Quick brown fox seeks lazy dog to jump over all day, every day as part of a project for the entertainment and education of typists and students of grammar. No time-wasters, please - a previous lazy dog was so lazy that it did not, in fact, bother to turn up for the job. Another lazy dog decided to start jumping over the quick brown fox, which quickly made for an angry quick brown fox and an unemployed lazy dog. Whilst its initiative was appreciated, it's inability to stick to the task at hand was not.
The following candidates are also ruled out:
- Quick dogs
- Brown dogs
- Quick brown dogs
- Jumpy dogs
- Lazy foxes
- Foxy dogs
- Part-time dogs
- Poodles.
Previous experience in Administration is also desirable.
The quick brown fox is an equal opportunity employer. Please reply by the close of business, Monday.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Rhyming couplets with unlikely words
Paul Hindemith once wrote a series of pieces for neglected musical instruments, so I thought I'd do a similar thing here.
Dissent with the dissenters
Is this really antidisestablishmentarianism,
Or just another schism?
Archeological lecture
Some cultures hide their gold away in crypts.
These treasures, for example, are Egypt's.
Random statements
This soda sure is fizzy. Je-
sus loves you. What's a syzygy?
How Tinkerbell died
"Alas, because of cancer of the lymph-
nodes, Fairyland has lost another nymph."
Writer's party
One quips dryly
One hints slyly
One shouts wryly
And one is silent, shyly.
Snirtle of victory
Have you ever seen a mollusc snirtle?
I did, once. A snail outraced a turtle.
An unusual talent
Ms Megan Melson Mudgeykins, (or Megm),
If asked, could cough up large amounts of phlegm.
A polygamist's song of love
I love you two.
Get in the queue.
An important distinction
He's not nudist, he's just nude:
As nudists go, he's just a pseud.
Dissent with the dissenters
Is this really antidisestablishmentarianism,
Or just another schism?
Archeological lecture
Some cultures hide their gold away in crypts.
These treasures, for example, are Egypt's.
Random statements
This soda sure is fizzy. Je-
sus loves you. What's a syzygy?
How Tinkerbell died
"Alas, because of cancer of the lymph-
nodes, Fairyland has lost another nymph."
Writer's party
One quips dryly
One hints slyly
One shouts wryly
And one is silent, shyly.
Snirtle of victory
Have you ever seen a mollusc snirtle?
I did, once. A snail outraced a turtle.
An unusual talent
Ms Megan Melson Mudgeykins, (or Megm),
If asked, could cough up large amounts of phlegm.
A polygamist's song of love
I love you two.
Get in the queue.
An important distinction
He's not nudist, he's just nude:
As nudists go, he's just a pseud.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Do you prefer footbrawl or thugby?
My flatmate is a repository for all kinds of AFL knowledge. I was quizzing him about it the other night - there wasn't a breaking development in the game that he wasn't aware of. "Who has just been caught with drugs? Who is Essendon's new coach? What are the names of their players?" He knew it all, but how? He doesn't sit around all day watching and listening to the news. Maybe it's in something he eats?
His condition, whatever it is, is pathological. This morning the only thing he said to me was "Have a happy Grand Final Day" before bounding outside. I naturally decided to mark the event by doing what I do on every weekend, go down the street to get the papers.
The customers in the nail salon of the Coburg Mall were certainly doing good business, so evidently a lot of locals were choosing to celebrate the occasion by having their nails polished, as you do. (Maybe they were getting them polished in club colours.) Several people had club scarfs and cat hats on, and there was a brass band on the other side of the street*. And, to top things off, I had this particularly festive conversation when I bought the papers:
PAPER LADY: I hope you have a nice day today!
TIM: You too!
PAPER LADY: You too!
TIM: You too!
We could have gone on that way all day, although paradoxically, that would have made the day rather boring, not nice at all. The other customers might have got annoyed as well.
I doubt that I'll be able to rise to the depths of depravity in quite as splendiferous a fashion as I did last year, so this will have to do for now.
*Although, to be completely accurate, that brass band hangs around Coburg Mall all the time. I wish they'd go away. You there, with the computer, do you want a brass band? It doesn't matter if you don't have a mall to put them in - you can store them in the cupboard and feed them on dog biscuits.
His condition, whatever it is, is pathological. This morning the only thing he said to me was "Have a happy Grand Final Day" before bounding outside. I naturally decided to mark the event by doing what I do on every weekend, go down the street to get the papers.
The customers in the nail salon of the Coburg Mall were certainly doing good business, so evidently a lot of locals were choosing to celebrate the occasion by having their nails polished, as you do. (Maybe they were getting them polished in club colours.) Several people had club scarfs and cat hats on, and there was a brass band on the other side of the street*. And, to top things off, I had this particularly festive conversation when I bought the papers:
PAPER LADY: I hope you have a nice day today!
TIM: You too!
PAPER LADY: You too!
TIM: You too!
We could have gone on that way all day, although paradoxically, that would have made the day rather boring, not nice at all. The other customers might have got annoyed as well.
I doubt that I'll be able to rise to the depths of depravity in quite as splendiferous a fashion as I did last year, so this will have to do for now.
*Although, to be completely accurate, that brass band hangs around Coburg Mall all the time. I wish they'd go away. You there, with the computer, do you want a brass band? It doesn't matter if you don't have a mall to put them in - you can store them in the cupboard and feed them on dog biscuits.
Consonant cravings
Pardon me, stranger, but could you spare a consonant? I seem to be all out.
It doesn't have to be much. A little 'q', a spare 'v', a smattering of 'l's and 'd's left in comments sure would get me through the day.
Just a little 'b' then?
It doesn't have to be much. A little 'q', a spare 'v', a smattering of 'l's and 'd's left in comments sure would get me through the day.
Just a little 'b' then?
Friday, September 28, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
I go mad with power
Since unlocking the secrets of the internet yesterday, I have become maddened with the power of my discoveries, and am now seeking to change poetry as we know it. Find below, for your amusement or bemusement a personally customisable limerick and a haiku, an instant T S Eliot poem, and several rhyming couplets for the price of one!
