Stumblor

Signing Off

2009-01-22T04:52:00.000-08:00

Davey,

I finally reached the end of the internet; I have read every page on both sides... which is the only reason I read yours. While nothing you wrote seemed remotely interesting (although that Cath girl seems interesting, please send nude photos) I was fascinated by the concept of small celebrity heads.

Last year I was awoken one morning by uncontrollable full-body twitching, and was subsequently diagnosed with PANDAS (Pediatric Auto-Immune Neurological Disease Associated with Streptococcal); a self-limiting disease whereby a full 8 weeks after I had a sore throat, my immune system mistakenly attacked a part of my brain responsible for movement called the Basal Ganglia.

The upshot? When my 3rd neurologist wanted to see a twitch, he made me count backwards from 100 in 7s, which made me twitch with each iteration. From there I discovered that not only was Maths a trigger for twitches, but Geography, and incredibly, Miley Cyrus too.

Please find attached my therapy.

Cheers,
Will

PS The Gaslight isn't the same without you.

--

humor-blogs.com

Humping Dog

2008-07-14T09:31:00.000-07:00

People are always saying to me, "Davey, What is the perfect gift for someone who has everything, except for a bunch of useless USB gadgets that employ low brow humour for some cheap laughs?"

"That's a tough one." I say thoughtfully, scratching my chin and pondering the question with the level of attention it deserves. "Tell me, have you by any chance heard of Humping Dog?"

"Don't you mean a humping dog?" they inevitably say. The feeble minded often say ridiculous things. Prefixing Humping Dog with a derogatory 'a' would be paramount to suggesting that he is one of many dogs around that are merely attempting to hump. NOT SO. Humping Dog's influence is more ubiquitous than that, his actions far more profound. In his world, Humping Dog is god.

What world is that you ask? Well let me show you.

It is a magical world, where flowers and mushrooms grow side by side and the mountains are gigantic boobs. Where Humping Dog once trained for a whole year just to reach nipple summit. It was a treacherous climb -- his Humping Sherpa was was never found after falling head-first down a partially hidden cleavage crevasse. He was a brave and horny Humping Sherpa, and we honour him.

Even with all of these accolades, people are still resistant to the charms of Humping Dog. They ask me, "Does Humping Dog have any alternate uses besides humping your USB port?" While the stupidity of the question infuriates me, my parole explicitly stipulates that only non-violent responses are acceptable in social situations, so I answer them in measured tones. I say, "Does humping dog NEED to do anything besides that, you cretin?" They point out that he could potentially also be a memory stick that you could store important documents on while he was doing his business. Clearly logic escapes some people.

Humping Dog is not without his faults though. Having no ability to turn off or moderate his hump would be one of them. I don't need to tell you what impact his infinite hump has on the environment, nor what his disregard for it has on me. Humping Dog can be awfully selfish at times.

Another shortcoming would be his instructions, which I find particularly perturbing:

The main problem is that that I don't speak Swahili, so I have no idea what Humping Dog is trying to tell me. Are you in trouble, Humping Dog? I hope not. I like to think that he is informing me of his overall humping compatibility, perhaps sung to the theme of the Black Eyed Peas tune 'My Hump', but realistically he could be saying anything. He could be insulting my lineage for all I know. Humping Dog is impressively multi-lingual like that.

While the world of Humping Dog is indeed a strange one, and that questions regarding his usefulness are a bit worrying, I can't help but feel as though he's got it all stitched up. While the rest of us are running around in circles, having anxiety attacks over which Minogue would win in an egg and spoon race, Humping Dog is just kicking back, observing us all with bemused detachment. The guy's unflappable. He knows that while there's still one unused port out there, somewhere, he'll have a purpose in life. I envy him for that.

But then, how could you ever stay mad at a face like that:

Hump on little buddy, hump on.

--
If you too feel the love for Humping Dog, then please vote for him over at
humor-blogs.com. Money raised goes toward the Humping Sherpa orhpans, a worthy, and horny, cause. If instead you decide that you cannot be arsed, why not watch Humping Dog in some four way action? I challenge you not to be aroused.

I hate me! I'm never speaking to me again.

2008-07-10T08:38:00.000-07:00

Walking down the street in Stockholm last weekend, I noticed a distrustful looking individual coming down the path who was coveting what appeared to be a half eaten cream bun. As we approached each other, he suddenly veered off his line and careened uncontrollably toward me. Unable to avoid impact, we collided, decimating his cream bun and sending it flying off in all directions.

"Prushecta!" I managed after wiping down my front, pleased that I had remembered the Swedish expression for 'Excuse me' but still spitting it out with vehemence.

After we fled the scene I turned to Cath and rolled my eyes. "Geez," I said, trying not to sound flustered "was that guy wasted!" A keen observation if ever there was one.

"Disabled." she corrected.

"What?" Observation skills crumbling.

"You mean disabled. There was a group of them. Didn't you see the woman next to him in a wheelchair?"

Great. Like I needed another memory to feel disproportionately guilty about. So what does that make it: the speech I gave my sister at her wedding, calling my friend's mother Sandra when her name clearly isn't Sandra, ridiculing my friend's softballing skills when he was standing right behind me, and now: Disabled guy whose cream bun I ruined.

I'm sure there are more memories that I also cringe over, it's just that they only tend to make themselves known at 3 in the morning when insomnia has you by the balls.

--

If you thought this post was slightly humorous, or even downright offensive, why not embellish a little and vote for it proudly over at humor-blogs.com. It will seriously only take a jiffy, which in case you were wondering is a time unit originally specified by the Commodore 64 development team as being 1/60 of a second. You see? Now we're all embellishing a little. It's totally what all the kids are doing these days. Well.. that and crack.

Who Needs Babelfish?

2008-07-09T07:30:00.000-07:00

Corsica Resort:

Bonjour nous sommes désolés mais nous n’avons plus de disponibilités pour les mois de juillet et aout de cette année.

A l’année prochaine peut-être.

Cordialement : service réservation

Cath:

Que??

I am assuming this means that I am very desolate that you cannot come and holiday with me and Juliet, and that Annie will be very upset also.

You sound a very cool little porcupine.

She's actually a lot closer to a meerkat, but it's still an incredible observation over email.

--
The humor-blogs.com ratings system has changed, which basically means I stand a chance of umm... something or other! But you can totally help me out getting there. No, we don't need to know where 'there' is, that's beside the point. It's all about the journey, remember?

Things I would love you to do:

1. Click on that link above
2. Sign up for an account
3. Find my posts
4. Click on the big smiley next to my post to give me a vote
5. Somehow convince a large government body to invade Zimbabwe

That's it! It's that simple!

Nostralgia

2008-07-09T04:20:00.000-07:00

Work has been crazy the last few weeks. And not in a 'the Gods must be Crazy' crazy, which would be OK, but in a 'Herbie goes Bananas' crazy, which is worse because it involves a possessed car and Lindsay Lohan.

