Facts About Australian Flora and Fauna

Thinking of visiting Australia? Good for you! Australia is the greatest country in the world, except for most of the others, and features many fascinating sites of interest, like the Sydney Opera House and the steps leading up to the Sydney Opera House!

However, a visit to Australia is not without it's downside; you will always have to be on the lookout for our wildlife. We possess a great many venomous, poisonous, carnivorous, and otherwise ominous species, such as the Goth, the Bogan, the Yobbo, the Redneck, and the Feral. And then there's the animals ...

So, if you come to Australia, you'll have to prepare yourself. Familiarise yourself with the police stations in the area you are visiting, and arm yourself with the local weaponry, such as you may find at any store ...

KOALA BEARS

Nearly every Australian carries a pet Koala Bear with them these days. This is because, ever since colonial days, we have had a regulation in place in the Australian constitution, ensuring that we have 'a right to Bear arms.' Koala Bears, as everyone knows, make an excellent weapon ina pinch, attacking the opposition's eyes and head. In this way, crime rates in Australia have been kept to a minimum. However, Australians always have to remember to feed their bears the occasional Eucalyptus leaf, or the bears will turn on them, too.

If you are visiting Australia, or planning on it, then I recommend you do it with a Koala Bear.*

*This may be purchased at any reputable Koala Bear vendor. Eucalypt leafs sold separately.

KANGAROOS

When large gatherings are present, police are sometimes forced to resort to the Boxing Kangaroo. As you know, the kangaroo, as a beast, has been highly trained in the art of pugilism by officials in ASIO, and can keep large crowds subdued with ease.
Nowadays, police have also resorted to the Wrestling Rock Wallaby, and the Ninjitsu Numbat (a creature which has been schooled in the secret and deadly art of Ninjitsu, and which wields the nunchuckas with fearsome accuracy!)

BOX JELLYFISH

More and more Australians (particularly children) have taken to keeping Box Jellyfish as pets. This is because they make an excellent defensive weapon in any fight. A jellyfish can be taken anywhere (if you have a tank and keep it on a leash); and, on a command from the owner*, can leap on the assailant and sting them with its poisoned tentacles.

Jellyfish are indeed a versatile defensive tool: they can be balanced over doors and drop onto the heads of unwary burglars. In addition, if your child is being bullied at school, you may consider getting them a jellyfish for a pet. As a rule, they make excellent domestic pets, are gentle and playful with children, and greatly enjoy being fed treats such as jellybabies** and lozenges.

*Eg, Fluffy, ATTACK!!!
** Keep them out of the reach of real babies, otherwise they'll get confused.

DROP BEARS

Once thought to be a myth, Drop Bears are, in fact, one of the more magnificent examples of Australian Fauna. About the size of a grizzly bear, Drop Bears are a marsupial that nest in trees or unoccupied buildings, and drop on wallabies for food. They are nocturnal, and are said to be related to the bat.
In the past few years, Australian Government's have been examining ways to use the Drop Bears for the Greater Good, and have been trialling Drop Bear programs in the major cities, so far, to major success. Whenever a Drop Bear spys a felon engaging in felonious activities, it is trained to silently and stealthily fall upon the unsuspecting person, and carry them away to the nearest police station. In only one or two cases, the Drop Bear has given into hunger and eaten the criminal ...

SNAKES

Snakes make an excellent weapon, as they can be hidden away in pockets and taken out when attacked and swung in the enemies face. Some of the more popular snakes are the Red Bellied Back Snake, and the Sea Snake. Their venom is said to be so strong that they can stop a criminal in their tracks.

When taking snakes from your pocket, be sure to be wearing firm gloves. If you have no gloves, just ask your boyfriend or girlfriend to take them out for you.

BUNYIPS

The famous Bunyip roams through the country at night, alert for any signs of incipient criminality in the nation's youth. Whenever a little boy or girl say a swear word, or refuse to eat their vegetables, or inadvertently yawn when speaking to very boring and very rude adults, then they are taken away to the Bunyip's lair. Here they are reformed, and made to perform socially useful deeds, such as planting trees, writing dictionaries, or learning to play rare and neglected musical instruments, such as the Krumhorn.

RED ANTS

Patrolling the remote areas of Australia, the 'Red Ant' Brigade has rescued many lost children or travellers. After years of scientic testing, Australian biologists have taught the ants to perform many activities, including:

- Bringing lost people food and water;

- Rescuing puppies from burning cars;

- Carrying babies back to civilisation;

- And forming rudimentary messages* that can be seen by air rescue squads.

Yes, Australia's outback would be a much more dangerous place if it weren't for the intrepid deeds of derring-do by our very own 'Red Ant' Brigade!

*These messages may include small details such as directions, and information about medical and dietary needs, number of people found, etc, etc.

NEXT WEEK - AUSTRALIA'S DEADLIEST FLORA, INCLUDING PATERSON'S CURSE, THE SINGING NETTLE, THE HYACINTH (THAT ATE HYACINTH), AND THE BRISVEGAS MAN-TRAP (otherwise known as Darlenus Taylorus)!*

*Disclaimer: she's not really a man trap, guys.

Now You Know Your ABC

This account of the ABC of old is rather charming:

Incredible though it may seem, the ABC used to be unbiased. In the 1950s and 1960s Channel 2 did not have bellowing advertisements for itself between programs. Instead it had a few well-spoken women, such as Corinne Kirby and Ruth Nye, who would sit in an arm chair, with a vase of flowers nearby, and simply chat to the viewers. Other ways of filling up the five or ten minutes between shows were with songs by a pair of Scandinavian folk singers called Nina and Frederick, who were a bit like Peter, Paul and Mary - if you took out Paul. Other fillers were short, relaxing films of cats trying to open a door, or peaceful scenes of farm life.

In those days ABC television really didn't have advertisements - unlike the ABC television of today.

That's from Diogene's Lamp. I'm not sure who the fellow is that writes it, but he describes himself as having 'a mordant eye', and has a penchant for one-liners by people like Menzies and Mencken - not to mention Breton Creperies. Please consider.

Headlines for the SMS Generation

Ignore that previous post. I'm not actually that hard up that I want to go cutting random letters and items of grammar out of my vocabulary just for the hell of it. Instead, I'm going to go cutting random letters out of this next post for a very good reason. And that reason is to teach all you kids of the SMS generation about history. Isn't that nice of me?

The following SMS headlines cover all of the important historical developments of the past hundred years, and some of the less important ones as well. I think you'll agree, they have it pretty well covered ...

The Sinking Of The Titsanic:
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! DA TITANIC SINX IN2 DA C!

The Hindenberg Disaster:
AAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!! HINDENBERG CRASHZ, BURNZ - BBQ!!!

The Communist Revolution
MRX RITES MANIFESTO '4 U + ME' - ROTFL!!!!

The Second World War:
OMG!!! HTLR 8AX BRTN!!! 1000s R KLLD!!!

STALIN + HTLR = FUNFUNFUN ;-p LOLerz!!!

The Cold War:
USA PREZ SEZ: KOMMIEZ MAKE ME :-(

The Sacking of the Whitlam Government:
GOV GEN SAX WITLAM - LMFAO!!!

The British Royal Wedding:
CHARLZ 2 DI: 'I <3 U, B WIT ME 4VA!!'

Reagan Meets Thatcher:
RAYGUN 2 THATCHA: "I'LL NEVA 4GET U!"

The Monica Lewinski Scandal:
LOINSKI 2 CLINTON: LEEV UR H@ ON!

The Death of Princess Diana:
WTF: PRINCESS DI DIZ! :-(

Coming soon: the entire Bhagvat Gita, as retold by an ignorant yokel redneck from Oodnadatta!

Due to Budgetary Constraints, This Headline Has Bee

I'm down to twenty dollars for the rest of this week, so I've decided I'm going to make some budgetary constraints on this blog.

First up, I'm banning the use of the plural. The plural needlessly multiplies the value of the thing being referred to, and we can't have that. Plus, it usually insists on adding a letter 's' to the end of every word. That's just wasteful.

Come to think of it, I'm banning the letter 's' as well. I'm _orry guy_, but you're ju_t going to have to do without it.