Limerick
Haiku
T S Eliot
Couplet
Hello Charlie! Hello Dora!
(Cross-posted here.)
Limerick
Haiku
T S Eliot
Couplet
Hello Charlie! Hello Dora!
(Cross-posted here.)
Caution: this jar may contain traces of mastodons
In this video posted on LP, creationists argue that peanut butter disproves the theory of evolution.
"If the theory of evolution is correct," says an important-looking man wearing an important-looking tie, "When energy strikes this jar of peanut butter, it should, occasionally, produce new life. But look! No life! And aren't you glad?"
The LPers can mock all they like, but this is serious. Since accepting the theory of evolution in Australia, we could have put ourselves in grave danger. Millions of households across the nation contain jars of peanut butter, and who knows what new life forms they could be harbouring? You could go to make your kids a peanut butter sandwich for school, and a tiger could leap out at you! Wouldn't you feel silly then? And yet, if you'd accepted the theory of creationism and intelligent design like millions of safety-conscious Americans, you'd be in the clear!
Does your peanut butter contain this? If so, consult your local priest and nutritionist immediately.
Clearly, there are many things in the world that science is unable to explain. Think about that next time you buy a jar of peanut butter - evolutionist!
"If the theory of evolution is correct," says an important-looking man wearing an important-looking tie, "When energy strikes this jar of peanut butter, it should, occasionally, produce new life. But look! No life! And aren't you glad?"
The LPers can mock all they like, but this is serious. Since accepting the theory of evolution in Australia, we could have put ourselves in grave danger. Millions of households across the nation contain jars of peanut butter, and who knows what new life forms they could be harbouring? You could go to make your kids a peanut butter sandwich for school, and a tiger could leap out at you! Wouldn't you feel silly then? And yet, if you'd accepted the theory of creationism and intelligent design like millions of safety-conscious Americans, you'd be in the clear!
Does your peanut butter contain this? If so, consult your local priest and nutritionist immediately.
Clearly, there are many things in the world that science is unable to explain. Think about that next time you buy a jar of peanut butter - evolutionist!
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Review
Caz commented a couple of posts back about my habit of leaving crucial details out when I write film reviews. As it turned out, I missed the rather heavy sarcasm in her comments, but still, it was a good point. So now, as a public service, I thought I'd write the perfect film review. Or, to put it another way, I thought I'd offer my readers a chance to write the perfect film review while I sit back and not write a thing.
Five starsis five stars too many.
Screening in allshithouse good cinemas now.
Five stars
Screening in all
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Watch out! That bustle is out to get you!
A couple of weeks ago I was idly watching an opera in period costume on television when the thought popped into my head, "There's a bustle in this program." I didn't even know what a bustle was, but I was pretty sure it was in the show. It was a pretty disturbing experience - for all I knew, any moment one of the actors could be leaped upon by a slavering bustle (whatever that was) and ravenously torn limb from limb. Though, in fact, I checked later and found out that a bustle was a type of clothing.
Clothing perplexes me. I've put a lot of it on in the past few decades, but I'm still not quite sure what it's all called. (Sometimes, I'm not even sure where it's supposed to go.) Even now, I see names of items of clothing popping up in books and I have no idea what they actually are. What's a dirndl? It sounds like a random series of constonants that are missing two vowels, though, in fact, it's not. A few weeks ago David's internet boon-companion Nottlesby described to me what spatterdashes, or spats were: I promptly forgot. (They're something to do with shoes, although they are not, in fact, shoes.) Cummerbunds sound like something you go gathering in May, like nuts or strawberries. And homburgs sound like a type of regional German food (they are in fact related to the pork-pie hat). In fact, the whole area of hats is fraught with second meanings: Trilbys (a bird?), boaters (ship workers), Yarmulkes (the kid at school who aces the maths homework), beehive (apparently a hat, though why you'd want to have something like that on your head, God only knows), and chupallas (what the hell?). Then there are wimples, which sound like the sort of thing that wimps wear; and snoods - perhaps what snobs wear?
Underwear you'd think would be simple, but not so. There is perilously little difference between a brassiere and a brasserie. I'm sure many native English speakers visiting France have made the mistake of saying, in French,
"I'm just popping into the local underwear for some coffee."
Which, you know, makes some sense of its own.
And then there are farthingales (surely a type of fence?) and pantalettes (pants for hire, perhaps?). When I visited New York in the winter I was advised to get myself some thermal underwear, but the name sounded horribly alarming, as if people wanted me to wear an oven. So I just ended up wearing my trackies under my jeans.
Perhaps one of these days I'll get around to working out what all of these items of clothing are, and wear one wears them exactly. In the meantime, I'll just have to content myself with living in a world wear people gather cummerbunds in May, chase squatters out of their pantalettes, drink coffee out of women's underwear, and fend off ravening bustles at every turn. It's a dangerous world, but we all have to learn to live with it.
Clothing perplexes me. I've put a lot of it on in the past few decades, but I'm still not quite sure what it's all called. (Sometimes, I'm not even sure where it's supposed to go.) Even now, I see names of items of clothing popping up in books and I have no idea what they actually are. What's a dirndl? It sounds like a random series of constonants that are missing two vowels, though, in fact, it's not. A few weeks ago David's internet boon-companion Nottlesby described to me what spatterdashes, or spats were: I promptly forgot. (They're something to do with shoes, although they are not, in fact, shoes.) Cummerbunds sound like something you go gathering in May, like nuts or strawberries. And homburgs sound like a type of regional German food (they are in fact related to the pork-pie hat). In fact, the whole area of hats is fraught with second meanings: Trilbys (a bird?), boaters (ship workers), Yarmulkes (the kid at school who aces the maths homework), beehive (apparently a hat, though why you'd want to have something like that on your head, God only knows), and chupallas (what the hell?). Then there are wimples, which sound like the sort of thing that wimps wear; and snoods - perhaps what snobs wear?
Underwear you'd think would be simple, but not so. There is perilously little difference between a brassiere and a brasserie. I'm sure many native English speakers visiting France have made the mistake of saying, in French,
"I'm just popping into the local underwear for some coffee."
Which, you know, makes some sense of its own.