On the positive side, I've been learning about some amazing new technologies. As a programmer it's always good to keep your skills honed, which is a characteristic of work I imagine us and cage fighters have in common. New things to add to my resume are: Web Services, WS-Security, WCF, Ajax and JQuery. Conveniently my resume also doubles as a list of subjects never to bring up during polite conversation.

In lieu of putting up a decent post, why don't we peruse some of the artistry my associate Dave and I created during a happier working zeitgeist.

Yes, I realise that they are just more celebrities with miniature heads, but you have to understand how much amusement we were getting out of this.

Style tip: try to stay away from feature accessories that draw attention to your worst assets.

How much does old mate on the right there look like a Womble? If you answered 'lots', you win. The prize is knowing way too much about 80s kid shows.

Y'see, the funny thing here is you look at it and second guess whether Elvis really did have a small head all along. You wonder how he ever looked so dashing in military garb when his captains hat must have looked like a old salon lady waiting for her hair to do its thing. Don't worry grandma. It's all a trick of the eyes. Go back to lusting after his intoxicating hips, for Elvis' head was bonafide.

Another guy who is wondering whether this is the first time he's noticed it.

Dave thinks that I'm going to hell for this one. He needn't worry. My fate was well and truly assured after that whole 'calling the wailing wall a sissy' incident. Yikes.

I think it was Blakkat who asked for an Arnie one, so here you go darlin. I believe John Connor is just about to prove that the Terminator's head is smaller than a pistol. Subsequently, Terminator cries. It is a very humanising scene.

Oh my god! It's 4 o'clock! I'm totally missing Ready Steady Cook!

It was around this point in time that Dave and I got bored of just giving people smaller heads. Logical progression, smaller faces. It would have taken an army of monkeys twice as long to figure that one out.

You know why you're dancing on the ceiling partner? Because nobody ridicules your fro up there. Awww. Slings and arrows.

I dunno what it is, but I find novelty-sized things hilarious. Look at him straining to reach that ball. Don't worry dude! Your racquet covers the entire court! Just prop it up on angle and go pour yourself a beer!

At least he doesn't have to go far.

You can tell by the look on everyone's faces that they can't believe he's wearing stirrups. They're all like, woah. Stirrups. Afterwards, they can't look they're mate in the eye, just in case they got caught in some kind of Brokeback mountain situation. All the while the bull is looking upset and saying 'Why do I even bother being small. No-one notices.'

The sword. It does nothing! I like the guy behind the barricade. He's all "Ello? Ello! Et 'im with your thing! Your THING!"

That's all of them. We haven't made any more since I started acting secretively and talking in slogans. "If you can't beat em, join em!" I'll remark after being invited to lunch. That was two weeks ago. I'm not receiving as many invitations nowadays.

Recently I've started to think about a change. Not because I'm disliking the work I'm doing necessarily, but because the guy two seats down from me smells as though he selects his clothes from a decomposing pile of rags. I'm under the impression he utilises the age old clothes drying technique known as 'forgetful evaporation', although by the rank smell in the air I question how much science is relied upon during his washing cycle. I wonder if he has nostrils. I wonder if his friends do. I wonder how long I can hold out before mentioning it to the team over beers.

--
People smell of lemongrass and posies over at humor-blogs.com, which is an incredible achievement when you consider that they used to smell like a cross between an armpit and an underpass.

On Stalking Beings, and Other Things

2008-06-30T01:25:00.000-07:00

He is waiting there again as I close the security door to Cath's building. Turning around, I see that he is staring intently at my movements through his Egyptian eyes. Strange, aloof eyes that don't seem to match his patchwork coat and hairy face; an generally unkempt attire that eludes to a completely different ancestry altogether. I greet him in our usual fashion. He in turn acknowledges me by closing his eyes slightly and nodding. I decide not for the first time that this must be a pretty cool way of saying hello wherever he's from, and begin constructing other mannerisms in my head that might later be incorporated into my daily routine. Waggling my head and blinking furiously, I saunter off with a slight limp to go fetch the morning bagels.

Later that day, running back to apartment to find something, I run past him sitting at a table outside the cafe on the corner of the building. Only too late do I realise who it is I just ran by, and miss the opportunity of trying out one of my new greetings. I feel guilty for about half a second, before going back to trying to remember what it was exactly Cath had asked me to retrieve from the apartment.

It is almost dinner time. After having said goodbye to Kate and Pauley, we shake off the afternoon beers and set about the difficult task of deciding exactly which local restaurateur should delight upon receiving us for dinner. We finally decide on the pub, despite the flimsy argument of superior food quality hanging stubbornly in the air between us like a floating polygraph. Leaving again, I see him sitting once more on the step outside the apartment, and buoyed by the beer I walk up and begin exalting him with the amiability only drunks can muster.

"Kiss Kiss! Who's a pretty boy then?"

"Meow!" he spits, turning on his heel and scurrying around the corner, clearly still pissed at me for having ignored his little stunt of sitting atop a cafe table during the lunchtime rush without getting shooed.

Cats eh. You make one slip up and they're getting all retributive up in your thang as though it was some awesome 80s kung fu movie, but with notably less roundhouse kicking.

--
Stop animal cruelty NOW! by clicking on humor-blogs.com. Every click will go towards saving one defenceless bunny named Hapless George, who's never been given anything in his life except YOUR CLICKS.
Don't be selfish. George wouldn't want that.

Best Wingman Ever

2008-06-24T10:32:00.000-07:00

I wonder if he'd consider renting himself out to be my hero.

--

humor-blogs.com

Learning: No Longer Just for Sissies

2008-06-20T05:51:00.000-07:00

It has been a week of revelations for me.

Good friend and fellow blogger The Irish Dreamer initiated a nightmare last Friday in a scathing post that split the Irish blogging community in two. Considering the subject of the post I'm not really surprised, and although I personally don't agree with her method of critique (and also have the impression there's more to her frustration than she lets on), my heart goes out to her; she is quite obviously reeling from being the instigator of what appears to be a very deep rift within a group of people she not only cares about, but works extremely hard to be a part of. She's in San Sebastien now, so happy holidayin' darlin. Pack all your troubles in your old kit bag and smile.

In my part of the world, a post yesterday that I had intended to be a flattering and humourous portrait of a dear friend drew completely the opposite reaction when she read it. She was embarrassed, hurt, and asked that I take it down immediately. Despite numerous apologies and attempts to explain that my intentions were not to ridicule her in any way I garnered no further reply. I hope that I haven't lost a friend over what I arrogantly presumed was an innocuous ramble.

Yesterday afternoon, sitting on the front porch in the sun and trying to digest the paper I realised that I had been reading over the same paragraph for last 15 minutes. Not that bond financing wasn't inherently fascinating to me, it's just that sometimes minds tend to have a mind of their own. Particularly mine.