Needle__ item_ of grammar, _uch a_ the colon, the _emicolon, and the parenthe_i_, will al_o be banned. If you're going to u_e the_e thing_, then I _uggest you do it el_where.

Finally I've decided that everything I written here fro now on will be in pa_t ten_e. It wa_ ju_t pointle__ to be u_ing different ten_e_ for different po_t_. Well, therell be none of that from now on.

Thank you to all of my reader_, and I hope that you _tick with thi_ blog in the future pa_t and continue to have made comment_.

Ways To Amuse Yourself #5

Buy yourself the following things: one cane, one hundred typewriters, a backyard shed, a copy of Shakespeare's plays, a barrel of LSD, and a cage full of monkeys. Set the typewriters up in a shed, feed the LSD to the monkeys and then turn them loose in the shed.

Stroll amongst the monkeys with your cane and your copy of Shakespeare. Yell at them angrily if they don't produce results similar to or superior to Shakespeare's plays. Rap them occasionally with your cane.

Hopefully, in their fevered hallucinations, the monkeys will think you are the Great Baboon of the Jungles, or something. Anyway, the results should be interesting. Go on, you see if I'm wrong.

The Parable of the Three Men In The Boat

Once there were three men: a Paranoid, a Journalist, and a Cynic. They were firm friends and one day they decided to go on a fishing trip together. So, they hired a boat and took it to the nearest harbour and sailed away.
As they drew away from the shore, the Paranoid became increasingly nervous, and began to fidget and twitch. This caused the Journalist to ask him what was wrong; but he replied, nothing, and all three men continued to fish. But as they continued to sail ahead, the Paranoid became more and more nervous, until finally, the Cynic could not stand it any more, and asked his friend what was wrong.
"Oh, I am so worried!" wailed the Paranoid then.
"Why are you worried?" asked the Journalist.
"I am worried that we will sail off the Edge of the World!" he cried.
"Pish!" scoffed the Cynic. "That is a mere story!"
"What's wrong with mere stories?" huffed the Journalist with his hands on his hips.
"They are invented by men like you to scare men like him so that men like him will buy papers written by men like you!" sneered the Cynic, pointing first at the Journalist, then at the Cynic, then at the Journalist again so that he tied his arms up in a very pretty knot indeed.
"We report on stories of interest and importance. Ours is a noble profession!" said the Journalist, lifting his head high.
And with that, the three men continued to fish.

Next day, the Paranoid man had taken to leaping out of his seat at sudden moments, and looking wildly around.
"What on earth is the matter with you now?" asked the Cynic. But the Paranoid did not reply.
A little later, the Journalist sat down with the Paranoid, and spoke very gently to him, and said to him, "Tell me, my friend, what is on your mind. It's no use saying that you are carefree, and have no worries in the world, for we can see that, laugh as you will, there is something great troubling you."
At this, the Paranoid burst into tears, and nodded his head; and it was not until he bought a handkerchief out of his pocket, and dabbed at his eyes, that he was able to continue.
"It's just, I am dreadfully afraid that, as the day draws on, we draw ever nearer to the Edge of the World. And then, we will fall off! And what will happen to us after?"
"Not that story again!" snapped the Cynic.
"But my friend," continued the Journalist, patiently; "There is a mounting body of evidence to suggest that what he says could be true."
"Posh!" scoffed the Cynic. "They are stories invented by men like you too ..."
"No!" said the Journalist then, waving his hand in the air and cutting his friend off mid-sentence. "They are scientific facts, gathered together by a body of respected experts who have made it their life-work to study the World and what we should do about it!"
"He's right," sniffed the Paranoid, wiping at his nose. "And even if it isn't true, we should at least do something about it!"
"Ha!" laughed the Cynic then. "You believe that we should Do Something Now to Prevent Something that Might Not Happen!"
"A good point, my friend," said the Journalist. "Thank you for making a valued contribution to this debate."
And with that, the three men continued to fish.

By the next day, relations on the boat had become rather strained. The Paranoid, when he was not fishing, huddled in a corner of the boat, whimpering and shuddering, with his arms wrapped around his legs. The Cynic, with his face turned away from the other two, sat at the other hand, nonchalantly continuing to fish. And the Journalist walked from one to the other, taking notes for an article that he intended to write on the subject when he got back to the shore (if, indeed, he ever did).
Finally, the three men agreed amongst themselves that this situation was ridiculous; and they decided to hold a debate on the subject at noon, chaired by the Journalist.
"Thank you for coming" said the Journalist. "I appreciate the time and effort you have both put in."
The two men said nothing to this, so the Journalist pressed on.
"I think it's high time we had this discussion, for I think you'll agree, with many scientists who study this subject pressing the Government for a decision to be made on The Edge of the World, we had better settle this matter one way or the other."
Neither of the men replied to this either. The Journalist bravely continued:
"Firstly, I'd like to ask you," he said to the Paranoid, "What is your argument in regards to this matter?"
"My argument is," wailed the Paranoid, "That the Edge of the World exists, and we are going to sail over it now unless we don't!"
"And what is your position?" said the Journalist, turning to the Cynic.
"My position," replied the Cynic, calmly, "Is that the Edge of the World doesn't exist, and that, even if it does, there's nothing wrong with it and we should leave it where it is and continue to do what we are doing now."
"But we might DIE!" howled the Paranoid.
"But why," continued the Cynic, "Should we Do Something Now to Prevent Something that Might Not Happen?"
"Because," replied the Paranoid, "Anything at ALL might not happen, and we certainly have to prevent it from happening or, er, who knows what will happen!"
"Thank you for having this debate," said the Journalist then. "I think you'll both agree that we've had some fruitful discussion, and now it's time to have an audience poll on the matter."

Since there were only three men on the boat, and the Journalist could not very well vote on his own (that would be unfair), they all decided to have a vote. They took two pots out from their stores, and painted them different colours (one for either side of the debate). Then they cast a fish into the pot of the colour which represented their side of the debate. It fell upon the Journalist to count them out and, even though the Cynic suspected that he might be cheating, he let his friend do this. And, as it turned out, the votes came out in favour of the Paranoid.

"Right then," said the Journalist. "I think we're all agreed that We Should Do Something Abo..."
Just then, a terrible wail came from the Paranoid. Both men raised their eyes and saw that the Paranoid man was indicating something with his outstretched arm in the far distance. They followed his finger, and saw then what was causing the Paranoid man so much grief: the Edge of the World. Waters fell from the Edge of the World into empty space: and they were being inexorably drawn by strong currents towards this void!

The three men then rushed up and down the deck of the boat, adjusting this sail, and tying that sail, and casting the anchor, then pulling it up again, and falling over one another and leaping up again in a great flurry of activity: all to no avail. Nothing could stop them being drawn closer and closer to their doom. Then, seeing that it was all in vain, they fell to their knees, and prayed to God, beseeching him in tearful voices to hear them, and save them from Falling Off the Edge of the World. And they drew ever nearer to the chasm. Then, as their prayers had become loudest, and the rushing of the waters of the world off the edge of the world became quite deafening, a piano fell out of the sky and splintered their boat to a million pieces, and caused the men to fall to the bottom of the sea.

And nobody ever heard of them again.

THE END

On the Male Neck Tie

(I've already published this post elsewhere but I'm putting it up here too because I can so there.)

In 1994, a week before I went away to boarding school in Sydney for year 11, Mum taught me how to put on a Neck Tie. I've been putting them on, irregularly, ever since.

Ties are pleasant to look at. They are colourful, they come in a peculiar shape, and are covered with a great variety of designs. In windy weather, they will sometimes hover in the air in front of you as you are walking before slapping you in the face. (This is uncomfortable for you, but at least it provides some amusement for onlookers.) They are, without a doubt, the strangest item in the male business suit. What do they do? You can use your pockets to put pens in, you put your coat on when it's cold, and a sturdy pair of business shoes will protect your feet from both the cold and rubbish on the ground. But ties? As clothes go, they're redundant. Their only purpose seems to be to identify the wearer as male; in that sense, they are vaguely phallic.

It's always seemed to me that there's something slightly uncivilised about men who do not know how to put on a tie. Several other boarders, for instance, would never put their tie on; they would simply loosen their tie after school and slip it off, and put it back on their necks the day afterwards. And then there are those people who buy their ties, tied, from the tie store.

