Once I asked Khadem if he would like to have a coffee with me. He said he did not know; but, he said, I could find some wonderful cafes down by the Yarra river. "It is very beautiful," he said, "Very beautiful."
The next evening, I found myself wandering over the bridge over the Yarra, and I went by a guy wearing a horse mask and playing three notes on the accordion, over and over again. A little further up was a busker squatting on the ground, playing a different three notes on the harmonica, again and again and again. I have to say, they both played their three notes very well. Maybe their lives depended on it.
I'm a Poet and Don't You Know It
I was in Carlton on a Saturday afternoon, looking for the Dan O'Connell pub. Everybody I met gave me different directions. It was on Canning Street, off Princes Street, near the Alexander Highway. There was a poetry reading there in the afternoon. It was a pleasant Irish pub, not too garish or tourist focused, playing Andy Irvine music in the background, and serving a fruity Irish beer. Considering the location, perhaps I should have stuck with the Carlton draught, instead.
There I found a group of poets - many desperately trying to act like themselves - and many of them failing. There were hats. Men wore their hair long. Women cut their hair short. One guy wore a key around his neck. Several men wore glasses - some may have actually needed them.
Poems were read, and nature featured heavily. The language was terse, the diction slow and often forced. Attempts were made to wring as much meaning out of words like 'the' and 'of' as was possible. Most poems pretended at originality and profundity; as for me, I pretended at entertainment (and probably failed).
Some were entertaining. One girl called Lish had a delightful, alphabetic description of sex - applying several sex-soaked metaphors to every letter of the alphabet.
The lead poet was a guy called Tim Hamilton. He wore a purple shirt, talked about breathing, and used metaphors a lot.
I got bored. It was nearly five. Near the door, I waved at Melita. "Hi Melita," I said. "Bye Melita." She looked confused. Maybe I just didn't act like myself convincingly enough.
Beverages and People
Speaking words in a room full of other word-speaking rhymesters is one thing that happens with some frequency in Melbourne. Even more important than that, though, is drinking. During my three-and-a-little-bit days, I drunk latte on Bourke, chai on Little Bourke, Mocha on Swanston, Cappucino and Greek pastry on Lonsdon, Latte in St Kilda, Cappucino on Lygon, Iced Coffee, Latte, and James Squire on Russell (with mussells stewed in wine), and Gin and tonic, Gin and Coke, Vodka and Musk, Vodka and Coffee, two long Island Iced Teas, Carlton Draught, and VB in various locations around the city. I drunk in company, I drunk alone, I drunk frequently and - more than once - I got drunk. So here's to all the more-or-less sentient beings I met in Melbourne, in those contemplative pauses between one caffeine/alcohol hit and another - I hope to be back soon, folks: I raise a glass to Tim, Tim, and Tim (none of them me), Mel and Mel, David and Belle, Andrew, Simon, Graeme, Jenny, Michelle, Lish, Trevor, and definitely Kathryn, who showed great generosity, patience and warmth in introducing me to folks around the city and guiding me around - I cannot express gratitude enough.
The Last Word...
... must go to Al the Indian taxi-driver - not his real name, but a name for me to remember him by, at least - who came out with the following immortal line in between telling me about his life, his plans to learn a marketing degree, the 'nice black arse' that just walked past, and how I should stay away from the porn magazines. "I'm not joking," he said, "I'm driving."
And, you know, I really couldn't argue with him there.
Australia is a bizarre country. Most of its huge area is filled with Next-to-nothing, with the occasional Something in between. Melbourne is definitely a Something, a huge mass of stuff clumped down on the edge of Victoria and the ocean. Barely an hours drive from central Melbourne and you'll find country. Cities aren't always like this; barely an hours drive from central Sydney and you'll find outer Sydney.
Like most of Australia's Somethings, Melbourne is full of people doing - well - Something Else. I'm not sure what this Something Else is, but Melbournians seemed to do it very well. The fact that a lot of it seems to have something to do with food, fashion, art, architecture, reading and writing doesn't really help -
Food: Something you put in your stomach
Fashion: Something you put on your body
Art: A series of bright colours you look at
Architecture: A series of large geometrical shapes that you put yourself in
Writing: Words on a page or text on a blog
Reading: Looking at the page/blog in question and looking like you understand what it means.
The most you can say is that Melbournians do all this stuff with style and flair - and they do.
Khadem's Muse
I slept four nights in Melbourne, the first night in the house of the wonderful Kathryn, and the other three nights in cheap accommodation in the city, with a middle-aged middle-eastern man named Khadem, Khamed, Khaleb, Khabel, or something else. His accent was so heavy, that I couldn't understand half of what he said; and when I did understand what he said, I couldn't believe it. And he said a lot.
"I am Egyptian ... from Iraq... in Saudia Arabia... I can speak French... because I am from Morocco... I have many degrees... a Master in Economics... I play Othello, yes... but it was only in High School, I do not remember who Desdemona was ... I am a poet ... much loved, yes, I am much loved in Arabia... and musician, too... not good, but I write many songs."
