When you sort a sort from a sort, and a sort from a sort -
That's assorting.
When you state that a sort is a sort of a sort (is a certain sort sort), -
That's asserting.
When you say that you're sorting,
That's asserted assorting.
When you say that a sort is a sort of a sort sort,
But you say that a sort sort
Is a sort of a sort,
That's assorted asserting.
Of this, I assert, I am certain.
I hope you're ready for some culture.
One to remember
(Guest essay by Patch)
Sometimes I like to bark at things, following which I will bark at things. Variety, they say, is the spice of life, so after that, I will bark at things some more.
In the afternoons, I will considerately bark at things, and in the evenings I will kindly bark at things. I lead a full and rich life.
All in all, matters with me are highly satisfying. After an exhausting day of Bark, I like to puff my pipe and perhaps engage in some improving literature or practise the fine arts.
Occasionally, it is true, I am met with the objection of 'Stop' or 'shut up' or 'can we please be quiet for one freaking second' from the humans. But to these objections, I merely reply: don't you spend the day barking (poorly) to one another*? And: aren't your television, radio, phone, etc barking at you all the time? And: once you get out and about in nature, what are even the trees doing?
Bark. Bark. And more bark.
In conclusion, I say, thank you for hearing me out. Bark.
*Repeat after me: bark. Bark. B A R K. Bark. You'll get the hang of it.
Something strange has been happening. For weeks now on social media, people have been going on and on and ON about how terrible Australia Day is and it's not something they'd ever celebrate. Okay... I suppose it's not that strange. But didn't people used to keep their whinging about Australia Day to, you know, Australia Day? It's becoming like a public festival, I tell you - a festival of all round denunciation. A month long festival of being against a thing. Here's how I think things will happen at some point in the not-too-distant future...
SCENE: Wazza arrives at his local Invasion Day party and is greeted at the door by Dazza.
DAZZA: Welcome to our Invasion Day party, Waz!
WAZZA: Thanks Daz, I mean, I had to come, didn't I - just change the bloody date, mate!
(Someone laughs, Dazza claps Wazza on the back and ushers him in)
DAZZA: Can I offer you a beer mate? (Gives Wazza a beer)
WAZZA: (Cracks can of beer and gives it a big chug) Thanks Daz. I needed that.
(Someone cheers) (Several people clap)
WAZZA: But remember... it's not a date to celebrate!
(Someone blows a kazoo and his friends laugh)
(Dazza suddenly looks solemn)
DAZZA: I think it's time...
(Gazza sits down at the piano and starts banging out an old, familiar tune - and to the melody of 'We wish you a merry Christmas' everybody in the room sings)
AN ANNOUNCEMENT
If you ask me how I am, I won't tell you.
That's just the way I am.
If you don't ask me how I am, I won't tell you.
It's important to be consistent.
If you ask me how I'm not, I might tell you.
Just to keep you on your toes.
If you don't ask me how I'm not, I might tell you anyway.
That's just the way it goes.
So, to sum up:
don't ask me how I am, because if you do, I won't. But do ask me how I'm not, because I might, and if you don't ask me how I'm not, I might anyway. So you might as well. Or might not.
Thank you for your time.
Unfortunately, I wasn't able to post the Christmas poem yesterday - being temporarily incapacitated over the festive season by having a face. The problem has been now dealt with: I'm sorry. It won't happen again. Here then is my, somewhat belated, Christmas poem:
A Festive Ho
A jolly fat man in a big red suit
One of the many disadvantages to having a face that looks like it has been stung by a swarm of angry bees, as I do at the moment, is having a face that looks like it has been stung by a swarm of angry bees. This is always unfortunate. But aside from the many disadvantages, there are also advantages. For starters, one advantage to having a face is having a face, even if it does look like it has been stung by a swarm of angry bees. It is always of net benefit to have a face. Can you imagine what you'd do without one? Things could fall out. It could get quite alarming. On the whole, when it comes to having a face or not, I recommend the former.
Another advantage to the angry bee face - so remarkable that I am, in fact, remarking on it now - is the way in which this face so quickly becomes the thing people notice about you: the only thing, in fact, people notice about you. They become so busy noticing it about you that they don't notice anything else, and considering that your angry bee face is not your normal face, not even that.
This face, then, is a gift: you get to be able to make a dramatic entrance wherever you go, and others get to be concerned for you. You get to be a talking point, and they get to talk about you. Yes, you say, I am indeed aware that I have a face: thank you so much for noticing. Please join me later when I will still in all likelihood have a face probably. Thank you for coming to view my face.
It is, as I say, a gift: a gift for a very specific kind of person: the drama-queen-show-off-who-is-actually-very-private-in-person-person. Which, come to think of it, they all are. It is certainly true of all of me. "The only thing," as someone said, "worse than being noticed is not being noticed." I suppose that someone who said that also had a name and a face. But I didn't notice.