Unlike the Exiled Dreamer, I've always shied away from getting too personal on these pages. Keeping people at an emotional arms length and addressing them through the fogged lens of humour is a great deal easier for me that trying to get people amused by the common facets of my life. But I realised yesterday that this goal of light-heartedness has blinded me to a very simple truth -- people generally don't like being the butt of jokes. No matter how well intended the joker is.

Unfortunately, it seems that I've learned this lesson the hard way. Hopefully, given enough time to discredit me sufficiently, my friend will stop being angry and decide that actually, I'm an okay guy. Perhaps I could speed up the hug train with the prompt delivery of some flowers; I read somewhere that apologies to girls are made easier that way. Mind you, I also read somewhere that European wasps taste like pine nuts, which is incredible when you think about what they had to go through to find that out.

"Mm, this is a lovely pesto."

OR IS IT.

Regardless of the outcome, I decided that for the sake of avoiding hypocrisy I should reverse the looking glass every now and again. But won't that just make you look really, really small? I hear you ask. Perhaps. My understanding of physics is such that anything is possible. It's a big world out there kiddo, and looking glass theory is only the beginning. Next week we could be talking binoculars. Zip Zap.

So, expect a few more posts that might not be so funny. Heck, they might not even be interesting. But they'll be about me. Me and, you know, anyone I see on the bus who looks weird. Because for me, the joy of writing comes not through the fluid expressions of an instinctual linguist, but in the twists and turns of a bumbler who has no fucking idea what he is doing.

And I don't expect that is ever going to change much.

--
Quickly plummeting down the charts at humor-blogs.com. Things are considerably worse in Darfur though, so it's good to have a bit of perspective on the whole thing.

He's the Tall, Silent Type

2008-06-06T01:39:00.000-07:00

"I Married the Eiffel Tower" was on Channel 5 the other night. I know. Best name for a TV show ever, right? After the initial lead in, the producers could have pretty much shown me 30 minutes of static followed by someone burping and I still would have declared it the most amazing show on television. I mean really. Married to the Eiffel tower? Who on earth has that much imagination? When I'm drunk sometimes I'll draw a picture of a fighter jet squadron attacking Godzilla, with people down the bottom on fire and getting hit by flying debris and stuff, but I would never think to marry that debris. Who marries debris?

One young lady does, and she goes by the name of Erika La Tour Eiffel. I have no idea where the 'la tour' bit came from -- I expect she was just trying to add some extra Frenchiness, you know, to make the whole thing less weird. Her sexual orientation is described as 'objectum sexual', which is a term that was made up to classify people who are sexually attracted to inanimate objects. In this case, towers.

I've drawn a diagram for those people having trouble keeping up:

Figure 1.0 - Objectum Sexual Love Graph

Now I read on a toilet door once that it's not right to make fun of people who are different, so let me just preface the following remarks by saying that I am truly, truly in awe of this raving lunatic. Fancy having to acquire zoning permits just to get a bit of late night action! Incredible.

What I wanted to show you was the original article that this programme was based on (or the other way around, I forget). I cut it out from the quality magazine 'Reveal', a self styled exposé rag which is a fantastic read so long as you are interested in either Amy Winehouse or the effects of cellulite. If you're not in fact interested in either of those things, then frankly I'm a bit concerned about your ability to assimilate.

I actually really admire her willingness to broadcast her weird sexual proclivities to all and sundry. Especially sundry, because I don't know who sundry is and unknown things are scary. It must take some real guts to cash in on a weird sex story, cheapening your entire relationship and rendering illegitimate your demand for acceptance. I totally admire her for that. What I don't admire her for is that tattoo of the Eiffel tower between her boobs.

Ewww.

Betcha wish I didn't point that out huh? Yeaah, me too.

I love this article though. It has some of the greatest comedic gold I've ever read anywhere ever as far as I can remember. Allow me to draw your attention to paragraph 7.

The Space Shuttle Columbia? Priceless! If you ask me, the Space Shuttle Columbia just sounds funny. "Mum, Dad, I'd like you to meet the Space Shuttle Columbia."

Of course, young love doesn't last forever. Her romance to the shuttle burned out around about the same time the shuttle did, which was upon re-entry in 2003 killing all seven astronauts on board. It's hard to pick up the pieces after something like that.

Now, some people might say that she was only interested in the shuttle for it's uncanny resemblace to.. a flying mongoose. But they'd be wrong. She loved it because it totally looks like a giant wang. Squint your eyes up a bit. Theeere you go.

Hold up, I'm starting to see a pattern here.

They're..

all..

grey.

I have no idea what that means but I'm sure it's profound. Profound and sexy.

Oh my. What was her pet name for the Space Shuttle Colombia I wonder? Rod? Shaft? Outside of the fact that her lover's names sound as though they were plagiarised from a porno book store, you've really got to hand it to someone who obviously has her priorities for love sorted out:

1. Must be phallic symbol
2. Must be inert
3. Must have telepathic connection with

They didn't do particulary well at archery, and I'm not surprised. To me, the whole relationship seems like a conflict of interest. Think about it: I seriously doubt whether Lance would help you win an archery contest if he was paranoid that you were going to cheat on him with the winner's trophy. I've been around enough sporty love triangles to know that jealous sporting apparel makes for some pretty uncomfortable change-room dynamics. Ditch that bow girlfriend. Find yourself a nice, non-possessive airgun instead.

Anyway, that's it for me. There's really only so long you can talk about this stuff for. You start to feel a bit ensconced in the subject matter, and just between you and me, the laptop has been shooting me pensive looks for the last five minutes.

He needn't worry. I've always been a Mac man myself.

--
If you correctly guessed that my ~~entire post~~ last joke was in poor taste, I'd suggest you go to humor-blogs.com. It's a happy place where people are free to love whatever objects they choose. Shoes, bikes, whatever. People describe them as smelly hippies, but by god; If getting sexual gratification from a George Foreman grill is hippy, then flower power me up baby.

Notes to Self

2008-06-03T09:53:00.000-07:00

When you open an axe store, open it in some backwater hole and call it "Better axe your Mother". Feign surprise when people axe you why they need permission from their mother to buy an axe.

When you get a pet pig, call him "Hamlet".

When you get a pet polar bear, call him "Penfold", which although traditionally being a name attributed to Danger Mouse sidekicks is still a good name for a Polar Bear I think.

When you procure an apple cider company, GM the apples to contain tobacco and then call the result "Tobapple". It will be thoroughly addictive, and you'll make millions but then feel bad about it. Eventually Julia Roberts will sue your fucking ass.

When you get around to starting your Skid Row tribute band, call it "Skid Marx". Naturally you should play lead guitar and get all the babes, who'll eventually leave you for someone younger and hipper and whose band doesn't have a name that honours poo residue and glam rock in equal measures.