What's the point? Most of the fun of a tie is in tying it up, not in wearing it. You might as well not call them 'ties' at all.

Even worse are people who will wear 'novelty ties'; ties covered with cheap Donald Duck or Bugs Bunny cartoons; or ties with crude football slogans written upon them. If what you wear says something about you, then surely, a person who regularly wears Donald Duck ties is askin to a person who wanders about the streets with the words, 'I am a loony' stamped upon his forehead.

There is little hope for the tie. It is a dying creature. People of the present day are relentlessly informal - they never use a polite word when a swear word will do: and no-one would wear a tie if they didn't have to. Especially not during the Australian summer. They constrict the breath, make it more difficult to swallow, make you itch, and make you sweat. In fact, you have to resist the urge to wipe the sweat from your brow with the tie. It's the little things like that that keep civilisation going, you know.

Eight Words Other Than 'Failure' That Rhyme With Australia

When I went to University, I had as lecturer a guy called David B. He was a published poet and novelist, and specialised in Australian literature. He also had glasses, a beard, a breathy way of speaking, and a girl told me later that she thought he was a bit of a sleaze. Anyway, I always remember one of the lecturers he gave about one of the earliest Australian poems:

O Kangaroo, O Kangaroo,
Thou spirit of Australia;
That redeems from utter failure,
From perfect desolation,
And warrants the creation
Of this fifth part of earth ...

(From The Kangaroo, by Barron Field)

His take on the poem was this: "The fact that Barron Field can't find any word but 'failure' to rhyme with Australia represents in itself a kind of failure; a failure of traditional poetic forms ..."

There always seemed to me to be something wrong with this. Firstly, what's wrong with traditional poetic forms? If they're good enough for The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner - a poem that's almost cosmic in its extent - then why can't they be good enough for Australia?
Secondly, I felt sure that there were plenty of words that rhymed with Australia. Like .... and, um, like ... actually, it was pretty hard to think of them. But it always stuck in my mind that there should be words that rhyme with Australia.
And years later, I actually did sit down, and try to find words other than 'failure' that rhymed with 'Australia'. As I suspected, there were several:

Animalia
Regalia
Italia
Shalier
Somalia
Tailier
Nailier

See? Certainly, some of these words (like Somalia) may not have existed when Barron Field wrote the poem. But that hardly matters: there would have been other words in use then that are not in use now. And the fact that some of these words are, shall we say, 'grammatically creative' hardly matters either; the whole point of a poem is that it's creative.

Rachel gives us another word to add to that list:

Sesquipadalia (Long words)
Sesquipadalian (Given to or characterised by the use of long words)

So, with that in mind, we should be able to offer a different version of Barron Field's poem:

Kangaroo, o Kangaroo,
Thou spirit of Australia
Thou complete and wondrous specimen
Of antipodean Animalia!
Of all the taily creatures
I've never seen a tailier!
Oh yes, you are most worthy
Of all our sesquipadalia:
Yes, Kangaroo, o Kangaroo,
Thou spirit of Australia!

Much better, isn't it?

UPDATE! - Add 'Norman Mailer' and 'Marsupial Mammalia' to the list, please, Mr. Blog Man! Also, I edited out the full name of the Uni lecturer.

Poetic Imagery My Arse

You know, I don't normally make political or partisan comments on this blog; I figure other people can do it better than me, and I'd rather just entertain people.

But I think I will make one now, because this concerns another self-styled humourist and cartoonist who has gone out of his way to make political statements, some of which are quite vile. I'm talking about Michael Leunig.

There has been a minor blog-debate about the merits (if any) of Leunig's cartoons since Tim Blair linked to one of those cartoons on the 10th of this month.

Here is the said Leunig cartoon. It depicts Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon - currently on the verge of death - as the killer of innocent old men in wheelchairs. For more analysis of its context, see this Tim Blair post, or this post on Legless In Perpetuum.

It's not the first time Leunig has done this sort of thing, either:

- In this cartoon, Leunig depicts a member of the US armed forces as a cannibal - drawing on an earlier cartoon depiction of Ariel Sharon in the same light.

- In this cartoon, Leunig compares the modern state of Israel with a Nazi concentration camp.

Leunig has since defended his cartoon, saying: "I, perhaps foolishly, made a cartoon about that strange situation that is a person's dying days - not to have a swipe at Sharon or Israel but to open up some more existential and, dare I say it, "Shakespearean" thoughts about the pathos and wry darkness of this powerful man's demise".
Yes, it was foolish. What is even more foolish - not to mention bizarre - is that Leunig then goes on to defend the cartoon as if it didn't matter. He appears to want it both ways - to admit to his human fallibility, but to be able to defend himself against all criticism because he's 'an artist'. This is a pathetic self-defence mechanism.

In an ABC interview, Leunig has this to say: "I'm trying to think, "How can I distil this into some little poetic moment that awakens people to other possibilities?""
Also: " And I'm there to challenge that notion of life. That I'm interested in the deeper humanity in us all."
It's worth taking a moment to note how, at crucial points, Leunig explains himself by using meaningless phrases like 'poetic moment' and 'deeper humanity'. Actually, both are insulting - the first to poets and writers, the second to all humans - because they replace precise concepts (poetic, humanity) with vague and fuzzy ideas (deeper humanity, poetic moments).
But there's an even more important point to make. And that is that this is the context in which Leunig defends his 'art': this is the context in which he wants his pictures comparing Auschwitz to Israel to be understood. Historical facts about Israel and the treatment of Jews by the Nazis apparently matter less than having a 'poetic moment' with Leunig's 'deeper humanity'.

Leunig used to be an exceptional cartoonist: original, and funny. Nowadays, all he appears to be producing is hate-filled propaganda. It's disgraceful, and The Age should fire him.

SEE ALSO:
Legless In Perpetuum
Tim Blair

PS Sorry about the political post thingy, I'll be back in a day or so with more interesting stuff.

Moment Musicale

"So how do you want me to start?"

"A duo, please. Molto largo."

"But won't the neighbours hear?"

"Let them. I'll take the basso, you take the treble clef."

"We always did it the other way around ..."

"Don't worry. You'll treble soon enough, and then I'll get the chance to mount that clef for myself."

"Like this?"

"Yes, yes ... but take it steadily. Lentissimo!"

"And pianissimo?"

"My dear, pui pianissimo - that's the way!"

"Ah."

"Yes. That's right! Oh, deary - you truly are the maestro!"

"Dolce?"

"Con Dolce, Con Molto Dolce!"

"Such a timbre!"

"And now, molto piano. That's right!"

"Con moto! Ah, such a movement!"

"Yes - now, Andante, con mobile - good, good - OOH!"

"Yes?"

"Don't stop now, maestro!"

"Now, the moderato passage."

"PUI APPASSIONAZZA!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Don't take it at such a slow pace! I want a spring in your music! Staccato!"

"Almost - allegretto?"

"Si - I mean, yes! Molto allegretto, molto forte - that's good!"

"Ah, but I can do better."

"Ooh! Hee hee hee! Yes, very good - the student becomes the maestro!"

"Forzando!"

"SFORZANDO! With FEELING!"

"Allegro!"

"Ma non troppo, maestro, please."

"With accents ..."

"Si! Accents, and leggerio!"

"I like your leggerio!"

"Now - allegro moderato!"

"Oh - allegro VIVACE, please!"

"Ah - please - a little ritenueto!"

"Like that?"

"Oooh my, yes - you ARE doing well!"

"Such a bel canto!"

"Sforzando again, maestro!"

"Sforzando, molto a molto!"

"Fortissimo!"

"FORTE fortissimo!"

"Accelerando!"

"Now PRESTO!"

"PRESTO PRESTISSIMO!"

"PRESTO PRESTISSIMO FURIOSO!"

"SI!"

"SI!"

"BELLA!"

"DONNA!"

"SI!"

"SI!"

"SI!"

"SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!"


***


"Well ... "

"Well ..."

"How was it for you?"

"Oh, maestro ...!"

"Then, why not ..."

"Ah, are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Da capo?"

"That would be fine ..."

"But ...?"