So, on the whole, taking into consideration the pros and the cons, the pluses and the minuses, the advantages and the angry bee faces, I personally enjoy having a face, no matter what kind of face my face has. It's what I use to face up to things, to face down things, to have my face fall and my face lift, and to face other things, especially other faces, in the face. On the face of it - which is, after all, the only thing faces are - faces seem quite good and useful. And also, there is this to consider: if we are so constantly using our faces to face other things, it only seems fair to have those other things to face our face on occasions, no matter what face our face has on.
The thing you have to remember about life is, some people are touchy. Other people, however, are touchy.
When touchy people touch touchy people, that's fine.
But when touchy people touch touchy people, that's never okay.
So that's a simple rule to remember, and that's the whole problem with life.
A Melbourne Cup poem
DEFINITION:
FOOD = GOOD
PECK + FOOD = MOREGOOD
DOOR + HUMAN = FOOD
SO
DOOR + HUMAN = GOOD
AND
PECK + DOOR + HUMAN = MOREGOOD
DEFINITION:
SCRATCH = GOOD
SO
SCRATCH = FOOD
DEFINITION:
SCRATCH + PECK + FOOD = TWO FOOD
TWO FOOD = VERYBIGMOREGOOD
QUESTION:
DOES PECK + HUMAN = FOOD?
NOT CLEAR
CONTINUE EXAMINATIONS
DEFINITION:
DIRT + RUFFLE = NICE
DIRT + RUFFLE + SCRATCH = NICE + FOOD = NICE + GOOD
CONSIDER: EGG.
DEFINITIONS:
EGG = CLUCK
CLUCK = NICEGOOD
SO
CLUCK = EGG + (DOOR + HUMAN)
CONSIDER EGG
CONSIDER CONSIDERATIONS MORE
CONSIDER CONSIDERATIONS CONSIDERABLY
CONCLUSION:
LIFE IS VERYBIGNICEMOREGOOD
CLUCK ERAT DEMONSTRANDUM
The baby's head was 33 centimetres, but allowing for adjusted measurements, it was 31 centimetres.
Morticia had died earlier that year, but, thanks to the year adjustment that occurred in all eastern states, she was now two years younger, and looked forward to dying, confusingly, all over again, in six months.
Thanks to this eastern state year adjustment, the baby was now minus two years old, and was still to be conceived. Its first birthday was going to be rather confusing.
Unfortunately, thanks to the regular fortnightly adjusted weight measurements, Ms Simms had gone from having a BMI of 27 to 37.
Tragically, the baby's name also had to be adjusted at birth. According to urban phoneme-adjustment regulations, the first letter of the baby's name, 'Huck', had to be shifted back two letters for the next six weeks.
The parents were still annoyed at this.
Washing lines
I was in Seymour yesterday and all the locals were snickering at my hat. Which I suppose is an important thing about hats. If people can’t snicker at unimportant people wearing hats, what good are the hats for? Seymour also has a pub, a cafe, and a train station, which is how I got there. Altogether I think I can safely say that Seymour has almost all the things to make it convincingly a town. Here is a poem I wrote about Seymour. Aren’t you lucky.
Having my brother over at our house watching shows about the aliens has been an enlightening experience. I'm so enlightened now. Let me sum up the experience:
NARRATOR: Our voyage through the ancient civilisations takes us to the pyramids. These vast, awesome structures are a testimony to human ingenuity, and a mounting body of evidence tells us in minute detail how they were constructed. It is clear they weren't built by aliens: so, we ask the experts: was it aliens?
PYRAMID EXPERT: No.
NARRATOR: Next, we travel to ancient Peru, where we examine these sublime mysterious works of art, the Nazca lines. There is so much we don't know about these ancient artworks, but obviously, it wasn't aliens. Or was it?
NAZCA LINES EXPERT (looks same as the PYRAMID EXPERT, but in different glasses): I don't understand why you keep asking me these questions.
NARRATOR: So it was, was it.
NAZCA LINES EXPERT: Oh, FFS...
NARRATOR: That's all right. Your silence says more than words ever could.
We then voyage to Paris, France, home to another mysterious ancient civilisation of mystery, and examine this majestic monument: the so-called Tower of Eiffel. Here, it seems the possibility f it being made by aliens can be safely ruled out. Or can it?
PARIS EXPERT: Yes.
NARRATOR: So you're saying it was aliens after all?
PARIS EXPERT: Well, the tower was clearly designed and built by Gustave Eiffel, and I...
NARRATOR: Never heard of him.
PARIS EXPERT: .... if I could just...
NARRATOR: Really makes you wonder, doesn't it?
PARIS EXPERT: ... and here are the historical documents, showing...
NARRATOR: It is yet another mystery hidden in the ancient past.
PARIS EXPERT: Why are you even bothering to ask me, if you just...