And then there are farthingales (surely a type of fence?) and pantalettes (pants for hire, perhaps?). When I visited New York in the winter I was advised to get myself some thermal underwear, but the name sounded horribly alarming, as if people wanted me to wear an oven. So I just ended up wearing my trackies under my jeans.
Perhaps one of these days I'll get around to working out what all of these items of clothing are, and wear one wears them exactly. In the meantime, I'll just have to content myself with living in a world wear people gather cummerbunds in May, chase squatters out of their pantalettes, drink coffee out of women's underwear, and fend off ravening bustles at every turn. It's a dangerous world, but we all have to learn to live with it.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Our new anti-Donald workplace policy
Got an interesting email at work today...
"Come to the barbecue on Friday!" it said, "And club Don in colours!"
Well, I don't know who Don is or what he said, but this new 'Clubbing Don' workplace policy did seem to be a little over the top. What, did he swear at the CEO behind his back?
So I looked at the email again. This time it said,
"Come to the barbecue on Friday! And club those who don colours!"
Well, that made better sense. Cudgelling those who failed to wear matching socks or who generally displayed an inadequate knowledge of sartorial colouring rules: who could fail to agree with that?
Then I looked at the email once again.
"Come to the barbecue on Friday! And don club colours!"
A feeling of calm despair and quiet disgust settled upon my soul - similar to, but not exactly the same as, the feeling of quiet despair and calm disgust that had settled upon my soul last Monday. So: this was the real meaning behind the email. It's that time of year again...
"Come to the barbecue on Friday!" it said, "And club Don in colours!"
Well, I don't know who Don is or what he said, but this new 'Clubbing Don' workplace policy did seem to be a little over the top. What, did he swear at the CEO behind his back?
So I looked at the email again. This time it said,
"Come to the barbecue on Friday! And club those who don colours!"
Well, that made better sense. Cudgelling those who failed to wear matching socks or who generally displayed an inadequate knowledge of sartorial colouring rules: who could fail to agree with that?
Then I looked at the email once again.
"Come to the barbecue on Friday! And don club colours!"
A feeling of calm despair and quiet disgust settled upon my soul - similar to, but not exactly the same as, the feeling of quiet despair and calm disgust that had settled upon my soul last Monday. So: this was the real meaning behind the email. It's that time of year again...
Sunday, September 23, 2007
It's propaganda, dammit!
I went to see Stardust today.
It's the sort of film that you might describe as, "Like The Princess Bride", if you were a publicist, or a critic, or lazy. But bugger that, publicists and critics should take these films on their own terms. (Lazy people are all right, but).
The plot is something about a star called Yvaine falling to earth and becoming a person, and a kid called Tristan setting out to find some star dust for the girl he loves. Or thinks he loves. But doesn't. (As it turns out, he's actually setting out on a quest to find the girl he loves, who turns out to be Yvaine, though he doesn't know it). You get the picture, it's a simple enough story about love and manhood and all that stuff.
The star is played by Clare Danes, because she's a star - obviously. (Hmmm). Somewhat more disturbingly, Tristan is played by Charlie Cox. (Double hmmm).
There are plenty of nice touches in this, like Robert de Niro as a gay pirate who flies about the sky in a dirigible with the rest of his pirate crew. ('It's all right, captain - we always knew you were a whoopsie!' a member of his team reassures him in one of his later scenes.) Michelle Pfeiffer also does a nice line as head of a coven of three witches, who spend their time cheerfully sacrificing animals and taking out their entrails for divinatory purposes. (None of it is graphic, but it's certainly closer to the feel of traditional fairy tales than you'd normally get from Hollywood).
It would be nice to think that, what with the gay pirate theme and all, Hollywood released this film to coincide with Talk Like a Pirate Day, which is becoming quite the tradition, but according to Wikipedia, it was first released in the US in August. Oh well. All things considered, though, this was a pretty awesome film, and I'd go and see it again at the drop of a hat. And you should too. (Though not before you see it for a first time, obviously.)
Um.... goodnight then!
It's the sort of film that you might describe as, "Like The Princess Bride", if you were a publicist, or a critic, or lazy. But bugger that, publicists and critics should take these films on their own terms. (Lazy people are all right, but).
The plot is something about a star called Yvaine falling to earth and becoming a person, and a kid called Tristan setting out to find some star dust for the girl he loves. Or thinks he loves. But doesn't. (As it turns out, he's actually setting out on a quest to find the girl he loves, who turns out to be Yvaine, though he doesn't know it). You get the picture, it's a simple enough story about love and manhood and all that stuff.
The star is played by Clare Danes, because she's a star - obviously. (Hmmm). Somewhat more disturbingly, Tristan is played by Charlie Cox. (Double hmmm).
There are plenty of nice touches in this, like Robert de Niro as a gay pirate who flies about the sky in a dirigible with the rest of his pirate crew. ('It's all right, captain - we always knew you were a whoopsie!' a member of his team reassures him in one of his later scenes.) Michelle Pfeiffer also does a nice line as head of a coven of three witches, who spend their time cheerfully sacrificing animals and taking out their entrails for divinatory purposes. (None of it is graphic, but it's certainly closer to the feel of traditional fairy tales than you'd normally get from Hollywood).
It would be nice to think that, what with the gay pirate theme and all, Hollywood released this film to coincide with Talk Like a Pirate Day, which is becoming quite the tradition, but according to Wikipedia, it was first released in the US in August. Oh well. All things considered, though, this was a pretty awesome film, and I'd go and see it again at the drop of a hat. And you should too. (Though not before you see it for a first time, obviously.)
Um.... goodnight then!
Saturday, September 22, 2007
The nude in art and the art in the nude
Written after a visit to the art gallery
Naked I sleep, and naked I rise;
Naked I eat my toast;
Naked I look through a journal or book,
Naked I fetch the bills in the post.
Nakedly nakedly nakedly naked
Nakedly nakedly nake.
I stride, nakedly, through scenes allegorical,
Nakedly strumming my lute;
I relax nakedly on the stream in my coracle,
Nakedly playing my flute.
Nakedly nakedly nakedly naked
Nakedly nakedly nake.