When you get a pet dog, call him "Cucumber", or "Cuke" for short; because then nobody would be as cool as Cucumber. He'd be a border collie or a German Shepherd, because those dogs rule.

--
Go and tell humor-blogs.com your wildest dreams. Please? I get a vote if you do, and that will make my dreams come true. You'd be like my dream weaver, you ol dream weaver you.

Image Ideologues

2008-05-28T10:08:00.000-07:00

Elections. A fear peddlers paradise. An avenue for liars, muck-rakers and dog-waggers to blissfully engage in the manipulation of the masses. I find the whole process utterly depressing, not to mention extravagantly wasteful. But besides the excess, the lies, and the megalomania, the very worst aspect of new-era campaigning to my mind is the unwavering focus on the negative.

Take the upcoming American presidential election for example. Since Hilary was asked politely to leave after overstaying her welcome (not to mention drinking everyone else's beer), McCain and his cronies have been cranking up the Obama rake-o-meter, taking pot-shots at everything from his lack of experience to his alleged willingness to have an open dialogue with terrorists.

Accusations like this seem to blatantly ignore the fact that the current administration's no dialogue foreign policy (which McCain openly intends to continue with) have been a proven disaster with respect to keeping suspect powers in line. This policy, in my opinion, would be a bit like expecting someone who doesn't like you very much to quit smoking simply by telling everyone else besides them that they smell like the ashtray of a long-hauler. Then, you know, attributing them to some evil axis thing you had a dream about once.

What I find most distressing about this recent round of campaigning is McCain's assertion that Obama is trading solely on aesthetics. I mean, I guess I should expect some level of image attack coming from a guy who looks as though he shares a weekend wardrobe with Sargeant Slaughter, but there was something else that bugged me about this. I couldn't put my finger on what I found so hypocritical about it.. until I opened the paper last week.

Inside I saw a photo of McCain riding in a BlackHawk helicopter somewhere in Iraq.

It looked normal enough, to the untrained eye. But to my heightened sluethy senses, I could see that the image had been PHOTOSHOPPED. Egads!

I couldn't understand why... what on earth were they trying so hard to cover up? I knew that I wouldn't be able to rest until I found out the answer.

After days of searching, I finally caught a break. Hidden away behind JavaScript comments in the source code of the 'Girls Gone Wild' site (I like, totally swear it was the non-members section) I found THIS:

ahhh HA! I KNEW it. I totally knew it. John McCain is a clown fearin', doily nose blowin', nancy boy. Geez louise this was going to blow the entire caucus apart. Assuming I could determine exactly what a caucus was between now and talking to the media, this was going to be big. Tom Hanks big.

UPDATE: For some reason, the Obama campaign office has been ignoring my calls. I guess their machine is broken or something. It really shouldn't be too long now before I'm regarded as a left wing pin-up boy. Aaaany day now.

--
More half baked political diatribes over at humor-blogs.com. If you mention my name you get a free 'Bush is my Bitch' sticker plus a two-for-one at Wendys.. whatever the hell that means.

Death Defying Metal

2008-05-26T06:04:00.000-07:00

Even if you:

have lost your lovely hair, so that now you resemble Lando Calrissian's cyborg sycophant

think that Levi 501 red tabs are the most rock-n-roll jeans ever made

suffer from nappy bum

wear your white Reebok cross trainers every day you're not 'workin for the man'

think that considering how inconvenient pockets tend to be, its surprising more people don't use bum bags

Even if all of these things sum up the person you've somehow become over the last 10 years..

..Never, ever, ever stop loving Iron Maiden.

--
The sickos over at humor-blogs.com listen to Bulgarian Two Step. On the count of three, go over there and ridicule them till they whimper. One, two..

Red Harian Nation

2008-05-22T10:31:00.000-07:00

As we shuffled slowly across Victoria Park, I chatted tentatively with Colin in the manner of new friends. He seemed like a great bloke, happily dispensing conversation that drifted quickly away from the stagnant topics we were forced to begin with. Luckily we had his imminent wedding to discuss, which was always going to give us a base camp from which to go foraging. I was looking forward to the wedding; excited to be visiting the Shetland Islands for the first time and secretly hoping to see a plethora of miniature ponies, hopefully being ridden by miniature monkeys. I decided after some deliberation to keep that information to myself; I had learned the hard way that some people react strangely to flights of fancy involving equidite riding simians. Particularly small ones.

The group arrived at Victoria Park Pavilion. Colin and I stood around trying to look like men while the girls busied themselves poking Amy's two year old son Ruban. The little ginger haired chap wore the expression of someone who simply couldn't fathom why everyone was still hanging around being boring when they could instead be at home watching Pingu on repeat. Not getting the reaction they were looking for, the girls continued to prod.

Remembering that the guests had been invited to attend a dancing class a few nights before the wedding, I asked Colin about it. We wouldn't be able to attend and I was loathe to miss it: unless traditional Scottish dancing shared some kind of similarity to Axl Rose's hip sashé, I was going to be in a lot of trouble.

“So I’m a bit worried that I won't be able to remember how to strip the Willow.” I confided.

It was true. The last time I tried I'd lost the group I was dancing with on the very first change. My partner pretended she didn’t mind, but I could tell she was upset. I could plainly see that to her, failing to strip the Willow was paramount to contracting an odious yeast infection. At the time I felt no humiliation over my error. After all, I wasn’t even sure what the Willow was.

“Not a worry mate.” said my new ginger haired friend. “Getting it wrong is all part of the fun. In fact, Céilidh dancing was invented so that Scottish men had an excuse to beat their women.”

An uncomfortable silence formed between us. A coyote howled in the distance.

“That’s a joke, right?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Oh good. Just thought I’d clarify.”

“When you didn’t laugh I thought uh oh. Now he’s going to think I’m a wife basher.”

“Nope. Comedian. Got it.”

But I didn't get it. I was no closer to realising my goal of appropriate Willow stripping. So, lacking the necessary technical know-how to pull off a barn dance heist I settled on a compromise: As long as I could get through the night without falling over and revealing the darkside of my kilt, I would consider it a win.

Sometimes, when I feel low, I go and try on the wedding dresses over at humor-blogs.com. It's comforting to know that I look good in a taffeta veil, even though I'm destined to always have the hips of a bridesmaid.

Slebs

2008-05-19T01:31:00.000-07:00

We take team bonding very seriously at my company. It's not that we want to play network car racing games every lunchtime or stay for that extra pint on a Friday night; it's more of a necessity. You see, when you work in an industry where your very safety balances on a knife edge, you have to know that Goncalo 'Battlestar Galactica' Pereira has his wits about him, and that the guy who always smells of Doritos who you call Paul but who probably isn't called Paul is a man of his word. What I'm saying is you have to know that pseudo-Paul has your back, and that you have his. That's the life of a software developer. We don't expect people to understand.