"But this time ... I think it's time for us to try ... the trio ..."

FINE

CODA
Piano lessons, anyone?
(Via L.I.P.)

Blue Psued Pshoes

Has anybody been watching 'Speaking in Tongues, with John Safran and Father Bob'? It's very good. They've got a segment called 'Bob's Billboard', where readers send in suggestions for titles to put up on the Billboard outside Bob's church. Here are some of my suggestions:

HEAVEN A GREAT TIME, WISH YOU WERE HERE!

SUNDAY IS FUNDAY - COME INSIDE AND PRAY!

OPEN WIDE, COME INSIDE - IT'S PRAY SCHOOL!

APPLAUD THE LORD!

PSINGING PSALMS IS PSUPER!

I'm rather proud of that last one. So proud, in fact, that I wrote a whole poem about it! It's called

PSINGING PSALMS (A PSEUDO PSONG):

Psinging psalms is psuper fun,
Psuper fun for everyone!
Come and psing and come to pstay
With Christ, who took our psins away!

UPDATE! - Just emailed them through.

Tim's Of The Blog World

Here is a list of some Tim's of the blog world. I'll be adding to it as more turn up.

Tim Blair
Blog: http://timblair.net
Politically: Right wing
Nicknames: tim, Tim B, little tim, Right Wing Death Beast, slime

Tim Dunlop
Blog: http://roadtosurfdom.com
Politically: Left wing
Nicknames: Tim

Tim Lambert
Blog: http://timlambert.org
Politically: Left wing
Nicknames: Tim, Lambert, Timmy.

Tim W.
Blog: http://kiss-chasey.blogspot.com
Politically: Leftish
Nicknames: Tim

Tim Sterne
Blog: http://sternezine.blogspot.com
Politically: Leftish
Nicknames: Tim

Tim Train
Blog: http://willtypeforfood.blogspot.com
Politically: DEAD CENTRE. No, really!
Nicknames: Idiot, Timmy*, Who the fuck is that guy?

See also: Tim G, commentor on Road to Surfdom
Uncreative Tim, commentor on After Grog Blog
Tim S, commentor on Anonymous Lefty

Look on the bright side: when we're all called Tim, it will be that much easier to remember one another's name.

*Pronounced South Park style.

Sometimes The Australian Media Disgusts Me

Headline by The Age: Russian Star Ready to Have a Ball



My headlines:
Maria Handles Someones Hairy Balls

Maria Pulls Bat, Strokes Balls, Scores!

So many missed opportunities - why don't they employ me?

Communist Ninja Shark Attack!

Wouldn't you like to see that headline on a newspaper? Wouldn't that be the coolest headline ever?

But that's not what I wanted to talk about. What I wanted to talk about was this: last night, I happened to be talking to BourbonBird about a zine project she has planned, and conversation turned to the Sydney monorail. It was then that she said the funniest thing ....

"The only time I see it is late at night when I'm drunk and I need to look at the sky for oxygen."

Ladies and gentlemen, it's still only January, but I believe we have the Quote of the Year, right there. The competition is officially over.

Light Relief

I just thought after my putting on the crankypants in the previous post, readers might appreciate a little light relief.



Isn't life beautiful?

Crapronyms

I don't know what SBS were thinking when they named their new television show what they did, but I think they were thinking the wrong thing. The show is 'RAN: Remote Area Nurse', and it's named after an acronym. As if we didn't have enough acronyms already, with idiots LOLing and LMFAOing left, right, and centre.

I work in the transcription department of an Australian media monitoring company, and we have to deal with hundreds of the fuckers. FTA, STD, NAFTA, DFAT, DHA and DHS all get a look in fairly regularly, and there are many, many others.
By far the worst are the acronyms that have other acronyms in them. Here's one for your perusal and abuse:

AUSFTA

What is this horrid, unpronounceable thing? What can I do with an AUSFTA, I hear you cry? What kind of food does it eat?
In fact, an AUSFTA is an Australian/ US Free Trade Agreement, the US standing for United States of America.

The dreadful possibility arises that soon, we will be dealing with acronyms that have other acronyms in them that have other acronyms in them, and so on, and so on, and so on. Soon, we will have an acronym that is infinitely deep, and then where will we be?
But perhaps this is where the person who invented the acronym wanted us to be. Perhaps he or she foresaw a time, not far in the future, where every word that people said, wrote or typed were just references to other words that people said, wrote, or typed, and words had lost all actual meaning.

Acronyms can be fun. Once I wrote an editorial for a magazine in which I embedded several swear words in the text by using acronyms. Jim Treacher once had a poem to a left-wing poetry site with several, er, colourful acronyms in it. But there are too many of the bastards! We have to stop expressing ourselves through acronyms. People, do this for the sake of the english language: ring up your mother, and swear at her. Your mother may not like it, but at least she'll fucking understand it.

Over-and-fucking-out.

Edward

Gleaming in the sunshine, and screaming it's little heart out, this Post came into the world, not knowing what to expect. I named it Edward, and decided to keep it.

Edward the Post turned out to be a troublesome child. He kept on making sudden diversions into the world of politics, and swerving this way and that to make snarky comments about other bloggers; but I gradually I managed to nurse him into full life and teach him some practical lessons about the world.

The day inevitably came when I knew I had to let Edward go. He had become a fine, fully-grown Post, mature and knowledgeable in the ways of the world, and ready to find his way onto a blog.
"Perhaps, in time, Edward, my son, you will even come to be linked on other people's blogs." I said tearfully.
"Oh, father, will I?" said Edward, his eyes shining with expectation.
I grasped his hands meaningfully in mine and bid him farewell. Moments later, he walked through the door and left my house forever.

He wrote to me from time to time, telling me how he was going. One day, I received a most startling letter from him:
"Dear father," he began, "I want to thank you so much for publishing me! I have met a most wonderful Post! Her name is Cecilia, and she tells me that one day she aims to be published in a magazine! I wish to marry her!"
I wrote back to Edward then, replying that as he was a Post of His Own, he was free to do anything he liked; but that I would want to meet this Cecilia before I bestowed my blessing upon their union.
We arranged to meet two days after in a cafe on Collins Street.
"Oh, father, you'll love her!" said Edward over the phone. "She's everything a Post could ask for!"
As I sat in the cafe toying with my coffee and nervously fingering my watch, I wondered what she would be like. If truth be told, my relationship with Edward had been a little strained lately - perhaps I had asked too much of him as a Post. Perhaps, if I had bought him up with a little more discipline, he would have become a well-known and respected political Post. Maybe he could have been linked on other sites - Legless In Perpetuum, for instance. Or Metal City. Or maybe - one day - even on Tim Blair. Needing something to calm my nerves, I ordered another coffee.

There was a shout from across the streets; I looked up. It was Edward, smiling and waving. My heart leapt. He was my Post, after all; and I loved him for it. I grinned and began to wave back.
And then, in a moment, everything changed. Banging its bells, a tram rushed by, crushing Edward to the ground.
I rushed from the cafe to the streets to where my Post lay. Tears were streaming from my eyes. He was still alive!
"Edward!" I shouted. "Edward, my Boy, My Post - are you alright?"
He could hardly speak. Wordlessly, he took my hand in his and gazed up at me.
"Father, father," he said. "If only you could have m..."
He never finished what he was saying. All I could think, as I looked down at the pitiful wreck of my Little Post, was - how wonderful he could have been, if ... if ... but what use were all these questions now?
"Oh, Edward, Edward," I wept. "How sorry I am!"

And that is how Edward the Post came to an End.

Cooking With Tim

As you all know, not only am I a blogger extraordinaire, but I can do lots and lots of other things as well: like cook, for instance. No, really! Recently, I had a go at this.