Naked I lead the troops into war!
Nakedly naked I am in defeat;
And sometimes, for no reason at all, I walk naked
Through the non-naked crowds in the street
Nakedly nakedly nakedly naked
Nakedly nakedly nake.
Naked I sleep, and naked I rise;
Naked I eat my toast;
Naked I look through a journal or book,
Naked I fetch the bills in the post.
Nakedly nakedly nakedly naked
Nakedly nakedly nake.
I stride, nakedly, through scenes allegorical,
Nakedly strumming my lute;
I relax nakedly on the stream in my coracle,
Nakedly playing my flute.
Nakedly nakedly nakedly naked
Nakedly nakedly nake.
Naked I lead the troops into war!
Nakedly naked I am in defeat;
And sometimes, for no reason at all, I walk naked
Through the non-naked crowds in the street
Nakedly nakedly nakedly naked
Nakedly nakedly nake.
The great Australian brain shortage
Well, now we are in the twelfth year of the Australian brain drought and there's no end in sight. People have long since ceased to ask, "Do you think we'll have any brains this year?" and "How many brains do we have left?" They have now moved on to stoic acceptance.
It is worth asking again what has led to our current brainless state. We never used to have a problem with brains! There were plenty of brains to go round: brains for all! We saw a fresh flow of new brains into our country every year, and no-one went lacking for brains. Indeed, right through the 50s and 60s, the patriotic cry was: "One man! One brain! One country!" Our brains were our own, and no-one could take them away from us!
However, it's amazing what shortages can be created with a little political will and the money to back them up. Quite soon, shortages started appearing in the nation's brain supply. Little were we to know that these temporary brain shortages would turn out to be a recurring problem in our system of brain management.
The recriminations soon began: "This country never had enough brains to go around!" was the cry of the environmentalists. They maintained that we had exceeded the natural, sustainable amount of brains in this country, and that unless parts of the population started drastically cutting back on their brain use, we would soon be in deep trouble.
Socialists, on the other hand, maintained a rigorous Brain Redistribution policy. For a short time, the Whitlam Government tried to instate a National Brain Rationing Scheme, where brains were taken from the overly intelligent and given to the stupid. "It is greedy and selfish of the intelligent to be thinking so much with their brains, when the stupid people don't get to do any thinking at all!" argued one minister. However, the stupid didn't like being called stupid, and the intelligent weren't too happy about this policy either, and it never got off the ground.
Meanwhile, the right-wing insisted that only those who could pay for brains through their own ghard-earned money deserved them. Still others insisted on opening up the free market in brainns, and privatising the National Brainage schemes set up inn the 1930s and 40s by successive governments.
For a time, we seemed to have brains worked out. The great national shortage of brains reeceded, and while there still weren't quite enough brains to go round, most people had a brain, or at least half a brain to themselves. Sensible management of brains by politicians, combined with the contribution of some private brain providers, seemed to be working. There were sighs of relief all around, and people got back to the business of thinking with what brains they had.
Unfortunately, all was not as it seemed. After ten or so years with the brain supply being more or less stable, we have fallen into the worst brain drought of our history. What has caused this
current brain shortage is certainly up for debate, but the situation has become drastic. The brain levels in all states and territories has become so low that politicians have resorted to drastic measures to curb brain usage. Restrictions on thinking at certain hours of the day have become the norm, and brain users find themselves having to conform to a number of regulations regarding size and type of brain used.
Innovative solutions have been proposed, including the construction of new brain infrastructure for all the states and territories. Our Prime Minister, John Howard, has given it the inspiring title of THE NATIONAL BRAIN DRAIN. This 'drain' would lead to a 'national brain pool', and would be able to be accessed by all Australians, irrespective of background or intelligence.
It remains to be seen whether we can finally make our brain situation stable again, but many are confident that with the good will and devotion of our political leaders, that brains can be restored to their former place of prestige in our nation, and that we can restore our previous
high levels of brains.
However, there are many who doubt this can be achievable. Recent revelations that the brain drought stretches to very high levels, and that in fact many of our most senior politicians have been swearing off brain use for just this reason, have rocked the nation. It might be possible to admire our leaders for their stoic refusal to indulge in even the most basic level of thinking, but can it be safe to run a nation completely without brains? What could the consequences be for the management of our remaining brain stocks if this situation continues?
There are further allegations that the federal Liberal/National Coalition have helped to create the national brain shortage by their unusual dietary habits. It seems certain that, whatever the outcome of these current scandals are, that the great Australian brain shortage will not end anytime soon...
Federal Minister Philip Ruddock (or possibly Tony Abbott, it's hard to tell) refused to comment when questioned regarding allegations that he had contributed to the great Australian brain shortage by eating the brains of his fellow Federal politicians...
It is worth asking again what has led to our current brainless state. We never used to have a problem with brains! There were plenty of brains to go round: brains for all! We saw a fresh flow of new brains into our country every year, and no-one went lacking for brains. Indeed, right through the 50s and 60s, the patriotic cry was: "One man! One brain! One country!" Our brains were our own, and no-one could take them away from us!
However, it's amazing what shortages can be created with a little political will and the money to back them up. Quite soon, shortages started appearing in the nation's brain supply. Little were we to know that these temporary brain shortages would turn out to be a recurring problem in our system of brain management.
The recriminations soon began: "This country never had enough brains to go around!" was the cry of the environmentalists. They maintained that we had exceeded the natural, sustainable amount of brains in this country, and that unless parts of the population started drastically cutting back on their brain use, we would soon be in deep trouble.
Socialists, on the other hand, maintained a rigorous Brain Redistribution policy. For a short time, the Whitlam Government tried to instate a National Brain Rationing Scheme, where brains were taken from the overly intelligent and given to the stupid. "It is greedy and selfish of the intelligent to be thinking so much with their brains, when the stupid people don't get to do any thinking at all!" argued one minister. However, the stupid didn't like being called stupid, and the intelligent weren't too happy about this policy either, and it never got off the ground.
Meanwhile, the right-wing insisted that only those who could pay for brains through their own ghard-earned money deserved them. Still others insisted on opening up the free market in brainns, and privatising the National Brainage schemes set up inn the 1930s and 40s by successive governments.