Which is why the other Dave and I invented this new game called Slebs. Slebs stands for 'Celebs with small heads'. The game is cunning in its simplicity in that you have to photoshop a famous celebrity so that their head is smaller. Then you send it to the other person so that they laugh and hopefully get lambasted by someone of authority, or at the very least get some derisive looks. It's a great game. Here, let me show you:

Sleb 1 - Hulk Hogan (dave)

I was always a bigger fan of Andre the Giant. But it had nothing to do with The Princess Bride, I swear. Anybody want a peanut?

Sleb 2 - Mr. T (me)

Sleb 3 - Rocky (dave)

Look at the shorts. That's attention to detail right there kids. That's how we beat the Russians. Some might tell you it was economics, but they'd be wrong. It was shorts detail.

Sleb 4 - Han and Chewie (me)

If I had a small head, I'd try and look all unperturbed about it too. I'd be all.. "It's coool man, just chillin with my big dog and my small head. It aint no thang."

Sleb 5 - Bill and Hillary

Sleb 6 - Big Bird

Check it out, I even made Mr Hooper look all uncomfortable with his upside down frown and whatnot. Ahh Hooper. Never could handle a bit of malformed bird head.

Sleb 7 - Jon Bon Jovi (Dave)

For all you guitar players, look at his chord hand. It's not a chord!

Bon Jovi is mediocre -- You heard it here first.

Sleb 8 - King Kong

Could you ever love me? Even though I'm a big monkey? It's the head isn't it. You don't go for dudes with disproportionately sized heads. *Sigh* I needs a banana.

More people with smaller heads than you would care to look at over at humor-blogs.com. You know what they say about small heads though, right? Small hats. Very small hats.

Old Man BMX

2008-05-14T04:44:00.000-07:00

The other day when I was walking down Well Street to grab the paper a really old guy whizzed past me on a bike. While this is nothing that usual, what caught my eye was that he was dressed head to toe in a fluoro Kappa tracksuit, wearing a huge gold medallion and backwards cap and that his bike was a hotted up BMX.

"Woaaah," said my very impressed internal monologue. "He'd be amazing for the blog. I could explain that he was a perfect example of what you would look like if you'd just woken up from a 60 year coma caused by a BMX accident. I'd need a picture of him, so I could say that I work for BMXing Australia and that I was doing an article on the implications of wearing incontinence pants while freeriding. Hopefully he won't ask for a card, but if he does I'll just say that I've already given them all out down at the Sunny Vista estate and that he could grab one down there from Beryl if he liked, so long as he didn't ask about her recent divorce. 'Yikes' I would then say, for effect."

It was brilliant.. until I remembered that:

a) I didn't bring my camera
b) it had taken me two hours to make up the joke about the coma
c) the old guy was long gone

I was left feeling vaguely uncertain, as though I'd somehow invented the entire scenario in my head; just like in the Labyrinth where that chick wakes up and can't believe David Bowie could actually be the head of the muppets, while at the exact same time have such enormous hair and bad dress sense.

Paying for my newspaper, I cautiously asked the lady behind the counter whether she had seen any old guys getting around today, you know, like on a BMX or something. She turned her head and looked at me out of the corners of her eyes; the way people do when you walk into a bookstore and ask if they have any other books in a similar vein to 'The Notebook', because you're on a bit of an emotional roller-coaster right now and that book made you feel as though you had something to live for and you have every intention of keeping that buzz going, man.

"Forget it." I said quietly and walked out, not collecting my change. Then it occurred to me that the old guy and the paper lady probably have a racket going and are taking over the world, 20p at a time.

I'll find you, geriatric BMX bandit. And when I do, I'm taking the best damn picture of you the world has ever seen. And then I'm taking my 20p back. I'm taking them all back.

More tales of delusion and grandeur over at humor-blogs.com. Please click that link for me? It helps me out a lot while at the same time helps starving kids in that place.. overseas. The dusty one. It's totally win win.

World Tour of Burger Establishments

2008-05-13T01:34:00.000-07:00

With thanks to Charlie

We live in the United Kingdom, which enjoys a fine culinary history of hastily delivered dining. Not only do we have McDonalds and the Colonels Fried Chicken, but we even have a place called PFC (the P stands for perfect, although I assume its in a 'love you just the way you are' kinda perfect).

The king of the hill, so to speak, has always been the greasy tarmac known as Burger King.

United Kingdom

Which got me thinking. Are we alone in our enjoyment of burgers that have more than cheese than common sense? What do other countries partake in when it comes to foodstuffs that even mould tends to avoid?

I decided to find out.

Germany

Monaco

Japan

United Arab Emirates

Vatican City

That's all we need; A burger joint run by people who for 2000 years have traded solely on guilt.

At least it'll be convenient in the event of needing your last rights read out.

Ever get the feeling someone is watching you?

2008-05-12T01:38:00.000-07:00

Dramatic Lemur

Dramatic Chipmunk

Allow me to take this opportunity to retract any statements I may have made that may or may not have suggested that YouTube was inane and/or pointless. After viewing all of the available evidence it seems clear that I was wrong.. so very, very wrong.

Even more inane banter coming soon. It's Monday, and the weekend was pretty, so cut me some slack. Or give me a beer. I'm easy either way.

While They're Young

2008-05-08T04:40:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine Ben has a little brother who has just started going to primary school. Alongside learning about the wonders of numbers, letters, and Transformers, he has also been exposed to a variety of new social structures. Specifically, he's started bringing home the sailor talk.

Unfortunately for him the lesson plan for discussing the different applications of the verb 'to ho' falls a bit short around the playground, which leaves our wee protagonist a bit confused most of the time.

"Ben, what does gay mean?"

"What do you think it means?"

"I don't know."

"Why do you ask?"

"Well all the kids at school call me gay. And each other. That call everyone gay."

"What do they think it means?"

"They don't know either. Their brothers call them gay."

Lo, another generation indoctrinated into sexual ambiguity.

I don't wanna start nothin, but Humor Blogs has been asking difficult questions about your sexuality too. Better go there now and set them straight.

LOLCets

2008-05-07T09:49:00.000-07:00

Overheard on the train back from Brighton:

"You know Mery's cet? Yeh, the fet one. Wull it got run over by a car end lost ets tail. Et must heve bin bed, because now et kearn't crep!"

"Hey?"

"Mery's cet. Et kearn't crep! Et'd do my hid in."

A very tired Cath rose grumpily from my lap, not being able to contest any further with the tales of feline constipation. "Mery's cet is doing a lot of people's hids in today." she explained to me, and at least 3 other people within earshot.

Kiwis. As ubiquitous as Australians, but just a smidgen noisier.

iPhone called. Wants its tee shirt back.