It's been described variously as 'Minced Purple People Eater', 'Dramatization of a meal - not actual photo.' and 'radioactive'.
The recipe, which you can find here, had some weird ingredients. '1 Cup Boiled Water, Chilled', for instance. What on earth did they mean by that? I called up Mum. She suggested in a tired, quiet voice that they probably meant water. I hung up the phone, perplexed. Just to be on the safe side, I boiled a jug of water and then put it in the fridge in the morning.
To get ready for the meal, I made three visits to the supermarket, and then one more, just for good measure. In my defence, I'd just come back from Newcastle the day before; I didn't have any food at all.
The central ingredient of the soup is beetroot. Never having bought beetroots before, I wasn't sure what to expect. I was a little afraid that the Coburg Woolworth's wouldn't stock beetroot. I had visions of myself paying exhorbitant prices for imported Arabic beetroots in a small deli on Sydney Road.
I needn't have worried. Actually, the beetroots came in bunches of four, two more than I needed for this recipe. They also came with leaves. I wasn't sure what to do with the leaves, so I called up Mum.

'You put them in a salad' she said. 'What are you doing with the beetroots?'
'Boiling them,' I said.
'Well, you'll be able to tell the beetroots are done when the leaves pull off easily.'

Having received that handy tip, I put a pot of water (of the unchilled variety) on the stove and waited until it was boiling before putting two of the beetroots in. The leaves were very long, reaching almost halfway to the ceiling, and they drooped, so that they kept on falling in the flames and catching alight, and I had to keep rearranging them. The water turned a strange purple colour. Occasionally, I'd pull at the leaves experimentally, but they didn't come off.

The recipe also called for boiled egg whites to be mashed up with scallions or chives. I didn't have either, so I substituted some garlic. When this was done - and it looked like the beetroots were almost ready to be grated - I took out a big bowl and filled it with four cups of buttermilk, and the chilled boiled water. I was surprised there was so much of it. I mixed this up with the egg yolk, and sour cream, diced cucumbers, garlic, salt, and finally, grated beetroot. It looks more pink than purple, I said to myself, but kept on mixing.

Actually, it was quite delicious. When I was done, I came back into the kitchen, took the bowl of soup, and poured the remainder into two medium-sized cooking pans, and put them in the fridge. It was gradually dawning on me that I had cooked more beetroot soup than I had bargained for. I suspected I would be eating beetroot soup for several days, perhaps forever.
I left the plates in the sink and went into the living room.

***

Two days later when I walked into the kitchen, ants were swarming all over the purple-stained plates, and the amount of soup in the fridge had not diminished considerably. After some moments thinking, I took the pans in the fridge out the back and poured them into the compost. That night, I think I had bacon and mushrooms for dinner.

Beetroot soup is alright for a change, but I suspect if I had been forced to eat any more of it, my skin would have developed an odd purple glow, and people would have thought I was a Martian ...

UPDATE! - As you can see, I also did a little blogging on the side while cooking. I'm not exactly the most attentive chef.

UPDATE ON THE UPDATE! - Anyone want two betroots (unboiled)?

The Zen Theory of Comedy

Could this be the best blonde joke ever?

Expand Your Vocabulary

(Post partially inspired by a conversation with Red)

In this post, I propose to help you expand your vocabulary by giving definitions for long or unusual words. Do not worry if you know the word, but thought it had a different definition. We all make these silly little mistakes from time to time.

Antipodes (Noun) 1) A small species of sea-worm, related to nematodes. It is said that former Labor Prime Minister Gough Whitlam bred antipodes as a child. Antithesis (Noun) 1) A musical instrument, part zither, and part trumpet. It was popular in enlightenment times, but used most recently in several Mr Bungle songs. Bradpitt (Noun) 1) The Bradpitt is a famous hole in the ground in America, second in size only to the Grand Canyon. "That man's about as deep as the Brad Pitt" "Yes, and about as empty." - Mark Twain. Chiropractor (Noun) 1) A new type of Italian coffee. 2) Farm machinery Cunnamulla (Noun) 1) An ilicit bedroom act. Flocculent (Verb, Pers. Noun) 1) Stick. "Birds of a feather flocculent together." - Colloq. 2. Well-known Hollywood actor - Calista Flocculent. Jenniferaniston (Noun) 1) Country south of Afghanistan. Johannesburg (Noun) 1) Salami sandwich of which Johann Sebastian Bach was very fond. It is said that every morning, he would rise from bed, and compose a prelude. Then he would call to his wife for a sandwich. After having completed the sandwich, he would compose the fugue, and then go back to bed. In time, the sandwich acquired the name 'Johannes Burger', or 'Johannesburg.' Liposuction (Noun) 1) New and exciting form of oral sex, pioneered in Amsterdam. Lunatic (Noun) 1) Type of insect which lives on the moon. It feeds on animal blood, and is almost extinct. It is closely related to other insects, including the Emetic, Heretic, and Atlantic. Mod Con (Noun, Pers. Noun) 1) Member of the Australian Greens 2) Bob Brown. Pseudoephedrine (Pers. Noun) 1) A famous Greek poet, known to everyone as 'Ephedrine'. 'Ephedrine' was suspected of not being his real name, and so everyone took to calling him 'Pseudoephedrine'. Ephedrine thought they were probably right. He wasn't sure about it either way, but decided to go along with them, just to be safe. Quern (Noun) 1) Gathering of homosexuals (from the French) Quark (Onomat.) 1) Noise made by a drunken duck. Reesewitherspoon (Noun) 1) Type of cutlery. Stagflation (Verb) 1) Resuscitating a male reindeer. Strophe (Noun) 1) A fight amongst sailors. Telephony (Noun) 1) Person who lies about something on national television 2) A politician. 3) Bob Brown. Xenophobia (Noun) 1) Fear of Warrior Princesses invading your country 2) Fear of Pauline Hanson. 3) Fear of words beginning with unusual letters.

Feel free to propose your own, alternative definitions in comments!

Inspirational Verse

This is a poem for Harry. It's called An Ode in 27 stanzas to the fiscal structure of post-1950s Western Society With Reference to the Works of J. K. Gailbraith, an unassuming little title for an unassuming little poem. Here's an excerpt ...

Oh Post 1950s economy,
Why is it that you fill me with such bonhomie?
Yes, you truly are my mon ami,
Oh Post 1950s economy.

I haven't written much, but I'm rather proud of it so far. It's quite good, isn't it?

Giving Your Child An Inspirational Name

They fuck you up, your mum and dad,
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

It's a good thing that C.S. Lewis, the writer of The Chronicles of Narnia, is never referred to by his full name, because his full name is Clive Staples Lewis. The Clive I can understand, barely: but Staples? The only reason for a fellow having a middle name like that is because he had a relative, an Uncle or Aunty, for instance, with that as a last name. Aunty Staples, anyone?
That's tradition for you. A means by which the misery of one generation can be perpetuated by inflicting it on the next. Thus the cycle of pain continues over the ages.

Man hands on misery to man
It deepens like a coastal shelf;
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

(Thanks to Vague for alerting us to this crucial matter)

2005 - (Re Reading Lists)

Every year, the critics come out with reading lists, reviewing books that have been published that year. I don't see the point. Books have been around for some two thousand years, meaning that the most interesting books are hardly ever the most recent ones. And our favourite books are usually the ones that we can read and reread; meaning that we are almost never able to tell others whether a book is good after reading it for the first time. And sometimes, the books that we read are poorly written versions of a future book that may never be written.

In that spirit, I offer my own reading list for 2005 ...

Recycled
A Thurber Carnival
Essays by a great American cartoonists and cartoons by a great American essayist, in the one volume. I bought this edition in a Melbourne secondhand store - I'm not sure which one. It took me some four weeks to finish this book, not because it was big, but because I had other things on my mind at the time. Worth it, if nothing else, for the comic, 'The Bloodhound and the Bug'.

Republished
Modern Manners
This is one of the funniest books I have ever read. As a matter of fact, almost all of the books by P. J. O'Rourke fit that description. 'Modern Manners' is an etiquette textbook for the late 20th century - less of a parody of old values than of 'modern' people who have no values. The book is expertly designed, set out in columns, with pictures, tables, quizzes, and educational footnotes. A pity the cover is so awful.

Reread
The Pushcart War
This book begins with an introduction by 'Lyman Cumberly, author of The Large Object Theory of History' and the first chapter begins with one of the main characters being pitched head first into a pickle barrel. And if that doesn't explain to you why I love this book, nothing will.

Not So Much Reread as Relooked
Monster Land
A picture book by Hans Arnold; there is a ludicrous amount of detail in every picture. The cover is a lurid orange, while the pictures inside are black and white. The monsters are a perverse combination of man, woman, machine, and animal: quaint, picture-book style fairies and goblins on the verge of changing into something much more fearsome.