He had with him two instruments, a guitar and an Al-oud (a kind of Arabian lute). The first night I expressed interest in this; the next evening, when I came in, he was holding it over his head. "Somebody kick it," he explained to me, showing me the back, which he had repeatedly patched up with a white plaster. Later, he tuned the instrument up and began playing it like a mandolin while singing softly. It began to grow dark when he finally put the instrument down, exclaiming that, "It is no good."
He explained to me that, "I write many tunes... Yes, I am very creative after f*king a beautiful woman. Yes, I am writing much after making love with a beautiful woman."
Once I asked Khadem if he would like to have a coffee with me. He said he did not know; but, he said, I could find some wonderful cafes down by the Yarra river. "It is very beautiful," he said, "Very beautiful."
The next evening, I found myself wandering over the bridge over the Yarra, and I went by a guy wearing a horse mask and playing three notes on the accordion, over and over again. A little further up was a busker squatting on the ground, playing a different three notes on the harmonica, again and again and again. I have to say, they both played their three notes very well. Maybe their lives depended on it.
I'm a Poet and Don't You Know It
I was in Carlton on a Saturday afternoon, looking for the Dan O'Connell pub. Everybody I met gave me different directions. It was on Canning Street, off Princes Street, near the Alexander Highway. There was a poetry reading there in the afternoon. It was a pleasant Irish pub, not too garish or tourist focused, playing Andy Irvine music in the background, and serving a fruity Irish beer. Considering the location, perhaps I should have stuck with the Carlton draught, instead.
There I found a group of poets - many desperately trying to act like themselves - and many of them failing. There were hats. Men wore their hair long. Women cut their hair short. One guy wore a key around his neck. Several men wore glasses - some may have actually needed them.
Poems were read, and nature featured heavily. The language was terse, the diction slow and often forced. Attempts were made to wring as much meaning out of words like 'the' and 'of' as was possible. Most poems pretended at originality and profundity; as for me, I pretended at entertainment (and probably failed).
Some were entertaining. One girl called Lish had a delightful, alphabetic description of sex - applying several sex-soaked metaphors to every letter of the alphabet.
The lead poet was a guy called Tim Hamilton. He wore a purple shirt, talked about breathing, and used metaphors a lot.
I got bored. It was nearly five. Near the door, I waved at Melita. "Hi Melita," I said. "Bye Melita." She looked confused. Maybe I just didn't act like myself convincingly enough.
Beverages and People
Speaking words in a room full of other word-speaking rhymesters is one thing that happens with some frequency in Melbourne. Even more important than that, though, is drinking. During my three-and-a-little-bit days, I drunk latte on Bourke, chai on Little Bourke, Mocha on Swanston, Cappucino and Greek pastry on Lonsdon, Latte in St Kilda, Cappucino on Lygon, Iced Coffee, Latte, and James Squire on Russell (with mussells stewed in wine), and Gin and tonic, Gin and Coke, Vodka and Musk, Vodka and Coffee, two long Island Iced Teas, Carlton Draught, and VB in various locations around the city. I drunk in company, I drunk alone, I drunk frequently and - more than once - I got drunk. So here's to all the more-or-less sentient beings I met in Melbourne, in those contemplative pauses between one caffeine/alcohol hit and another - I hope to be back soon, folks: I raise a glass to Tim, Tim, and Tim (none of them me), Mel and Mel, David and Belle, Andrew, Simon, Graeme, Jenny, Michelle, Lish, Trevor, and definitely Kathryn, who showed great generosity, patience and warmth in introducing me to folks around the city and guiding me around - I cannot express gratitude enough.
The Last Word...
... must go to Al the Indian taxi-driver - not his real name, but a name for me to remember him by, at least - who came out with the following immortal line in between telling me about his life, his plans to learn a marketing degree, the 'nice black arse' that just walked past, and how I should stay away from the porn magazines. "I'm not joking," he said, "I'm driving."
And, you know, I really couldn't argue with him there.
Friday, March 11, 2005
A Word of Warning
I'll be heading down Carlton way early tomorow arvo to indulge in wanton acts of performance poetry, at the Dan O'Connell Hotel on Canning Street. The results could be hideous. Non-combatants are advised to clear out of the area ASAP.
How to Make a Perfect World #2
There should be only two days in a year. That way, Christmas would come on a Saturday and Easter on a Sunday and we wouldn't ever have to worry about going to work because every day of the year would be a weekend. We could just abolish all the other days, and no one would be sad or have problems ever ever again.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
Odd Job Man
Odd Job Man: (Colloquial, noun) 1) Man/woman who earns money through casual work performed for various employers 2) Man who earns money through strange and un unusual work performed at curious hours 3) Eugene P. Nittleworthy.
Sunday: Man in the pub asked me today what I did for a living, so I told him. He said I was mad.