For a time, we seemed to have brains worked out. The great national shortage of brains reeceded, and while there still weren't quite enough brains to go round, most people had a brain, or at least half a brain to themselves. Sensible management of brains by politicians, combined with the contribution of some private brain providers, seemed to be working. There were sighs of relief all around, and people got back to the business of thinking with what brains they had.
Unfortunately, all was not as it seemed. After ten or so years with the brain supply being more or less stable, we have fallen into the worst brain drought of our history. What has caused this
current brain shortage is certainly up for debate, but the situation has become drastic. The brain levels in all states and territories has become so low that politicians have resorted to drastic measures to curb brain usage. Restrictions on thinking at certain hours of the day have become the norm, and brain users find themselves having to conform to a number of regulations regarding size and type of brain used.
Innovative solutions have been proposed, including the construction of new brain infrastructure for all the states and territories. Our Prime Minister, John Howard, has given it the inspiring title of THE NATIONAL BRAIN DRAIN. This 'drain' would lead to a 'national brain pool', and would be able to be accessed by all Australians, irrespective of background or intelligence.
It remains to be seen whether we can finally make our brain situation stable again, but many are confident that with the good will and devotion of our political leaders, that brains can be restored to their former place of prestige in our nation, and that we can restore our previous
high levels of brains.
However, there are many who doubt this can be achievable. Recent revelations that the brain drought stretches to very high levels, and that in fact many of our most senior politicians have been swearing off brain use for just this reason, have rocked the nation. It might be possible to admire our leaders for their stoic refusal to indulge in even the most basic level of thinking, but can it be safe to run a nation completely without brains? What could the consequences be for the management of our remaining brain stocks if this situation continues?
There are further allegations that the federal Liberal/National Coalition have helped to create the national brain shortage by their unusual dietary habits. It seems certain that, whatever the outcome of these current scandals are, that the great Australian brain shortage will not end anytime soon...
Federal Minister Philip Ruddock (or possibly Tony Abbott, it's hard to tell) refused to comment when questioned regarding allegations that he had contributed to the great Australian brain shortage by eating the brains of his fellow Federal politicians...
Friday, September 21, 2007
The goyim does not know...
Well, I was going to post a YouTube of Jews in Space in honour of Yom Kippur, but then it struck me that it might be disrespectful. Hmmmm...
Thursday, September 20, 2007
How to read backwards, upside down, standing on your head, or standing on someone else's head
I once knew a person who claimed to read magazines by starting at the beginning and stopping at the end. That struck me as strange then and bizarre now; but then, it's true I have a very haphazard way of reading things. It's not as if I'll take up a magazine, starting at the end and stopping at the beginning. But I will skip to favourite sections, read a column here that looks interesting, flick through to catch some of the cartoons, before going to the starting pages to read one or two of the opening news-style articles.
I mean, don't most people read magazines that way, randomly? I find it almost congenitally possible to read magazine articles consecutively. By the time I've put the effort in to read one article, and I turn to the next, I find my eye keeps on sliding off. Maybe there's a version of dyslexia that applies to paragraphs and opinion columns as well, ensuring that a magazine or newspaper will always be read in this way.
The strain is hard enough actually reading a column or an article, anyway. Everybody must skip the occasional sentence or paragraph or table or page or... well, people who skip occasionally will know what I mean. (We've got Sir Walter Scott on our side, by the way: he suggested that readers adopt "The laudable practice of skipping.") Sometimes, I've got to admit, it gets so bad with me that I actually do find myself reading an article backwards. It's not as if I actually set out to do this: I just happen to be glancing over a magazine, and my eye is naturally drawn towards the final paragraph. I will read that, and be drawn to the paragraph before it - partly out of curiosity, to see how the writer had got to that final paragraph. Thus, by gradual degrees, my eye and brain will be drawn through the article, often without having actually made the effort or commitment to read it in the first place.
I'm not sure whether it says more about me or the writers of such articles that I don't notice any difference in quality from reading them this way. But I really would be seriously surprised if other people didn't occasionally find themselves reading like this, anyway.
And reading haphazardly certainly has got something to recommend it. Think of it as a 'Choose Your Own Adventure' style of magazine reading. It would actually save a lot of time when you're reading something like a True Crime magazine or whatever; you could skip past a lot of that superfluous character detail until you get to the real blood and gore. Or something. You could even read the same article in different ways, rating it differently each time. You know: 1) Back to Front (Starts off with a great cliffhanger! Disappointing ending) 2) Skipping every second paragraph (Reads quickly, a little light on the detail).
I suppose you could go on and apply this reading-haphazard method to great works of literature, but you wouldn't want to do it to every book. Imagine what the results could be with Romeo and Juliet:
Never was a tale of more woe
Than that of Juliet and her Romeo
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene!
Though I think you could have a great deal more fun with some of the great modernist writings, which you can arrange any which-way you like and still not know what it means:
riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.
Well, that's cruel, but I'm sure a lot of people who read Finnegan's Wake found the book cruel on them as well.
But seriously: reading a novel from start to finish is one thing, but a magazine? Am I the only one who thinks this is crazy talk?
I mean, don't most people read magazines that way, randomly? I find it almost congenitally possible to read magazine articles consecutively. By the time I've put the effort in to read one article, and I turn to the next, I find my eye keeps on sliding off. Maybe there's a version of dyslexia that applies to paragraphs and opinion columns as well, ensuring that a magazine or newspaper will always be read in this way.
The strain is hard enough actually reading a column or an article, anyway. Everybody must skip the occasional sentence or paragraph or table or page or... well, people who skip occasionally will know what I mean. (We've got Sir Walter Scott on our side, by the way: he suggested that readers adopt "The laudable practice of skipping.") Sometimes, I've got to admit, it gets so bad with me that I actually do find myself reading an article backwards. It's not as if I actually set out to do this: I just happen to be glancing over a magazine, and my eye is naturally drawn towards the final paragraph. I will read that, and be drawn to the paragraph before it - partly out of curiosity, to see how the writer had got to that final paragraph. Thus, by gradual degrees, my eye and brain will be drawn through the article, often without having actually made the effort or commitment to read it in the first place.