What's That Sound?

That sound is the old year softly slipping away and being replaced by the new. Actually, it's a bit hard to hear, because a lot of people are also blowing off fireworks at the same time. Then again, I live near Sydney Road, so that could just be the usual drive-by shooting. It's good to be back in Melbourne.

Happy New Year everybody. Why is it a New Year now, anyway? And at what point does it become an Old Year? It can't stay the New Year for long - I think you'd agree that, by the time 11 months are up, it's pretty old.

Just who is it that decides upon these conventional definitions of New Years and Old Years? I'd like to give them a good talking too.

UPDATE! 'Talking too'? I'd like to give myself a good talking to too!

Yeah, I'm Bored

TEXT MESSAGE
FROM: Tim Train
TO: Lachlan Train

Whats your opinion on einsteins theory of relativity?

TEXT MESSAGE
FROM: Lachlan Train
TO: Tim Train

Its about as debatable as rock v scissors.

The poor fool. Little does he know that the 'rock vs scissors' argument has long been discredited in the fields of theoretical and quantum physics ...

Prelude to a Trip

Start the morning early. Set your alarm for five and leap out of bed five minutes before it is set to go off. Blearily whip on your only clean t-shirt, only to discover that it is actually your only clean pair of trousers (it's the fact that there's nowhere to put your head that gives it away.) Frantically frisk through your clothes for a t-shirt (travelling half-naked is not recommended unless there are several other nudists on your trip). When you have put on the only remaining almost-not-dirty t-shirt in your collection, leap from your room with the grace of a gazelle. Don't forget to open the door when you do this; otherwise you may have a head-on collision with a solid object.
You are now ready for action: spring towards the nearest cupboard, and make yourself a bowl of cereal!!! Don't worry if there is no milk. This is not the sort of day to be worrying about minor things like that. The cereal's probably gone off, anyway. Dump the cereal in the nearest bin or receptacle, and head for your room again to pack.

The theory about packing clothes is simple.

Make sure you pack: one pair of socks, one pair of pants and underpants, and one shirt. Keep on packing until it looks like you have enough, or alternatively, you run out of clean clothes - probably the latter.

Being simple, this theory is even more simple to forget. Be creative with your clothes - for instance, throw in odd numbers of socks instead of the usual pair. (And if your socks are anything like mine, they will be very odd, indeed.) Furthermore, be ready to challenge conventional terminology. Who decided to call them a 'pair' of trousers? Considering what's happened to the legs of your trousers, this seems rather unrealistic. Spare 'Singlets', on the other hand, can be separated into two or more separate items of clothing, thereby making them 'Doublets' or 'Triplets'.
And 'underpants' - every sane person knows that 'underpants', so called, can be put to many uses, including:

- Novelty head-wear!
- Excellent substitute handkerchiefs!
- A cunningly disguised t-shirt!

Especially after a few drinks.
After you have crammed all these clothes into your bag with desperate efficiency, discover that you have several hours left until your train leaves.
It is at this point that you descend into a dreamlike state and feel as if you are sitting down, objectively observing somebody as they move about the room, performing everyday tasks:

The Subject moved from the kitchen to the loungeroom. He sat down for several seconds. He then sprang up again. He repeated this motion several times over. He then began to walk from one end of the room to the other, swinging his hands in front of his body. He tilted his head forward and then nodded it several times before returning to the couch and sitting down. He sat down for several seconds ...

Don't worry, you're not going mad. All the adrenaline has simply gone to your head, and is causing you to have mild hallucinations.
By the time you return to yourself, you will realise that you are running late for what is possibly the last tram. Gather up your books and bags and items and rush from the house, not remembering to close all the windows and lock and double bolt the door and close the gate behind you. You will be surprised how quick you can run while carrying several large and heavy bags.
It is at this point that you realise that you have forgotten to pack something Very Small but Extremely Important, and it is imperative that you return to the house, open the gate, double unlock the double bolts on your door, and rush into your room to retrieve whatever item it is that you have left there before rushing from the house to discover that you have just missed the tram.
Sit around impatiently before catching the next tram. When you finally arrive at the train station, realise that the train has not even arrived yet, and that you are standing at the end of a rather long queue of very fat people, and that you will probably be the last to find your seat.

***

I could go on and dwell on the train journey: but I find that it is probably best to focus on the positive things in life, and not the negative. It is probably wise to repress all the memories of the squealing children and the fat old man who sits next to you and, every minute, makes compulsive noises out of the side of his mouth, that smell oddly like farting (is THAT why his wife never looks in his direction)?
What matters is that you are on your way, and that, at some point between twelve hours and eternity, you will finally arrive at your destination, if nothing goes wrong. Congratulations!

What the Hell

I'm in Raymond Terrace. Just outside of Newcastle. The weather here is fucking hot. I want to go home!

Just saw the name of a shop:

LETS COMMUNICATE

No apostrophe. Arrrrrgh!

I think I'll spend the day boozing it up with my brother and his girlfriend. Also, might get my father an eel for Christmas. Just to be difficult.

Things to do in the next couple of days:

- Turn up unannounced on the door of my other brother in Sydney with a big cabbage for his Christmas present.

- Eat ridiculous amounts of Christmas food.

- Take a photograph of the downstairs part of my parents house, and send it to them as a postcard.

- Get the fuck out of here.

Merry Christmas eve. Merry Christmas, even! Later!

The First 'First Day of Christmas'

It took a while for anon to get the famous carol, 'The First Day of Christmas', right ...

On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me ...

A fully-equipped diesel-powered tractor

A partridge in a pear tree.

On the second day of Christmas, my true love sent to me ...

Two atomic power-generator, complete with plutonium and uranium resources

Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the third day of Christmas, my true love sent to me ...

Three killer robots

Three ransom notes

Three french hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

And you certainly don't want to know what happened on days four through twelve ...

Many Crappy Returns

Racism kind of sucks. Think how much nicer the world would be if, instead of calling one another 'you black arsehole!' and 'that white cunt!' we simply settled for calling one another 'Arsehole! and 'Cunt!' That's right, the world would be a much better place. You should go out and swear to your neighbour right now, you really should.

Swearing: bringing misanthropes from all over the world together.

Seasons Bleatings

Some people like Christmas and some people dislike Christmas. Me, I dislike liking Christmas but I also dislike disliking Christmas. Also, I like Christmas. There's very little logic in this, but then, this is not a logical time of year.

Lord knows there's a lot to complain about during Christmas, including:

Getting presents
Not getting presents
Giving presents
Not giving presents
Santa Claus
Jesus Christ
Santa Claus taking the Jesus Christ out of Christmas
Jesus Christ taking the Santa Claus out of Christmas
Consumerism
Seeing family
Not seeing family
Christmas television
Christmas films
Cecil B. de Mille films
Jimmy Stewart films
Black and white films
Charles Dickens
Oliver Twist
Ebenezer Scrooge
"A Christmas Carol"
Christmas carols

But then, come to think about it, there's also a lot to like, including:

All of the above

You don't like Christmas? The whole thing is basically a time when people get together, eat food, and get drunk. Sounds good to me. Also, mince pies are tasty. Don't like Christmas? Sucks to you. Merry Christmas, you bastards!

Ways To Amuse Yourself #4

You're at a nudist colony.

1) Organise a bike race!

2) Cheerfully discuss the objectification of the human form in western culture with any person that you come across!

3) Hold a barbecue and invite members of the Taliban along!

4) Look at all the naked women and picture them - IN CLOTHES! Phwoooar!!!

Important Question

At the moment, I'm writing a love story about an Agorophobic and a Claustrophobic. What is the best way to describe a sex scene between the two?

Provide your answers, with supporting reasons, in comments.

Rate Myself

Rate My Students? Rate My Professor? What's the point of that? Such actions only lead to nastiness and crudeness. I think the nicest thing you could possibly do is rate yourself.

Here's my report card (by me).

---

Name: Tim Train

Intelligence:
10/10
Tim demonstrates exceptional ability in smartness, brightness, quick-wittedness, and possesses exceptionally high amounts of The Genius Factor (tm). He is an excellent student.