He could be right.
Monday: Phone call this morning:
"Hello. Is that the Odd Job Man?"
"Hello, yes."
"Got a job for you."
"Is it odd?"
"Well, I want you to make my porpoises levitate."
"How much have you got?"
"About a thousand."
"A thousand dollars?"
"No, porpoises."
"Is that legal?"
"Will you take it?"
So I got his address and drove round. I asked him how he wanted me to go about this. He said he thought that was my job. I asked him why he wanted me to do it, anyway. He said to entertain the penguins.
It took me a while but eventually I figured out how to do it. It involved throwing them in the air.
Tuesday: No work today. Bored. Depressed. Not getting much work lately. Passed the time by practicing origami with a brick.
Wednesday:
Ring ring. Click.
"Hello?"
"Hello? Mr. Nittleworthy? Help me, please! I've lost it, and I don't know whe..."
(Wearily) "Madam, we are not a lost and found society. This is the Odd Job Man agency. If you want to find something..."
"Oh, but this job is odd! You see, I've lost my ... my SELF!"
"Er, you appear to have lost me, ma'am."
"That's just it! You see, I've lost Me, and I don't know where to find Me!"
"What?"
"My ego, you see... my sense of self-awareness, my Centredness - it's all but vanished!"
"Hold on ... I'll be right round."
As I suspected, her house was filled, wall to wall, with Self-Help books - with titles like:
The Doors to Perception, and How to Get Over Them
Travelling through the Journey of the Self
How to Fit a Circle Through the Set Square of My Centredness
Help for the Self-help Addict
Motivation - Actualisation - Self-esteem.
She was actually reading one when I got there. I saw what the problem was straight away. She had tried so hard to find herself that she had forgotten all about it. I found it pottering in the garden planting some azaleas. She was very apologetic, but said that unfortunately, she was completely unable to pay me at the time being.
My client, meanwhile, smiled a little smile of satisfaction when she saw her self again and stuck her nose back in the book - the selfish so-and-so.
Thursday: Guy called me today and asked for an elbow job. I advised him to go to the nearest sensual massage parlour. I may be an odd job man, but even I have standards.
Friday: Annual meeting of the Odd Job Man society. I'm the only member. I started proceedings by asking everyone to leave, which they did. Then I spent the rest of the meeting feeling lonely.
Saturday: Busy day. Working on some scientific experiments.
8.00 – Working with some farmyard animals. Tried to locate hens teeth, and then clean them.
10.00 – Got out the calculator to work out exactly ‘How much wood would a Woodchuck chuck if a Woodchuck could chuck wood?’
2.00 - Tried to work out what, exactly a goose’s bridle is – working on a paper known as ‘The Wigwam Principle’.
Sunday: Guy walks up to me in the pub and asks me my job. I tell him. He says I’m crazy.
I tell him I’d be crazy to take any other job. I tell him he must be crazy to be doing what he’s doing now. I tell him that it’s none of his damn business anyway. Then I tip a beer over his head and walk out.
I love my job.
Sunday: Man in the pub asked me today what I did for a living, so I told him. He said I was mad.
He could be right.
Monday: Phone call this morning:
"Hello. Is that the Odd Job Man?"
"Hello, yes."
"Got a job for you."
"Is it odd?"
"Well, I want you to make my porpoises levitate."
"How much have you got?"
"About a thousand."
"A thousand dollars?"
"No, porpoises."
"Is that legal?"
"Will you take it?"
So I got his address and drove round. I asked him how he wanted me to go about this. He said he thought that was my job. I asked him why he wanted me to do it, anyway. He said to entertain the penguins.
It took me a while but eventually I figured out how to do it. It involved throwing them in the air.
Tuesday: No work today. Bored. Depressed. Not getting much work lately. Passed the time by practicing origami with a brick.
Wednesday:
Ring ring. Click.
"Hello?"
"Hello? Mr. Nittleworthy? Help me, please! I've lost it, and I don't know whe..."
(Wearily) "Madam, we are not a lost and found society. This is the Odd Job Man agency. If you want to find something..."
"Oh, but this job is odd! You see, I've lost my ... my SELF!"
"Er, you appear to have lost me, ma'am."
"That's just it! You see, I've lost Me, and I don't know where to find Me!"
"What?"
"My ego, you see... my sense of self-awareness, my Centredness - it's all but vanished!"
"Hold on ... I'll be right round."
As I suspected, her house was filled, wall to wall, with Self-Help books - with titles like:
The Doors to Perception, and How to Get Over Them
Travelling through the Journey of the Self
How to Fit a Circle Through the Set Square of My Centredness
Help for the Self-help Addict
Motivation - Actualisation - Self-esteem.
She was actually reading one when I got there. I saw what the problem was straight away. She had tried so hard to find herself that she had forgotten all about it. I found it pottering in the garden planting some azaleas. She was very apologetic, but said that unfortunately, she was completely unable to pay me at the time being.