I'm not sure whether it says more about me or the writers of such articles that I don't notice any difference in quality from reading them this way. But I really would be seriously surprised if other people didn't occasionally find themselves reading like this, anyway.
And reading haphazardly certainly has got something to recommend it. Think of it as a 'Choose Your Own Adventure' style of magazine reading. It would actually save a lot of time when you're reading something like a True Crime magazine or whatever; you could skip past a lot of that superfluous character detail until you get to the real blood and gore. Or something. You could even read the same article in different ways, rating it differently each time. You know: 1) Back to Front (Starts off with a great cliffhanger! Disappointing ending) 2) Skipping every second paragraph (Reads quickly, a little light on the detail).
I suppose you could go on and apply this reading-haphazard method to great works of literature, but you wouldn't want to do it to every book. Imagine what the results could be with Romeo and Juliet:
Never was a tale of more woe
Than that of Juliet and her Romeo
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene!
Though I think you could have a great deal more fun with some of the great modernist writings, which you can arrange any which-way you like and still not know what it means:
riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.
Well, that's cruel, but I'm sure a lot of people who read Finnegan's Wake found the book cruel on them as well.
But seriously: reading a novel from start to finish is one thing, but a magazine? Am I the only one who thinks this is crazy talk?
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Idea for mystery novel
Blood on Wopping-on-Sea
In the tiny Welsh village of Wopping-on-Sea, one of the villages two living inhabitants, Agnes Grimblegrudge wakes up one morning to discover that her companion, Marlena Olthwaite-Pipes, has been violently murdered.
Who could have committed this dastardly deed? Using her comprehensive knowledge of Agatha Christie's novels, amazing powers of deduction and delusion, she sets out to solve this devastating crime and restore the good faith of all the citizens of Wopping-on-Sea (of whom she now happens to be the only one) in justice.
With plucky confidence in her ability to restore things to rights, Agnes Grimblegrudge sets about investigating the crime scene, before coming to the devastating conclusion: it was those foreigners! Her faith shattered in the new multicultural British way of life, she resigns her membership of the Tory party, arms herself with several guns, and decides from now on to shoot all tourists on sight.
Possible sequels:
The Hounds of Wopping-on-Sea
More Blood on Wopping-on-Sea
Even Morer Blood on Wopping-on-Sea
The Terror of Greater-Wopping-on-Sea-on-the-Wold
The Greater Wopping Pudding Massacre: Amazing Stories of True Crime That Have Been Made Up.
In the tiny Welsh village of Wopping-on-Sea, one of the villages two living inhabitants, Agnes Grimblegrudge wakes up one morning to discover that her companion, Marlena Olthwaite-Pipes, has been violently murdered.
Who could have committed this dastardly deed? Using her comprehensive knowledge of Agatha Christie's novels, amazing powers of deduction and delusion, she sets out to solve this devastating crime and restore the good faith of all the citizens of Wopping-on-Sea (of whom she now happens to be the only one) in justice.
With plucky confidence in her ability to restore things to rights, Agnes Grimblegrudge sets about investigating the crime scene, before coming to the devastating conclusion: it was those foreigners! Her faith shattered in the new multicultural British way of life, she resigns her membership of the Tory party, arms herself with several guns, and decides from now on to shoot all tourists on sight.
Possible sequels:
The Hounds of Wopping-on-Sea
More Blood on Wopping-on-Sea
Even Morer Blood on Wopping-on-Sea
The Terror of Greater-Wopping-on-Sea-on-the-Wold
The Greater Wopping Pudding Massacre: Amazing Stories of True Crime That Have Been Made Up.
Hello, goodbye, hello
I started emailing and wrote my emails in the same way that I’d written letters all my life - Dear Whoever, How are you? I’m writing to tell you, etc, etc. I waited for the email etiquette sky to fall in, but it didn’t.Hello, hi, hey, g'day, howdy, greetings, and bonjour! It's certainly true that the way you open an email, introduce yourself, greet others, make yourself at home, bid others welcome, bow, exchange compliments, and usher yourself in is important. As for the person reading, are they going to be a Dear Reader, a Dear Mr Reader, a dear Mrs Reader, a Dear Ms Reader, a Mate, a Friend, and on a First Name or a Last Name basis?
Okay, I soon became adept at sending one-line replies to email and in particularly pressurised moments would skip the ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’ and not bother to sign my name. But all these years and thousands of emails later, at work I still stick to minimal conventions, even on one-liners, with a ‘hi’ at the beginning of the line and my name at the end (or an initial if time’s tight.) In my own writing mind, I make little distinction between email and letters, except for the rapidity of email.
You could go on and on with opening flourishes and starting gambits, paying respects and hailing others, and if you were actually writing a letter, you'd better make it brief, terse, short, to the point without being glib, aphoristic without being abrupt, and breviloquent without being brusque. But in an email, you could conceivably carry on all day embracing, curtsying, salaaming, namasting, shaloming, guten taging, bongiorning, nodding, and noticing, not to mention ovating, saluting, salutating, and maybe even ovulating and salivating a bit.
As a matter of fact, there are so many ways of accosting, addressing, welcoming, whistling, high fiving, shaking hands, and making an entree that you could even complete an entire email in this way, making speeches, flagging, nodding and noticing, that before long you find you have nothing else to say. Except for goodbye, cheerio, what-ho, toodle-oo, pip pip, ciao for niao, farewell, adieu, adios, auf wiedersehen, so long, and generally making your swan song, bowing out, vacating, and relinquishing your hold in the conversation. It's generally a depressing part of the conversation, and you might want to continue on for a while with your good daying and heralding and your other methods of greeting just to avoid the painful and sorrowful matter of deserting, discarding the others company, stopping, quitting, and making your valediction.
And why don't you? If you've got this far with your greetings then you might as well carry it on right to the end of your email; and heaven knows that most of the time, people don't have anything substantial to say anyway. The world would be much nicer and happier, and conversation a great deal wittier, if we just contented ourselves with exchanging pleasantries all the time, and even when it came time to leave we did that with a greeting, too. Perhaps it wouldn't lessen the pain of parting, but it certainly would allow us to put a brave face on it.