2008-05-02T06:48:00.000-07:00

I've always been quite amused by the arrogant pushiness of the new iPhone marketing. "Say hello to iPhone." it demands, probably interrupting the conversation already going on around it. You politely ignore it and carry on talking, pretending not to hear. You will meet the iPhone in your own time, perhaps after it buys you a few ice-breakers.

Only one problem. Marketing senses your reluctance and reaffirms its request for a more formal introduction. "Say hello to iPhone." comes the more forceful entreaty. "Today."

Golly.

"Oh, right." you stutter, a little embarrassed. "Whatup iPhone?"

Que a ten minute diatribe on the Google Maps 'zooming' feature, lightly sprinkled with Macy Gray worship. You inwardly curse your inability to deal with socially uncomfortable situations and wonder what the end of your friends amazing anecdote was. How did he manage to retrieve his underpants from the mouth of that polar bear? Curses.

This situation is not uncommon, and it only seems to be getting worse. For instance, have you seen their new marketing campaign?

Brazen, to say the least.

Still want one.

Stumblor Guide to: Calling in Sick

2008-04-28T05:25:00.000-07:00

The world of falsified sick-leave has been in a bit of a creative slump recently. People just don't seem to care anymore. While I'm sure that a mixed kebab at three in the morning probably didn't help your overall well-being, calling it food poisoning is just lazy. Eight tequila shots and the accidental drinking of an ashtray should prompt you to invent whimsical ailments, such as Mexican Grippe, or tar infused stomach acidity. While I salute your propensity to party, I naysay your ability to coin decent excuses.

But I understand. I appreciate that finding a believable affliction first thing on a Monday can be a bit of a bogus ride for all you 24 hour party people, and that googling in the hopes of finding one is not entirely dissimilar to actually going to work in the first place. I get it. So, I've decided to help. Altruism I think they call it.

Below are a list of underused scourges of the body that are entirely original, believable, but most importantly, temporary. Road test one of these bad boys next time you wake up in a ditch on a school-day, praying like crazy for a head that wasn't the ill-gotten gains of some very questionable robot dancing. I know I will.

Smoke Inhalation. Particularly useful if your voice sounds like you've been at a nail gargling party hosted by Janis Joplin and Eartha Kitt.

Altitude sickness. More effective if you first grow a beard and make sure to magic marker a few digits before going into the work the following day. Remember not to give any credit to your Sherpa, as you will lose all plausibility as a mountaineer.

Love Blindness. Difficult to argue the viability of a day off work using this one, so be careful. On the plus side, it should clear up in a day or two; considering you can hardly even remember what she looks like.

The Sweats. A very real affliction apparently, which can be brought on by plane flights, diet allergies, and the two o'clock Monday morning realisation that you left the office unlocked all weekend.

The Runs. An oldie but a goodie. The greatest thing about runny poo is that no-one wants to talk about it, so make sure you go into excessive detail. Keeping in mind the common knowledge that no-one who wasn't genuinely sick would discuss the frequency and shade of their bowel movements, this technique should see you home and (figuratively) hosed.

Growing Pains. Nothing to do with calling in sick, I was just genuinely interested in what became of Kirk Cameron. I miss him.

Summer Sale Madness. You may need a bit of panache to pull this one off. My recommendation is to mumble the first bit, place emphasis on 'madness' and giggle uncontrollably during any conversation lapses.

The Bends. Take a snorkel to work the next day, and if anybody gives you lip, just get disproportionally irritated and reply: "Well I WOULD expect that coming from someone whose blood is oxygenated correctly!"

Better Your Metaphor

2008-04-21T08:33:00.000-07:00

I'm working on some other projects this week (yes yes, I'm very busy and important), so to keep us occupied and off the streets I decided that we could all participate in the brand new Stumblor Better Your Metaphor activity.

Chosen battlefield: 'Busier than a'. See Jess and my IM correspondence below for an example:

Davey: Are you busier that a unicyclist at a tightrope convention?
Jess: Yes dear, I'm busier than a thumb twiddler at a boredom junket.

(I conceded hers was niftier)

Yours: [Submit yours and you could gain Stumblor-wide notoriety!]

Submissions will be judged on character and originality, meaning that people who submit one-armed miners or one-legged ass-kickers, riverdancers or dance dance revolutionaries will be scorned menacingly. In fact, no amputees at all. They freak me out.

Entries in the comments please. I'm expecting big things from Milly-Vanilly, she's got more metaphors than... most people.

Energy equals.. umm.. Multiplied..

2008-04-16T15:52:00.000-07:00

Soooo excited about Mariah's new album:

Things I would like to ask Mariah Carey
By Davey

Who was the famous physicist responsible for your new album's namesake?
What does the variable c correspond to in that particular equation?
What is that round white thing in the sky when it's not day?

That last one is in there just to throw her. I'm pretty sure her publicist would have prepped her for the other two.

Dear God, why Me-me? Part 1.

2008-04-11T02:04:00.000-07:00

Ok, it seems there is no avoiding this meme thing. Eleanor Bloom and the blogger formerly known as Milly Moo are only too delighted to push the format, and although it all feels scarily reminiscent of being passed 'So, who do u like? Pass it on.' notes in Mr Clews' History class, I must be pretty convincing in my assurances of participation because the requests keep rollin' in. Heavens knows why; I'm lying through my teeth.

Lying is a bit strong. It's more like when you have every intention of taking out the garbage right up until the point where your house starts smelling like fish. Which is strange because you can't remember having recently eaten fish. Considering that's about the best simile I have ever come up with, it really is a wonder why people are requesting me to write more. Perhaps they're suckers for punishment, who knows? People's preference for bdsm is none of my hoo-ha.

So anyway. I've got like three memes to do. Don't worry, ye of little attention span; I'll totally fudge it. I've got a plan.

Meme 1 -- Earliest Memory

My sister used to be a massive fan of Barbie; an anomaly among children in a district that was more used to rearing cattle-rustling femme fatales and World War I flying aces (in the case of myself). Many Barbies and their ill-pink accoutrements were purchased for her growing collection. Along with the pink Cadillacs and obscenely long maned ponies of fluttering eyelidded virtue came packaged many Barbie-related information pamphlets coaxing the world's future cheerleaders into joining the latest Shopping Mall Appreciation Society, the Cookie Bakers Council, or some other no doubt worthy NPO.

Attracted to the vibrant pink paper, I seized one of the Barbie fan club applications. I managed to get the gist of it through the patient explanation of Mum, but then promptly forgot about it; probably because it had very little to do with planes, pilots, or things that flew.

A few months later, Mum found me in my bedroom at one o'clock in the morning bawling my eyes out. Apparently I had suddenly realised that we had missed the cut-off date for sending in the application, and although I wasn't sure what prizes I had missed out on, if any, I was pretty certain that they would have been great, and that I would have liked them. A lot.