My client, meanwhile, smiled a little smile of satisfaction when she saw her self again and stuck her nose back in the book - the selfish so-and-so.
Thursday: Guy called me today and asked for an elbow job. I advised him to go to the nearest sensual massage parlour. I may be an odd job man, but even I have standards.
Friday: Annual meeting of the Odd Job Man society. I'm the only member. I started proceedings by asking everyone to leave, which they did. Then I spent the rest of the meeting feeling lonely.
Saturday: Busy day. Working on some scientific experiments.
8.00 – Working with some farmyard animals. Tried to locate hens teeth, and then clean them.
10.00 – Got out the calculator to work out exactly ‘How much wood would a Woodchuck chuck if a Woodchuck could chuck wood?’
2.00 - Tried to work out what, exactly a goose’s bridle is – working on a paper known as ‘The Wigwam Principle’.
Sunday: Guy walks up to me in the pub and asks me my job. I tell him. He says I’m crazy.
I tell him I’d be crazy to take any other job. I tell him he must be crazy to be doing what he’s doing now. I tell him that it’s none of his damn business anyway. Then I tip a beer over his head and walk out.
I love my job.
Identity Fun
I've been trying to get myself a passport lately. Do you realise how hard that is, when you don't have one? To get a passport you need a driver's licence; if you don't have a driver's licence, you need a birthcard; to get a birthcard, you need to find your birth certificate along with several other forms of documentation and take it in to the Department of Births Deaths and Marriages ... wherever that is.
And all for what? All you seem to end up doing is proving to the authorities involved what is plainly obvious... that you exist.
Maybe we should do away with all Birth Cards and Licences and Passports, and roll them into one handy
EXISTENCE CARD
This card is to certify that you, Mr./ Mrs. / Ms. / Miscellaneous* ____________________, exists. Congratulations!
After examination of all official records, the Department of Making Your Business Ours has been able to confirm your current reality.
If you are currently suffering from an Identity Crisis, Amnesia, Multiple Personality Disorder, Self-Doubt, Confusion, or any other type of existential angst, please refer to this card for comfort.
Should the case of existential angst persist, please refer to your neighbourhood philosopher.
* Please circle appropriate option.
Then again, you'd have to be careful not to receive the following:
NOTIFICATION OF UNEXISTENCE
Dear ____________,
After examining your application for an Existence Card under the Realism Act of 1999, the Department of Making Your Business Ours regrets to inform you that you do not exist.
We have carefully considered all appropriate evidence, and have been unable to confirm you claim for existence.
This could mean one of several things:
1) You have not yet been born,
2) You have been born but are currently dead;
3) You are a notional entity, whose existence may be possible at some point in the continuance of the universe, but who is currently a fiction.
Please return to your womb/grave/brain/alternative unabode immediately. We shall be sending officers around to collect your worldly goods shortly.
And all for what? All you seem to end up doing is proving to the authorities involved what is plainly obvious... that you exist.
Maybe we should do away with all Birth Cards and Licences and Passports, and roll them into one handy
EXISTENCE CARD
This card is to certify that you, Mr./ Mrs. / Ms. / Miscellaneous* ____________________, exists. Congratulations!
After examination of all official records, the Department of Making Your Business Ours has been able to confirm your current reality.
If you are currently suffering from an Identity Crisis, Amnesia, Multiple Personality Disorder, Self-Doubt, Confusion, or any other type of existential angst, please refer to this card for comfort.
Should the case of existential angst persist, please refer to your neighbourhood philosopher.
* Please circle appropriate option.
Then again, you'd have to be careful not to receive the following:
NOTIFICATION OF UNEXISTENCE
Dear ____________,
After examining your application for an Existence Card under the Realism Act of 1999, the Department of Making Your Business Ours regrets to inform you that you do not exist.
We have carefully considered all appropriate evidence, and have been unable to confirm you claim for existence.
This could mean one of several things:
1) You have not yet been born,
2) You have been born but are currently dead;
3) You are a notional entity, whose existence may be possible at some point in the continuance of the universe, but who is currently a fiction.
Please return to your womb/grave/brain/alternative unabode immediately. We shall be sending officers around to collect your worldly goods shortly.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Killer Cockroaches Save Sanity
Hi, um, my name's Tim, and, you don't see me much anymore but, uh, I used to have this blog, and ...
Yes, I'm back. I've got a few weeks off, I'm in Melbourne for a couple of days, and I'm blogging this from the house of the gorgeous marvellous and in all ways wonderfully fabulous Kathryn O. I really didn't mean to be this long away from the computer, there's been a lot that I've wanted to blog about, but I seriously haven't been able to find access to the internet. (The word barbarians has been used.)
I've kept myself sane by writing stories about an interstellar breed of cockroaches who take over the world.
Anyway, I'll try and put up some of my less boring thoughts and musings over the past few weeks onto the net ASAP. See ya later. Tonight I'm going to get trashed with Kathryn and David.