And on that note, Dear Reader/Friend/Acquaintance/First Name/Last Name/Middle Name/Nickname/Internet Nickname Composed For The Purposes of Anonymyity/Non-gender Specific Person, it's time for me to sign off.
Hello, then!
Monday, September 17, 2007
Convenience caused
Attention passengers.
The train you are currently travelling in does not have any doors.
For those who wish to alight at this station, please do so through the windows, and fall head-first, and at a comfortable pace, towards the platform.
We have tastefully lined every inch of the platform with sharp steel spikes.
Connex apologises for any convenience caused.
The train you are currently travelling in does not have any doors.
For those who wish to alight at this station, please do so through the windows, and fall head-first, and at a comfortable pace, towards the platform.
We have tastefully lined every inch of the platform with sharp steel spikes.
Connex apologises for any convenience caused.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
An application for the position of John Laws
Dear John Laws,
It was with great horror, not to mention a sense of deep grief, that I recently heard of your plans to retire from the position of John Laws. You have fulfilled the position of John Laws so well that now you are stepping down from the position of John Laws, people are beginning to ask, 'who will be John Laws now?' I confess that I wept when this question was first asked.
Allow me to be neither the first nor the last to offer you condolences. I suppose it will be a small consolation that you will continue to be John Laws in private.
However, I digress. I am writing to you today, John Laws, because I would like to offer my services to you, to 2GB, and to the Australian Public as the new John Laws.
I believe I have several skills that uniquely qualify me for the position of John Laws. I have attached a copy of my resume, and will further take the opportunity of listing my achievements here in as long winded and detailed a fashion as possible, in order to make clear to you why I am right for the position of John Laws.
- I have been steadily developing a range of controversial opinions on important matters like 'those refugees' and 'bloody communists'.
- I practise saying complementary things about Valvoline every evening in front of the mirror for two hours, and now have developed such an emotional attachment to the product that I weep whenever I think about it. (Frequently, they're so convincing that I rush out the door and buy myself several cans of Valvoline every evening - and I don't even drive).
- I have had my voice surgically altered to be as deep as possible, and practice in further deepening and enriching my tones every day by reading masculine poems like 'Charge of the Light Brigade', and inhaling 'Essence de Domingo', a nasal spray, every morning.
- I also have strong people skills, an ability to learn on the job, and experience in data entry!
- I have been called a 'Jumped-up Philip Adams', a 'wannabee Andrew Bolt', a 'pimple on the buttock of Janet Albrechtsen', and a 'Wen on the inner-nasal passages of John Pilger'. Therefore, I have strong on-the-ground experience as a number of important media identities, and I'm sure I'll take to the position of John Laws easily!
- Finally, as you are a successful radio presenter who also has aspirations to be a bad poet, and as I am an unsuccessful poet with aspirations to be a bad radio presenter, I'm sure the trade of positions will go brilliantly!
My needs are simple, modest, and easily satisfied: I am willing to work at a price of no less than $1000 per controversial opinion, rising to $3000 on the weekend.
Together, I am sure we can introduce John Laws to a new generation of listeners, and carry on the grand old Australian tradition of being John Laws on the public airwaves! And isn't that whatwe I both want?
Yours sincerely,
John Laws (in waiting)
It was with great horror, not to mention a sense of deep grief, that I recently heard of your plans to retire from the position of John Laws. You have fulfilled the position of John Laws so well that now you are stepping down from the position of John Laws, people are beginning to ask, 'who will be John Laws now?' I confess that I wept when this question was first asked.
Allow me to be neither the first nor the last to offer you condolences. I suppose it will be a small consolation that you will continue to be John Laws in private.
However, I digress. I am writing to you today, John Laws, because I would like to offer my services to you, to 2GB, and to the Australian Public as the new John Laws.
I believe I have several skills that uniquely qualify me for the position of John Laws. I have attached a copy of my resume, and will further take the opportunity of listing my achievements here in as long winded and detailed a fashion as possible, in order to make clear to you why I am right for the position of John Laws.
- I have been steadily developing a range of controversial opinions on important matters like 'those refugees' and 'bloody communists'.
- I practise saying complementary things about Valvoline every evening in front of the mirror for two hours, and now have developed such an emotional attachment to the product that I weep whenever I think about it. (Frequently, they're so convincing that I rush out the door and buy myself several cans of Valvoline every evening - and I don't even drive).
- I have had my voice surgically altered to be as deep as possible, and practice in further deepening and enriching my tones every day by reading masculine poems like 'Charge of the Light Brigade', and inhaling 'Essence de Domingo', a nasal spray, every morning.
- I also have strong people skills, an ability to learn on the job, and experience in data entry!
- I have been called a 'Jumped-up Philip Adams', a 'wannabee Andrew Bolt', a 'pimple on the buttock of Janet Albrechtsen', and a 'Wen on the inner-nasal passages of John Pilger'. Therefore, I have strong on-the-ground experience as a number of important media identities, and I'm sure I'll take to the position of John Laws easily!
- Finally, as you are a successful radio presenter who also has aspirations to be a bad poet, and as I am an unsuccessful poet with aspirations to be a bad radio presenter, I'm sure the trade of positions will go brilliantly!
My needs are simple, modest, and easily satisfied: I am willing to work at a price of no less than $1000 per controversial opinion, rising to $3000 on the weekend.
Together, I am sure we can introduce John Laws to a new generation of listeners, and carry on the grand old Australian tradition of being John Laws on the public airwaves! And isn't that what
Yours sincerely,
John Laws (in waiting)
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Belloc, the game show
People who are in the habit of finding clear moral purpose in children's literature have a bit of a problem, since the way the authors have of working morals into children's literature is often so bizarre. Take The Chronicles of Narnia, which is apparently Christian propaganda. C S Lewis gets to his Christian message by the bizarrely roundabout fashion of taking a bunch of children, putting them in a different dimension, getting them to have a tea party with a bunch of beavers, and meeting a talking lion. Christ, the Holy Ghost, or God, are never actually directly mentioned.