Before we all get carried away with the implications of my being heartbroken over not getting into a club for girls, let's first examine the alternative explanations. Personally, I think this says more about how much importance I place on the punctual submission of documents. At least it would, had I any semblance of punctuality. Which I don't. Punctuality issues notwithstanding, I still think that this story shows that from an early age I liked to while away the twilight hours conjecturing and pondering. About plastic dolls, sure, but I bet you I was just thought they were GI Joes with 60s haircuts. And frankly, that level of zietgiest understanding shows merit, and not you or my twice a week, 80 pound an hour psychiatrist is going to tell me any different.

That's Eleanor's done. Milly's next, then Eleanor's other one. Will the pain never stop? Yes, indeed the pain will stop; in just two memes time. Quit yer bellyachin.

When Good Books Turn Bad

2008-04-07T04:06:00.000-07:00

[two weeks ago, via Stalkbook]:

"Hey David,
Long time no hear lol.
Hope you remember me I have change heaps [sic] ,
I think for the better [sick].
Hope to here [sic] from you."

Thought process: Who the fuck? Ignore.

[one week ago]:

"I really thought you would of least said hello back thanks David"

Ok fine. Doris, take a note:

(ahem)

Dear school chum,

Delighted upon hearing the news that you have improved for the better over the last 15 years. Ignoring the fact that you sound creepy, possibly to the point of boiling bunnies, I am curious as to why you are under the impression I am indebted a hello to you? If memory serves, you were some girl from high school that didn't talk to me, whereas I was the guy whose letterbox was repeatedly incinerated by unknown parties -- two distinctly different roles whose responsibilities did not include the odd amicable greeting or the mutual sippings of fine china'd tea. These days, I fear I would be branded an embellisher for even referring to our dealings as cordial. Non-existent would be more like it, which coincidentally also sums up the level of guilt I have for not replying to you.

Nevertheless, I do so hope that you continue in your quest for self improvement. By my calculations, you are well on your way to being full-blown crackers. Although I cannot support your need to harass people whom you never knew, I will no doubt be rooting for the prosecution upon hearing of your stalking-related arrest. I'm not sure what womens prison is like, bull-queer wise, but heads up on not dropping the proverbial soap.

Laters,
d.

Doris, did you get all that? Remember, there's two e's in 'queer'.

Sir, and please forgive me for saying so, but are you quite sure you want to send such a.. controversial correspondence?

Alternatives?

Supposing you just ridicule her from behind the assumed anonymity of the internets?

Doris, if I was 100 percent that you weren't in cahoots with the bunny boiler, I would totally promote you right now.

Thankyou Sir.

Back to work, turncoat.

Get Rich.. and Quick.

2008-04-03T16:54:00.000-07:00

So, tell me your concept?

Well, we got loads of lead, right? Tons of it. And some pretty good shape making tools. You know, those things that make shapes?

I'm listening.

Well, I'm thinking... we could be counter-fitters!

Hold on mate, I was always pretty terrible at maths.

I've done the sums stupid. You and me right, we'll get minted turning all this lead into coins!

Two pound coins?

Nah, pound coins. Two pound coins are all multi-coloured and that.

Fuck it.

Yeh right, fuck it! We'll make poind coins!

How much lead we need to use per poind coin?

Bout 90 p's worth.

Result!

Yeh, but we gotta spray em gold like.

Gold?

Yeh, bout 5 p's worth of gold paint we need to use, each one.

How much does that leave us then?

Well mate, let's just say this next round's on me!

Reeesult!

Run! He's threatening legal!

2008-03-31T15:16:00.000-07:00

Customer service have all the fun:

Dear fuckers,

Now that I know who you are and what you do, I'm going to sue your ass. You are the entity wholly responsible for putting Vundo virus software on my computer. You are evil people with evil intentions and I'm going to sue your fucking asses and end up with all your money. What's more, I'm going to complain to the prosecuting authorities in your country and make certain that he puts each and every one of you fuckers in jail. Better yet, how about a cosmic punishment; you will never be able to watch a movie, a sporting event or do anything pertaining to personal entertainment or business without an unwanted commercial ad popping up in your fucking face. Go fuck your mother, father, sister and brother, you fucking fuckers, and go fuck yourself!

I dunno what's less scary; Being threatened by a guy who believes in correct punctuation or the fact that he's wielding unsolicited pop-up advertising.

In the meantime..

2008-03-27T07:00:00.001-07:00

By now you will have heard about the escalating political situation in Tibet. Please take the time to sign this online petition - the fastest growing petition in web history. It is a small thing but significant - an indication of support for the Tibetan people and a display of global solidarity to those wanting to repress the right to religious autonomy.

Free Tibet.

http://www.avaaz.org

Regular scheduled programming will resume shortly, it's been a crazy week!

Eating in Vietnam

2008-03-17T02:20:00.000-07:00

It's a pity that nothing ever remains the same same.

Airport Tales: and Other Hijinx

2008-03-14T02:29:00.000-07:00

Arriving at Sydney airport on departure day and sporting the niftiest in high-flying attire, I sauntered up to the arrival desk and proudly presented my passport. No sooner had I begun loudly exclaiming how well travelled I had become in recent times that I was interrupted by the attendant with some shocking news. My Vietnamese visa had expired!

"That's not right." I angled lamely, my stomach descending rapidly. "It starts today."

"Well according to your passport, it ends today." offered my observant but unavoidably hateful attendant. Snatching my passport back, I confirmed that the Vietnamese embassy in London had assigned me the wrong dates for my visa. That dastardly embassy -- The same embassy who had closed for Chinese new year knowing full well I harboured suspicions that Vietnam was another country altogether. The same embassy who only 3 days before I was due to leave had hung up in my ear when I demanded that Ho Chi Min himself track down my missing passport. The same embassy who had now conspired to ruin me at Sydney airport and who no doubt had a camera trained on me this very second to enjoy the spectacle of my destruction.

Despite suspecting worse, I summed their provable indiscretions to be two - hanging up on me, and foiling my visa. So while this was only strike two for them, I was nonetheless happy to dispense with tradition altogether and forever relegate them to the category of 'you're out'. Unfortunately this did little to balm my rising frustration, and I began making what I now affectionately refer to as 'a spectacle' but could more accurately be described as 'a tantrum'.

Clearly taking pity on those within my close proximity, Singapore airlines hatched a plan; fly to Singapore, my original stopover, and fix my visa at the embassy there. Even if this couldn't be done, I could still stay in Singapore for 6 days and catch my return flight out, meaning that I wouldn't have to fork out for extra flights. Ingenious! I vigorously shook the hand of the helpful staff member, who eyed me with barely concealed dread and encouraged me to leave them alone immediately. I agreed, and turned to the nearest camera to begin scowling menacingly.