Yes, I'm back. I've got a few weeks off, I'm in Melbourne for a couple of days, and I'm blogging this from the house of the gorgeous marvellous and in all ways wonderfully fabulous Kathryn O. I really didn't mean to be this long away from the computer, there's been a lot that I've wanted to blog about, but I seriously haven't been able to find access to the internet. (The word barbarians has been used.)
I've kept myself sane by writing stories about an interstellar breed of cockroaches who take over the world.
Anyway, I'll try and put up some of my less boring thoughts and musings over the past few weeks onto the net ASAP. See ya later. Tonight I'm going to get trashed with Kathryn and David.
How to Make a Perfect World #1
People should be able to donate to charity by means of Charity Machines (tm), which are like C0ke Machines, only instead of getting a can of drink, you get a certificate from the machine saying something like 'congratulations!' or 'what a great person you are!'. That way, not only would charities get money, but we'd get to feel real good in the process, and that's the most important thing. Come on. You know it makes sense.
Sunday, February 20, 2005
IDS
I think I'm suffering from a serious case of IDS - Internet Deprivation Syndrome. Symptoms include shivering, biting nails, inability to sleep, and stark raving lunacy. Hardly anybody has the internet down here, and I'm blogging this from the back of an olive tree which I've discovered has internet connection and ... actually, that's not true. I'm doing this from an internet cafe in Bendigo.
That's not to say that I haven't had an exciting week, working with my brother. Here's a breakdown for you:
Sunday - Dug holes.
Monday - My brother, Lachlan, discovered a rock in the field.
Tuesday - Spent all day staring at the ground while attaching pieces of pipe together.
Wednesday - Lachlan successfully identified a Workplace Danger: a small stick, lying on the ground, which could cause cuts or even bruises.
Thursday - Rammed posts into the ground.
Friday - Rammed posts into the ground, again. I also wrote a poem. It was called 'Nature is Pretty':
Nature is pretty
Nature is nice
Hey look! There's a sheep
Being eaten by lice!
Saturday - As above.
So - how was your week?
That's not to say that I haven't had an exciting week, working with my brother. Here's a breakdown for you:
Sunday - Dug holes.
Monday - My brother, Lachlan, discovered a rock in the field.
Tuesday - Spent all day staring at the ground while attaching pieces of pipe together.
Wednesday - Lachlan successfully identified a Workplace Danger: a small stick, lying on the ground, which could cause cuts or even bruises.
Thursday - Rammed posts into the ground.
Friday - Rammed posts into the ground, again. I also wrote a poem. It was called 'Nature is Pretty':
Nature is pretty
Nature is nice
Hey look! There's a sheep
Being eaten by lice!
Saturday - As above.
So - how was your week?
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Skin Cancer Ahoy!
Hello folks! I'm typing this from an internet cafe in Mildura, having recently chucked in a decently paying part-time job writing reports in Newcastle for a excellent-paying full-time job laying down hose line on a farm near Robinvale.
Now I have early mornings, long hours, blisters, and the occasional case of skin-tumour to look forward to. And at the end of the three months, a big fat bank account. That is, if I can restrain the urge to get trashed at the first opportunity, blowing my savings.
Oh, what fun!
Now I have early mornings, long hours, blisters, and the occasional case of skin-tumour to look forward to. And at the end of the three months, a big fat bank account. That is, if I can restrain the urge to get trashed at the first opportunity, blowing my savings.
Oh, what fun!
In The Unlikely Event of an Emergency
In the unlikely event of an emergency
Such as the plane falling out of the sky
Do not run through the aisle
Shouting, 'We're all going to die!'
In the unlikely event of an emergency
(Eg, the pilot turning into a salami)
Remain in your seats and stay calm
By practising origami.
In the unlikely event of an emergency
Like the plane crashing into the sea
Please hold back your cannibalist urge
To dine on the Hostesses for tea.
You may even survive. Do Not Panic!
(You may pray to your Deity, as well)
Though we cannot, of course, guarantee
That he exists, and will save you from hell.
In the unlikely event of an emergency
That probably won't happen at all
We ask that you trust us completely
Before death breaks your fiery fall.
Such as the plane falling out of the sky
Do not run through the aisle
Shouting, 'We're all going to die!'
In the unlikely event of an emergency
(Eg, the pilot turning into a salami)
Remain in your seats and stay calm
By practising origami.
In the unlikely event of an emergency
Like the plane crashing into the sea
Please hold back your cannibalist urge
To dine on the Hostesses for tea.
You may even survive. Do Not Panic!
(You may pray to your Deity, as well)
Though we cannot, of course, guarantee
That he exists, and will save you from hell.
In the unlikely event of an emergency
That probably won't happen at all
We ask that you trust us completely
Before death breaks your fiery fall.