It's much the same with Hillaire Belloc's hilarious 'Cautionary Verses', a set of poems that he wrote at various stages of his life that dispatch children to various deaths on spurious reasons. You could interpret some of them as being simple attempts to frighten kids into obeying their parents, if the morals themselves were not so bizarre: "The moral is (it is indeed!)/ You mustn't monkey with the creed." Or, even more hilariously, "Always keep a hold on nurse/For fear of finding something worse." (This last one being a conclusion to a poem about 'Jim, who ran away from his nurse, and was eaten by a lion.' That's probably the funniest cautionary verse Belloc ever wrote, and I won't say anything more about it than that the lion's name is 'Ponto', and you should read it straight away.)
Anyway, I've been reading Belloc for about two years now - I picked up a copy at a market in Federation Square one autumn and opened it up straight away. Other people have said to me from time to time that I have a good memory for poetry; I don't know if it's true - some lines do stick in my mind, but I think this happens to everybody. But those poems were instantly memorisable - utterly simple, astonishingly catchy, and very funny; so much so that I read them again and again.
If I was in a game show like The Einstein Factor or something like that and had to pick a special area of interest, I'd totally bomb if it was in subjects I've studied, like modern music or romantic poetry or something like that. But if my subject area was in the rather specific genre of 'Hillaire Belloc's children's poetry', I'd go brilliantly!
COMPERE: John Vavassour de Quentin Jones - what was he fond of?
TIM: Throwing stones.
COMPERE: Correct. A fault that everyone abhors in little girls is - what?
TIM: Slamming doors!
COMPERE: Correct. And who was given to this furious sport?
TIM: Her name: Rebecca Offendort.
COMPERE: She was a wealthy merchant's daughter. Where did she live?
TIM: In Palace Green, Bayswater.
COMPERE: Correct. What made one gasp and stretch one's eyes?
TIM: Matilda's dreadful lies.
COMPERE: Correct. And what happened when her Aunt attempted to believe Matilda?
TIM: The very effort nearly killed her!
COMPERE: Correct. To slap the meanest and the least of creatures is a sin. But what is worse?
TIM: How much more bad to beat a beast with prickles on its skin!
COMPERE: Correct. Belloc proposed that members of the upper-class liked a certain sound. What was this?
TIM: "Like many of the upper class/He liked the sound of breaking glass."
COMPERE: Correct. What should no-one ever, ever doubt?
TIM: What nobody is sure about.
COMPERE: Correct! Answer this question to win this round, Tim! What is the moral?
TIM: It is indeed!
COMPERE: I'm sorry, we'll need more detail on that.
TIM: (Sweats a little, mops his brow with a handkerchief, pulls at his collar) Er... er... (Suddenly remembers) You mustn't monkey with the creed!
COMPERE: CORRECT! YOU WIN THIS ROUND!
So, if you learn anything from poetry, learn this much: don't get eaten by lions, don't tell lies or your house will burn down, don't slap a porcupine or your hands will bleed, don't throw stones or your uncle will disinherit you from your will, and certainly never, ever monkey with the creed. The end.
It's much the same with Hillaire Belloc's hilarious 'Cautionary Verses', a set of poems that he wrote at various stages of his life that dispatch children to various deaths on spurious reasons. You could interpret some of them as being simple attempts to frighten kids into obeying their parents, if the morals themselves were not so bizarre: "The moral is (it is indeed!)/ You mustn't monkey with the creed." Or, even more hilariously, "Always keep a hold on nurse/For fear of finding something worse." (This last one being a conclusion to a poem about 'Jim, who ran away from his nurse, and was eaten by a lion.' That's probably the funniest cautionary verse Belloc ever wrote, and I won't say anything more about it than that the lion's name is 'Ponto', and you should read it straight away.)
Anyway, I've been reading Belloc for about two years now - I picked up a copy at a market in Federation Square one autumn and opened it up straight away. Other people have said to me from time to time that I have a good memory for poetry; I don't know if it's true - some lines do stick in my mind, but I think this happens to everybody. But those poems were instantly memorisable - utterly simple, astonishingly catchy, and very funny; so much so that I read them again and again.
If I was in a game show like The Einstein Factor or something like that and had to pick a special area of interest, I'd totally bomb if it was in subjects I've studied, like modern music or romantic poetry or something like that. But if my subject area was in the rather specific genre of 'Hillaire Belloc's children's poetry', I'd go brilliantly!
COMPERE: John Vavassour de Quentin Jones - what was he fond of?
TIM: Throwing stones.
COMPERE: Correct. A fault that everyone abhors in little girls is - what?
TIM: Slamming doors!
COMPERE: Correct. And who was given to this furious sport?
TIM: Her name: Rebecca Offendort.
COMPERE: She was a wealthy merchant's daughter. Where did she live?
TIM: In Palace Green, Bayswater.
COMPERE: Correct. What made one gasp and stretch one's eyes?
TIM: Matilda's dreadful lies.
COMPERE: Correct. And what happened when her Aunt attempted to believe Matilda?
TIM: The very effort nearly killed her!
COMPERE: Correct. To slap the meanest and the least of creatures is a sin. But what is worse?
TIM: How much more bad to beat a beast with prickles on its skin!
COMPERE: Correct. Belloc proposed that members of the upper-class liked a certain sound. What was this?
TIM: "Like many of the upper class/He liked the sound of breaking glass."
COMPERE: Correct. What should no-one ever, ever doubt?
TIM: What nobody is sure about.
COMPERE: Correct! Answer this question to win this round, Tim! What is the moral?
TIM: It is indeed!
COMPERE: I'm sorry, we'll need more detail on that.
TIM: (Sweats a little, mops his brow with a handkerchief, pulls at his collar) Er... er... (Suddenly remembers) You mustn't monkey with the creed!
COMPERE: CORRECT! YOU WIN THIS ROUND!
So, if you learn anything from poetry, learn this much: don't get eaten by lions, don't tell lies or your house will burn down, don't slap a porcupine or your hands will bleed, don't throw stones or your uncle will disinherit you from your will, and certainly never, ever monkey with the creed. The end.
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