Niceness:
10/10
Tim is the nicest person you could possibly meet! He is brilliant in many fields of Niceness, including generosity, honesty, morality, and careingness.

Gosh, isn't he nice?

Attractiveness
10/10
It is without hesitation that I give Tim top marks in the attractiveness ratings. Well done, Tim - give yourself a big pat on the back!

General Comments
Tim is practically perfect in every way!

Rate yourself, in comments.

Gift Ideas for the Obsessive Psychopath In Your Life

So: you married an axe-murderer. You didn't know it at the time, but your husband/wife to be was in fact insane, sadistic serial-killer who should be locked up and put in jail for good. But you've learnt not to be judgemental. Sure, they might be evil, demented beings; but basically, they're nice people.

But there are always problems. Like, what are you going to buy them for Christmas? Here are some gift ideas...

Diary/Personal Planner


Your significant-other-twisted-psychopathic-half spends a lot of time stalking his or her victims and obsessing over the modus operandi. What better gift could you get for than a diary? Plus, these days, diaries come in many attractive colours, with inspirational slogans to help them get through the day!

Industrial-sized Fridge


It's not that you mind finding unusual human body parts in your fridge, so much - it's just that there's so little room left over to put in Christmas pudding, and other treats.

So, for Christmas, you couldn't go wrong by buying the psychopath in your life an industrial-sized fridge!

Meat Cleavers


As the old saying goes, 'The family that slays together, stays together.' So you could do far, far worse than buying a set of pre-sharpened meat cleavers, and joining your husband/wife in their naughty nightime antics. It could be just the thing for putting that zing back in your marriage!

Mushroom Kit


There are times when even you grow worried by their obsessions. Maybe all the psychopath-in-the family needs, really, is another hobby. Why don't you get them a mushroom kit, and let them pour all their obsessive-compulsive habits into a complicated, yet rewarding, task, like growing mushrooms?

I mean, sure, they'll always be evil, but at least let them be evil in a productive way.

Hellphones

Did I ever tell you about the phone system we have at work? It's very simple, really; all you need is an encyclopaedia and a PhD in advanced mathematics to work out how to use it.

Rule 1: If the phone starts ringing, DO NOT PICK IT UP.

Why? Well, first of all, you're going to have to work out if the phone call is for you. If the phone call is not for you, then the phone ring will be loud. If the phone call is for you, then the phone call will be soft. Thus the office phone system defies one of the most basic rules of acoustics - things that are closer will be louder than things that are further away.

Rule 2: If the phone call is for you, DO NOT PICK IT UP.

Why? Well, you're going to have to work out what sort of a phone call it is, first. If it's a phone call from outside, the light will be flashing green (or red). If the phone call is internal, then the light will be flashing red (or green). In time, you will be able to remember these rules for yourself: but not now.

Rule 3: Learn to properly answer the phone when it rings.

The proper way to answer the phone when it rings is to shout at it. Eventually, the phone will get the message and stop ringing.*

Rule 4: Wait until the call is re-routed through to the secretaries desk and the message comes through: 'T, phone call on line 1437565. T, phone call on line 1437565'.

After all, it's only the REALLY important phone callers that will bother going this far. It's about now that you'd better think of picking up the phone.

Rule 5: Panic.

Fear is an excellent stimulus.

Rule 6: Pick up the phone.

Although at this stage, you might be tempted to throw the phone at the wall, workplace aggression never solved anything. Calmly, quietly pick up the receiver. Now all you have to do is get on line one.
This is done by pressing the 'Call PU' then '1437565'. Or by pressing 'Park Rtrv' then '1437565'. One of the two, I'm not sure which.

Rule 7: Respond to the caller in a calm, intelligent, and professional matter.

Suggested ways to begin your phone call:
- 'Good afternoon, welcome to '...', this is T. speaking. I'm afraid I can't take your call at the moment, as my brain is currently out to lunch. If you care to call back later after I have gone home, it would be greatly appreciated.'

- 'Sorry, she's not here at the moment. Who? I don't know. You were the person calling for her.'

- 'Je suis desolet, mi no spreche di Espanol.'

This will make all the difference.

Rule 8: Make yourself a cup of coffee.

You'll need it. The boss will want to see you in his office, first thing in the morning ...

*There are people who say that phones are unintelligent and cannot understand you. These people are fools.

The Focal Local

So apparently we're having after-work drinks this afternoon at a pub called The Local. You have to wonder, is there just one pub with this name - or are there several Locals in different locales? And is this Local a local Local, or an unlocal Local?

Matters were not helped when it was explained to me that I could easily recognise The Local, since it's name had been changed to Molly Blooms.

Possibly everything will be made clearer after a few drinks. I'll get back to you.

UPDATE! I just learned that local pub Molly Blooms is not our local The Local, although it is a local. Apparently some other unnamed local pub is The Local. What's more, according to Rachel in comments, Molly Blooms was almost always Molly Blooms, and was probably never The Local. It's a pity I haven't been drinking. Then things would make sense.

UPDATE ON THE UPDATE! It's a good thing The Local is not an unnammed unlocal The Local, or then things would get really confusing.

I just hope in my current state of undrunkenness, I'll be able to find the place.

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'The Letter j'? What the fuck's that all about?



It's not an 'i', it's not a 'y', and it's not a 'g', though sometimes it tries to be all three. It is geometrically improbable. It is a long stick balancing on a curvy base - hardly realistic. And then you've got that ball at the top. What the hell? Who gave that ball permission to defy gravity and sit up there? It's like it's saying, 'hey there, suckers, look at me, I'm soooo better than the rest of you.'
I think those people who are in charge of splitting the infinitive and determining the true weight of the epigram should redesign the letter 'j', so that it looks like this:



Yeah. Yeah, that's how things should be.

"Special Underwear"

Apparently Mormons wear Special Underwear, super underwear (wonderwear, if you will), that brings them closer to God. It's not entirely clear how they consecrate this underwear or in what ways these magic panties bring them closer to God, but it does. Whatever - it's just special, okay? Do not question the ways of the Lord.

It makes you wonder - do Mormons have different types of Special Underwear, for different people? Is there a silken range of wonderwear for naughty nighttime Mormon antics? Do they have Special Lingerie and Special Boxers? I guess that they do, otherwise it wouldn't be special Special Underwear, it would be just plain boring.

Then again, if this so-called Special Underwear was so wonderfully special, maybe self-respecting Mormons wouldn't bother wearing anything else. Then it wouldn't really be underwear, would it, because it wouldn't be under anything. It would be Special-Once-Was-Underwear. Or Special-Latent-Underwear.
And it wouldn't matter too much what variety of Special Underwear it was, either. You could see flabby old Mormon grandfathers going about in sexy (and Special) Black Bits of Lace. Or Mormon grandmothers wandering about in Special Boxers, and nothing else.

But we see NONE OF THESE THINGS on our streets, do we? I think this proves that Mormonism, like any other religion with Special Underwear related regulations, is a pack of lies.

Maybe I'll become a nudist.

Ticked Off

Dad went bushwalking the other week. A few days later, he found a lump on his back and went to see the doctor. The doctor took a look at the lump and got some nurses in to have a look at it too. Then they all stood around Dad while the doctor cut into the lump on Dad's back and took out a cattle tick.

"Did he keep the tick?" I said to Mum on the phone.
"No," said Mum. "They put it into a jar and had to send it off to Sydney for testing. Apparently, they can kill dogs, so they put him on some medication for a week."

***

Well, that's more or less how Mum told the story. Dad tells it a little differently. Every week or so he writes two or three-page, boring letters with sentences like this:

Had a quick lone lunch. Helen showed up an hour or so later. Had to rush in to the Terrace again by bike. Forgot to buy the newspaper. Really vital getting the news paper on Monday. Only way to get a decent T.V. Times. Slow for the rest of the day. Saw some suspicious looking men over opposite this P.M. Obviously measuring up the land where all those nice trees are.