Friday, February 04, 2005
Cover Story
"Don't judge a book by its cover," they say. Huh. Next time they'll be telling us that you shouldn't judge a person by appearances. I bet the people who say this are fat, blonde, and walk about wearing shirts saying, 'I am a big fat dumb blonde person who doesn't know what they're saying'.
I mean, let's face it, in the world of publishing as it is today, with the streamlining of different genres and authors, covers have become more and more important. I mean, if you don't judge a book by its cover, what are you going to judge it by? It's weight? It's contents? Don't make me laugh!
Judging a Book By Its Cover #1
Look at me, this cover is saying. I am big. I am black. I have several important looking vowels and consonants on me, and I have an attractive futuristic-art feel to me. I will look ever-so-valuable sitting there on the shelf, and if your cousins ask you why you don't read science-fiction any more, you can just clobber them over the head with me.
But, you ask, can you read me? Can you read me?
Jingle jingle jaunted jingling.
Coin rang. Clock clacked.
Avowal. Sonnez. I could. Rebound of garter. Not leave thee. Smack. La cloche! Thigh smack. Avowal. Warm. Sweetheart, goodbye!
Jingle. Bloo.
Exactly. If you wanted to get a book for its contents, go out and get the train timetable. It's cheaper, smaller, much easier to understand, and it's cover is much uglier.
Buy me. Buy me now.
I mean, let's face it, in the world of publishing as it is today, with the streamlining of different genres and authors, covers have become more and more important. I mean, if you don't judge a book by its cover, what are you going to judge it by? It's weight? It's contents? Don't make me laugh!
Judging a Book By Its Cover #1
Look at me, this cover is saying. I am big. I am black. I have several important looking vowels and consonants on me, and I have an attractive futuristic-art feel to me. I will look ever-so-valuable sitting there on the shelf, and if your cousins ask you why you don't read science-fiction any more, you can just clobber them over the head with me.
But, you ask, can you read me? Can you read me?
Jingle jingle jaunted jingling.
Coin rang. Clock clacked.
Avowal. Sonnez. I could. Rebound of garter. Not leave thee. Smack. La cloche! Thigh smack. Avowal. Warm. Sweetheart, goodbye!
Jingle. Bloo.
Exactly. If you wanted to get a book for its contents, go out and get the train timetable. It's cheaper, smaller, much easier to understand, and it's cover is much uglier.
Buy me. Buy me now.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
I Was Going To Have a New Poll
I was going to have a new poll today. It was going to ask, 'What's Your Favourite Whole Number Integer?' Option 1) would have been 1, Option 2) would have been 2, and so on.
However, when I got to option 32536526214664525253244): 32536526214664525253244, I decided to stop. Who knows how long I would have to go on otherwise? Plus, I started wondering if I should have used the hexadecimal-base system instead of the decimal.
So - what's your favourite whole-number integer? Mine's 43783244.
However, when I got to option 32536526214664525253244): 32536526214664525253244, I decided to stop. Who knows how long I would have to go on otherwise? Plus, I started wondering if I should have used the hexadecimal-base system instead of the decimal.
So - what's your favourite whole-number integer? Mine's 43783244.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Better Latte than Never
The girl whose name I do not know was standing on a chair with her back to the cash register when I came in. She was writing words on a blackboard, and I stood there and watched it.
Give the One You Love
Here she stopped, looked around, laughed and came to the cash register.
"Now I'll never know how it ends," I said. "I'll be tormented all night"
"Oh, it's just something like Give the One You Love ... ", she said, ending with some inaudible phrase. "And how was your day?"
"Alright," I said. "I've been here and there ... here and there..."
"What would you like?"
"A latte, of course." I said. "And make it good! This will probably be the last one I have...."
".... why?"
"I'm leaving Newcastle soon. Flying out on Sunday."
"Oh! How exciting for you! Why?"
"I've got some full time work in Victoria, with my brother."
"Well... Good luck!"
I turned to go to the table, then said, "and ... could I have a slice of rocky road as well?"
Taking the table I usually took, a single far back in the room, I settled back with my book and watched the people behind the counter. The short girl with thick glasses was jumping up and down, saying something to the older woman - probably an owner. The chefs were moving around behind the coffee machine.
Shortly the girl came in with a plate of rocky road and a latte.
"I'll just go and get you some cutlery," she said, and went out for a second.
"There you go," she said, laying the cutlery on the table.
"Thankyou very much."
There were two slices of rocky road.
It had been a strange day. I'd taken a couple of farewells from people I knew in the city. First there had been Callan, in Graphic Action. I walked about the store; I was browsing amongst the magazines when James shot out of a door in the back shouting something about prices. "Hey, Tim," he said.
"Hey, James," I said, before he disappeared in the back again.
After chatting to Callan, buying a comic from him, talking to him about my new job and move, I left. I told Callan, 'say bye to Liam and James for me.'
Later, I walked down to the Second Life bookshop.
"Hi Tim," said Liz as I walked in the door. "Haven't seen you in a while."