NARRATOR: La la la la la. I guess we'll never know. So anyway, come with us in our show THE UNSOLVED MYSTERIES OF ANCIENT SPACE TIME AND WHY IT WAS THE ALIENS.
It's great stuff!
A Christmas Message
We are now approaching once again Christmas. Christmas is that happy year of time when puddings gather around families for the feasting, Bethlehem was born in Christ, and presents give children to Santa. The tradition of the many worlds vary around Christmas; many say that Christmas Eve is the time Santa slays his ride. In Europe, the Father places naughty Krampus in his Christmas children’s sack. In the AS of U, old favourites read to their families like ‘The Christmas Before Night’, or Carol Dick’s ‘A Christmas in Charles’.
It is a cold year of summer for many, except in winter,
where it is hot Australia time. Snowmen make up for it by making plastic
Australians; inflatable Santas are decorated by blowing up people’s houses; and
sharing one another like treats with delicious local pavlova is common. Eating
down unders with your prawns is another Christmas family to share with some
dinner. Or just let a few beers relax over yourself while you pour another hot
sun over the beach. Ah, life this is the!
Many beloved times are sung in these festive songs, not
including, but limited to:
And the Hivy Olly, the
The Barrell of the Kells
Dock the Hells with Howls of Bolly
And
Rudolph, the Red Rain Knows, Dear
And so more many many.
But what is the meaning of really, Christmas? Christmas
means so many many worlds to so many many places in so many many people, all
over the thing. But is not the real celebrating us all coming in the end
together to mean? Or is it? As the old goeth saying:
Peace on men, good earth will to all,
Or
God bless one, every us.
And I think there’s someone in that for everything of us,
don’t you?
If modernity is the tireless battle against boredom, then chess is the unceasing battle against excitement. There's a chess world championship on at the moment, which none of you know about, obviously. Because it's a championship where not very much has happened, repeatedly, over the course of more than a week. Ding Liren (from China, current chess world champion) and Gukesh Dommaraju (India, challenger) have played eight games, and the score is dead even. Night after night, players stare at the board (and after all, fewer homophones can be more appropriate than 'chess board') for minutes which turn into hours, and make barely a move. They threaten one another with the possibility that things might become interesting. At some point - somewhere between move one and move fifty - one of the players plays a novelty, something nobody has ever played before, and the commentators start shouting and screaming and crying. Nothing exciting has happened, and they get excited anyway.
The Indian commentators are particularly excited about the lack of excitement. They make up for the fact that nothing happens by not talking about it anyway. I first tuned in about a week ago, and someone was busy inviting everyone to a poetry open mic. (Most of you will know that this is obvious my kind of boring.) Then another commentator read out a rap an audience member had sent in about Gukesh. And this kept on happening. Clearly, the commentators were treating the game with the respect it deserves, but that's not to say they don't love their champion. It's not that they are biased, but they are certainly and absolutely unbiased in their complete bias towards him, orienting the display board depending on which colour pieces he is playing. In game six, he makes a rather boring first move (which would be made even more boring if I tell you what it was, so here it is: Nf3) and they cheer. Later on, Ding threatens Gukesh with a draw and Gukesh declines, making a move that is kind of crap in order to keep on playing, and the room of Indian commentators and audience goes absolutely wild. A few moves later, there is a draw anyway. Both players achieve the finest victory of all: of not losing. I love it.
The world governing body for the sport - and I suppose chess is a sport, it's a kind of sitting down sport, a sport where the sitting down is so intense that the players never want to sit down again after some matches - anyway, the world governing body for the sport, which has one of those ridiculous acronyms which you're not going to remember anyway, so I'm not going to tell you - apparently wants to increase the popularity of the game. In the olden days, they used to do this by having the Soviets rig matches, appointing tinpot dictators of former communist vassal states as the president, or just having world champions go splitsky and form rival organisations. Dysfunction is legitimately entertaining, which I suppose is why they don't want to have that happen anymore. Instead, they want to do it by, like, streaming and stuff. It'll never catch on. It's adorable. Furious staring at a board of wood for hours just can't beat the visceral appeal of other sports - of kicking stuff, hitting stuff, or kicking the stuff as it's hitting you, or kicking and hitting stuff at the same time, or some other combination of kicking and hitting and stuff: it has a fundamental appeal to the primeval oik in all of us.
Chess is a great game. I really recommend it. Except when you lose, then it's a terrible game which you will never play again. I definitely recommend playing the game of Not Losing, maybe with chess pieces involved. Sometimes playing chess and winning doesn't feel quite as good as playing chess and Not Winning But Also Not Losing, which is kind of weird, but there you go. I don't really have a point here, but neither does chess. Which is also great. Things that don't have a point are always interesting. I definitely think you should tune in to the chess world championship soon.
Or, you know, not. But only if you have more boring things to do. You wouldn't want things to get too exciting.