God, the old fart must have a boring life. When me or one of my brothers is down there visiting him, he'll even write about us and send off the letters to us later in the week. When he's not concerned with killer cattle ticks, that is. Speaking of which, here's how he tells the tick story:

I had been worried about a growing lump on the rear of my neck. Doc immediately identified it. A cattle tick. Everyone surprised it had not much effected me. A minor operation soon removed it. I am on medication for seven days. As a side effect to that I cannot go out in the sun. I will be super sensitive to sunlight.

This is where some people might have left it, but not Dad. A couple of paragraphs later he says:

Found some contradictions in the tick information. The entomological advise is that ticks climb up vegetation and wait to catch a host brushing past. Never more that half a meter. However, the medical information states that the vast majority of tick infections in people are on the head and shoulders. That is well above half a meter.

And that's not all:

Found a medicos paper about a case. They took forty one ticks of this guy. Also ticks have killed more people than the funnel web spider. Roughly twice as many.

Makes you feel reassured, doesn't it? I'll be seeing him this Christmas - that is, if the killer ticks or funnel web spiders don't get him first.

Sentenced To Death

Dear Editors of The Monthly,

I was perusing the latest issue of your magazine when this particular arrangement of letters and punctuation met my eyes:

In his brilliant review of Edwin Williamson's biography of Jorge Luis Borges, David Foster Wallace noted: "It often seems that the person we encounter in the literary biography could not have possibly written the works we admire."

Straight away, the letters came together to form words and the words came together to form a sentence. The sentence leaped into my eyes, and before I was able to do anything about it, I understood what had just happened: the writer had made a tangential reference to one author's review of a second author's biography of a third author, in order to make a general point about two other, completely unrelated, authors. It was one of the most hideously pointless sentences it had ever been my misfortune to read, and now it sat in my brain!

If there is anything you could do to wipe the memory of this sentence from my neural pathways, I would be most grateful. I am willing to sustain a substantial amount of memory loss, or even amnesia or Alzheimers. I'm sure you understand.

Thanking you in advance,
Tim Train

Coburg - A Photo Essay

When I first moved to Melbourne, and heard about Sydney Road, I wanted to move there. Why? So that whenever people asked me, "So where do you live in Melbourne," I would reply, "In Sydney."
Well, it amuses me. Several months on, I'm living in a place near Sydney Road, which is probably as close as I'm going to get. Anyway, it makes more grammatical sense to say, "I live near Sydney Road" than "I live in Sydney Road". Who the hell lives 'in' a 'road'? So I guess things have ended up pretty well.

Sydney Road runs through Brunswick and Coburg; odd suburbs both of them. Brunswick is an industrial suburb that has in the past twenty years or so been infested by mobsters, artists, and yuppies (if they'd just stopped with the mobsters, it would have been alright.) Coburg was once home to the pleasant Pentridge Prison - apparently dubbed the 'College of Knowledge', but since has become a little gentler. Now it only turns up a couple of potential terrorists. I guess it's all part of the diverse tapestry of multicultural Australia ...

Anyway, enough talk. Here's a couple of snaps of the area that should give you a better idea what I'm talking about ...


Wildlife driving down Sydney Road.



"Dear Mum and Dad,
Wow! I've finally found it! You never need to go hungry again! It's the ultimate nut factory!

So, what will it be? Ten boxes of cashews, or twenty?

Tim

PS - Hope I'm not driving you 'nutty' with all this!"


Third poster along: they sell some interesting snacks at this store ...


Now's the time to start buying real estate. Note the decorative use of barbed wire ... *

*Note: this last photo is from the net; mine didn't come out well. Incidentally, Pentridge Prison is just across the road from the Moreland Council Chambers. What does that say about the place of local politicians in the social ladder, eh ...?

Written In Drink

Pity the Tuba

What a sad fate it is to play the tuba.



To be always playing not-quite pieces; to be lumped with bass parts in brass ensembles; to be forever playing the neglected but necessary notes to make up the harmonious whole of a composition. To be a tuba, one would imagine, would be a little like being the word 'the' in a famous and beautiful poem by a much-loved poet. Oh, people go on about the symbols, and the metaphors, and the rhymes, and the imagery - but they never stop to think about a humble preposition such as 'the': nooooo!
Lovers listen to the plaintive tones of violins; soldiers awake to the bracing call of the bugle; funerals are greeted with the solemn tones of the pipe-organ. But what about the tuba?

Won't somebody please think of the tuba?

Economic Ergonomics

Office furniture. Yeah, you know what I'm talking about. Chairs which were never meant to be chairs, stairs which were never meant to be stairs, doorways which don't let you out, and pens which you can never find.

The Ergonomic Keyboard

Although this fucker is meant to suit the natural curvature of your hand, it does nothing of the sort. It forces your fingers to stretch kilometres to reach letters that would otherwise have been easy to find. The ergonomic keyboard is actually a cunning scheme by the government to give us all carpal-tunnel syndrome. That way, we won't be able to do naughty things like watching television or writing blogs or wanking. BASTARDS!

The Computer

Sure, it looks relatively simple from the front. But at the back, it's another story - it's a mess of cords and plugs that are tangled and (as if they possessed a life of their own) will become detached for no reason, causing your computer not to work. Then you have to turn your computer around, and untangle this mess of cords - a process that takes hours, and is a little like making love to a jellyfish - confusing, unpleasant, and quite possibly dangerous.

The Adjustable Chair

This chair is meant to make it more comfortable for you to sit down during the day, by allowing you to adjust the height and tilt of the back. As a matter of fact, the chair will imperceptibly sink during the day, so that by the end of the day, your face is barely showing above the surface of the desk. Alternatively, it will suddenly drop ten feet, causing you to be sitting in mid-air for a second before thumping your bum on the bottom.
The back appears to be comfortable but is actually held up by a rigid steel spine which ensures spinal injury. Moving it forward is certainly not comfortable (it causes you to lean forward like a hunchback), while tilting it back is even less so. Also, it can sometimes, without warning, slap forward again, thwacking you in the back and forcing you into the hunchback position.

If the boss really wanted you to be comfortable, he'd simply order in a couch, and you'd do all your work off a laptop - unfortunately, these encourage pleasantly unproductive sensations, such as sloth and tiredness. ie, the boss doesn't care about your comfort at all. ARSEHOLE!

Revolving Doors

They look all fancy and schmick and technical, don't they? Actually, these bastards are the means by which the corporate world weeds out the halt and the lame from the quick and the nimble amongst their office staff. If you aren't quick enough, you are not able to duck out the doors before they close up, and are therefore forced to continue around and around in the doors, like a gerbil in a wheel, until you are found late at night and disposed of in the dumpster. But I don't care, because I'm young and fleet-of-foot. It's survival of the fittest, losers!

Stairs

It's the funniest thing in the world to watch a woman in stilettos try to struggle up a flight of stairs, but after a few floors, it just gets boring. Just put in a lift, you bums.

Stationery

If there's one thing you soon learn about office stationery, it's that it ain't stationary. Pens which are on your desk one day will mysterious disappear the next. There are several theories about this - one is that the pens disappear into another dimension, along with such things as lost socks and items of underwear. The other is, that there is some mysterious lurker on the second floor of your building who possesses a strange fetish for pens and other such objects, and that all the missing pens lie on his desk somewhere (in 'penury')*. Since this leads to gross inefficiencies in big business, whoever solves the mystery of the pens will undoubtedly become a very rich and powerful person.

*Possibly the account assistant, who has already admitted to collecting coloured paperclips in your presence. As a side note, you should remember that if she ever sends you a document held together with a brown paperclip, then you are in BIIIIIIIG TROUBLE.

Possible Characters For Novels #2

Lobelia Pintsquip


Lobelia, the daughter of Ramsay Pintsquip (a man in charge of indexing school biology textbooks) and Geraldine Fautherington-Raffles (social butterfly) is a watercolour artist of some note. Her specialty is detailed artistic depictions of the ebola virus. She has painted every stage of this deadly disease, and done a number of award-winning portraits of the disease for international figures of note. Yes, if ever you want a picture of the ebola virus from a number-one artist, then Lobelia is your man - or woman, as the case may be (and don't you dare call her anything else, for Lobelia is also a Liberation feminist, who trained in kung-fu in the Himalayan mountains with Camille Paglia).

She has also worked as a ballet dancer, rose pruner, and King's Assassin.