I left twenty minutes later with a copy of Helen Fielding's Cause Celeb in my hand.
Sip. Slice.
I alternated between glancing at my book, cutting slices of the rocky road, sipping the coffee, and looking up at the blackboard inventing alternate ways to end the sentence.
Give the one you love ... to Satan, for the Dark Lord will get them in the end anyway!
Give the one you love ... an orgasm. Nothing says I love you better than that.
Give the one you love... Leprosy.
I leafed idly through my book, some short stories by George McDonald. I generally try to read or finish a crossword when I'm in the cafe. I usually end up looking at the people around me.
Sip. Slice.
I leafed idly through the book.
Sip. Slice.
The girl finished the sign:
Give the one you love ... time off and treat them to a Valentine's Meal at MARTINES!
Sip. Slice.
I continued eating and leafing my way through the book. The latte was good.
(Once, for the hell of it, I'd come in and asked for an iced-coffee. "And how was it?" she had asked afterwards. "Oh, not bad," I said. "As iced-coffees go."... She'd frowned at this.)
Presently the girl came in and started moving about the room. She picked up two chairs from the table at the front and took them into the chamber, in front of the checkout counter. She laid one chair down then put the other chair on top of that, back pointing down to the ground. She came in and took two more chairs from that table, pushing the table out of her way, then took those two chairs out and laid them down in front of the counter.
Sip. Slice.
She moved to another table and took the chairs out from that. She continued to move around the room, taking out the chairs from underneath the table and laying them out in the front, working her way further into the room.
Sip. Slice.
I noticed how she carefully worked her way around my table, not taking any of the three empty chairs away. She started to bump into tables. Several chairs had been laid out in the front room.
Sip. Slice.
I pretended to be reading my book.
Eventually, I finished my latte. I left the cup, saucer, and plate on the table, then took up my book and took one metal chair in either hand.
"You don't have to do that," she said.
"I thought you could do with some help," I shrugged.
"I get paid to do it," she said. "You don't."
"That's fine," I said, paying my bill.
"See you later."
"Cheers."
Still haven't finished my book.
Give the One You Love
Here she stopped, looked around, laughed and came to the cash register.
"Now I'll never know how it ends," I said. "I'll be tormented all night"
"Oh, it's just something like Give the One You Love ... ", she said, ending with some inaudible phrase. "And how was your day?"
"Alright," I said. "I've been here and there ... here and there..."
"What would you like?"
"A latte, of course." I said. "And make it good! This will probably be the last one I have...."
".... why?"
"I'm leaving Newcastle soon. Flying out on Sunday."
"Oh! How exciting for you! Why?"
"I've got some full time work in Victoria, with my brother."
"Well... Good luck!"
I turned to go to the table, then said, "and ... could I have a slice of rocky road as well?"
Taking the table I usually took, a single far back in the room, I settled back with my book and watched the people behind the counter. The short girl with thick glasses was jumping up and down, saying something to the older woman - probably an owner. The chefs were moving around behind the coffee machine.
Shortly the girl came in with a plate of rocky road and a latte.
"I'll just go and get you some cutlery," she said, and went out for a second.
"There you go," she said, laying the cutlery on the table.
"Thankyou very much."
There were two slices of rocky road.
It had been a strange day. I'd taken a couple of farewells from people I knew in the city. First there had been Callan, in Graphic Action. I walked about the store; I was browsing amongst the magazines when James shot out of a door in the back shouting something about prices. "Hey, Tim," he said.
"Hey, James," I said, before he disappeared in the back again.
After chatting to Callan, buying a comic from him, talking to him about my new job and move, I left. I told Callan, 'say bye to Liam and James for me.'
Later, I walked down to the Second Life bookshop.
"Hi Tim," said Liz as I walked in the door. "Haven't seen you in a while."
I left twenty minutes later with a copy of Helen Fielding's Cause Celeb in my hand.
Sip. Slice.
I alternated between glancing at my book, cutting slices of the rocky road, sipping the coffee, and looking up at the blackboard inventing alternate ways to end the sentence.
Give the one you love ... to Satan, for the Dark Lord will get them in the end anyway!
Give the one you love ... an orgasm. Nothing says I love you better than that.
Give the one you love... Leprosy.
I leafed idly through my book, some short stories by George McDonald. I generally try to read or finish a crossword when I'm in the cafe. I usually end up looking at the people around me.
Sip. Slice.
I leafed idly through the book.
Sip. Slice.
The girl finished the sign:
Give the one you love ... time off and treat them to a Valentine's Meal at MARTINES!
Sip. Slice.
I continued eating and leafing my way through the book. The latte was good.
(Once, for the hell of it, I'd come in and asked for an iced-coffee. "And how was it?" she had asked afterwards. "Oh, not bad," I said. "As iced-coffees go."... She'd frowned at this.)
Presently the girl came in and started moving about the room. She picked up two chairs from the table at the front and took them into the chamber, in front of the checkout counter. She laid one chair down then put the other chair on top of that, back pointing down to the ground. She came in and took two more chairs from that table, pushing the table out of her way, then took those two chairs out and laid them down in front of the counter.
Sip. Slice.
She moved to another table and took the chairs out from that. She continued to move around the room, taking out the chairs from underneath the table and laying them out in the front, working her way further into the room.
Sip. Slice.
I noticed how she carefully worked her way around my table, not taking any of the three empty chairs away. She started to bump into tables. Several chairs had been laid out in the front room.
Sip. Slice.
I pretended to be reading my book.
Eventually, I finished my latte. I left the cup, saucer, and plate on the table, then took up my book and took one metal chair in either hand.
"You don't have to do that," she said.
"I thought you could do with some help," I shrugged.
"I get paid to do it," she said. "You don't."
"That's fine," I said, paying my bill.
"See you later."
"Cheers."
Still haven't finished my book.
Nuts
We Interrupt this Blog to Bring You an Announcement By the Good For You Association
Nuts! Nuts! NUUUUUUUUUUUTS!!! They're everywhere! Everywhere, I tell you ... EVERYWHERE! We have to do something about it ... something quick! To protect the the children!
SILENT - BUT DEADLY!
Extensive studies have shown that many domestic food stuffs may contain traces of this vile food, which can in some cases cause coughing, itching, and even death! Even food items such as chips, bread, corn crackers, and nuts may, in fact, contain nuts!
WARNING: THIS CANCER MAY CONTAIN TRACES OF NUTS
But that's not all! Further research has shown that many common household illnesses may in fact contain traces of nuts. These include:
- Influenza
- Gastroenteritis
- Cancer
- Ebola
- Rabies
- Leprosy
Something must be done NOW to eliminate the nuts from these illnesses, and return to them their natural, life-destroying state!
GUNS DON'T KILL PEOPLE - NUTS DO!
Traces of the deadly fruit have even been found in common firearms, as well as bazookas, machine guns, pistols, and other weapons. We demand a Government study to ascertain the extent of this!
THE AWFUL TRUTH!
Some people even say we're nuts!
We now return you to your regularly scheduled nonsense.
Nuts! Nuts! NUUUUUUUUUUUTS!!! They're everywhere! Everywhere, I tell you ... EVERYWHERE! We have to do something about it ... something quick! To protect the the children!
SILENT - BUT DEADLY!
Extensive studies have shown that many domestic food stuffs may contain traces of this vile food, which can in some cases cause coughing, itching, and even death! Even food items such as chips, bread, corn crackers, and nuts may, in fact, contain nuts!
WARNING: THIS CANCER MAY CONTAIN TRACES OF NUTS
But that's not all! Further research has shown that many common household illnesses may in fact contain traces of nuts. These include:
- Influenza
- Gastroenteritis
- Cancer
- Ebola
- Rabies
- Leprosy
Something must be done NOW to eliminate the nuts from these illnesses, and return to them their natural, life-destroying state!
GUNS DON'T KILL PEOPLE - NUTS DO!
Traces of the deadly fruit have even been found in common firearms, as well as bazookas, machine guns, pistols, and other weapons. We demand a Government study to ascertain the extent of this!
THE AWFUL TRUTH!
Some people even say we're nuts!
We now return you to your regularly scheduled nonsense.
Rapacious Murdoch Empire Annihilates Another Feisty Small Business, Blood, Guts Spilled
Rapacious Media Hegemonsters Rupert Murdoch and Kerry Packer claimed another scalp today: The Chaser, one of Australia's only print satirical publications, has folded.
Julian Morrow, one of the founders, is quoted: "We failed despite a complete lack of competition 1, sense of humour, writing quality, and a pathetic reliance upon lame Onion-style headlines. That is, if you ignore the wide variety of humorous, amusing, entertaining, laughter-causing, giggle-inducing, satirical and parodic publications on the internet, which you should."
Upon hearing of the closure of The Chaser, Rupert Murdoch said, "Good. Now I can go back to repressing the third-world, destroying the environment, living my unsustainable lifestyle, and eating babies. 2"
1. Only first part of quote true, although all of it is accurate
2. Accuracy rating in this quote: approximately % 0.000001
Julian Morrow, one of the founders, is quoted: "We failed despite a complete lack of competition 1, sense of humour, writing quality, and a pathetic reliance upon lame Onion-style headlines. That is, if you ignore the wide variety of humorous, amusing, entertaining, laughter-causing, giggle-inducing, satirical and parodic publications on the internet, which you should."
Upon hearing of the closure of The Chaser, Rupert Murdoch said, "Good. Now I can go back to repressing the third-world, destroying the environment, living my unsustainable lifestyle, and eating babies. 2"
1. Only first part of quote true, although all of it is accurate
2. Accuracy rating in this quote: approximately % 0.000001
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