"Thought you had me that time, eh? Look whose laughing now!"

I broke into a rumbling cackle that quietened the room. When I eventually concluded laughing and had wiped the tears from my eyes, the only murmurings I heard came from the helpful attendant who was busy whispering some recommendations into her handset that might have included the word 'security' and definitely included the word 'risk'.

I trundled off happily, knowing that adventure awaited.

The Diet of Superheros

2008-03-11T11:43:00.000-07:00

"We're on our way up to Sydney to meet your Uncle Davey."

My Mum was on the phone to my nephew Olly, attempting to explain her absence from his usual routine of habitual nanna harassment. Olly is a smart kid. A month ago his interest in birds was such that he asked my Dad what bird he would be, assuming we lived in a world where people were birds. Not really having thought much on the matter of poultry affiliation, Dad thought instead that he would choose a bird that Olly had heard of. "Well, a seagull I guess. I guess I would be a seagull."

"Hmm." replied Olly, mentally weighing the pros and cons of his choice. "Nah... Too beachy." It will be years before he works out that all the best birds hang out at the beach, but no matter which way you fly it was a pretty inspired response. I suspect that his understanding of where I've been for the past 9 months is less developed however, but he hides it well.

"Would you like me to give him a message from you?" Mum asked.

"Of course you can." Olly replied, stalling for time while he searched for some profundity. "Tell him... Elephants."

Although I've been fortunate enough to spend a great deal of time with him over the 3 year tenure of his nephewship, I've got to admit that his point alluded me. Was he communicating his capacity not to forget some wrongdoing I had previously inflicted, or simply informing me I had an elongated shnoz and was frightened of mice? I made a mental note to ask him about it, but was pretty sure I had been out-foxed.

When I made it down to Canberra and starting spending time with him and his wont-be-left-behind brother Gus, I was reminded that when it comes to kids, conversational direction is seldom controllable.

"Davey," Ollie turned to me during dinner one night, his brow furrowed with a thought that had obviously been causing him some distress. "Davey, is it true that Spiderman eats spiders?"

I put my knife and fork down, giving the question the attention it deserved. "Well that all depends on which camp you're aligned with mate. Those pro-cannibal Spidey pundits would have you believe all kinds of misnomers about the great webslinger, but take it from me little man; this is one case where dude aint what he eats."

He seemed relieved. I mean honestly, the lengths some people will go to frighten kids. I was about to continue explaining the origins of Spiderman's power due to being bitten by a radioactive and potentially lethal lab spider, but was distracted instead by the little dude inspecting a booger he'd just retrieved from his nose. "Well I aint going to eat that, Davey."

Time for me to be relieved. As an uncle, I'm pleased that my responsibility starts and stops with super hero myth debunking, rather than the higher moral teachings of snot consumption abstinence. I failed that subject if I recall.

Your ideas intrigue me and I wish to sign up for your newsletter

2008-02-20T04:18:00.000-08:00

The company I work for has long recruited its staff privately. I believe the policy originated back when it was discovered recruitment agencies regularly sold their unborn babies to Hitler so that he could send them into war zones submerged in tanks of Piranhas infected with Typhoid, but I'm not really sure; it was all before my time. We often get calls from agencies demanding to know why it is we operate this way, and they are surprisingly unperturbed when we explain our preference for wishing remain the lone proprietors of our everlasting souls.

The Other Dave took a call this morning.

The Other Dave: I'm very sorry, but we recruit privately.

Underling: Absolutely, but have you ever considered the benefits of specialised help in this area?

Dave: Again, sorry, but our company doesn't require specialized recruiting.

Underling: Fantastic! Because I actually specialise in recruiting for companies that don't require specialised recruiting companies.

Dave: ... ?

Underling: ..I see that my razzle dazzle has left you speechless. Allow me to explain further.

Dave: *click*

---

UPDATE:

I'm currently standing in Singapore Changi Airport on free internet next to a gentleman who is very provocatively clearing his nose every 30 seconds or so. Whoever said travelling isn't glamorous has clearly never rolled like me.

If I don't get the chance to update, or to read your lovely blogs over the next 2 weeks please forgive me. I can only assure you that upon my return I will be refreshed and full of great new ideas and perspectives, and more than likely with a plethora of new Vietnamese curse words. And scurvy.

A big happy birthday to Rosie too! Your hovercraft etc. is in the mail -- I like totally promise and shit.

Water on the Brain

2008-02-18T11:18:00.000-08:00

The water cooler at most workplaces is seen as a manifestation of team camaraderie; its purpose not only to quench the thirst of the dutiful employee but also to act as a sounding board for weekend exploits, confidential office whisperings and as a mediator of giggled debates regarding the probability of the new girl seeing any action from the more debonair of the IT team (always spectacularly overestimated). It is a focal point and a place of solace -- the beating heart of office societal interaction.

At least thats what shows like Boston Legal have tricked me into believing.

The water cooler at our work is sadly nothing like this. Limp, covered in lime residue, it languishes in a long forsaken corner of the office that I believe was once home to band of trolls. Indeed, their fossilised droppings can be found littering the surrounding area, forcing the more intrepid of water gathering souls to play poop hopscotch in a vain attempt not to make contact with the foul stuff. If by some miracle you make it through the athletic preamble to the actual cooler, you must remain steadfastly on you guard throughout the 15 minutes it takes for the water to drip from the bone coloured stalactite into your drinking vessel, as bandits lie in fiendish ambushing positions waiting to profit from your patience. Why these individuals are not outside pretending to be 50p short of a bus fair like any respectable bandit is beyond my reckoning.

All in all, the entire experience is extremely harrowing. After such an ordeal, you couldn't be blamed for wanting some kind of reassurance that the water you were getting was of a superior quality. This particular unit, coming directly from the mains and flowing through a noticeably flimsy filtration system (the stalactite) does have the advantage of coming with a handy ready-made explanation as to the numerous ways why the water it produces is better than the bottled variety.

While this information is indeed welcomed to someone of my go-go-go water needs, it is a statement that could also be attributed to a tap. The nature of its assertion also left me a bit worried, for it seems that up until now I was also labouring under the falsehood that bottled water was instant. Oh no, wait, there's the whole lid thing. "The scourge of the lid inconvenience". How could I forget.

Again, while I'm fully aware that Joe from accounting has long dreamed to be in charge of water bottle maintenance and warehousing, the potential lumber inconvenience from such a position would be nothing when compared to the frequent bowel scouring caused by wayward e coli stowaways. And trust me, the less time Joe spends in the bathroom, the better.

With all of these obstacles affronting the team, it is little wonder we all opt for the coffee purchased from the cafe downstairs instead. Actually come to think, the barrister lady does carry with her a rather troll like countenance. No no.. no I'm sure it's just a co-incidence that the cash register is situated under a rickety old bridge, oft used for the crossings of billy goats.

Sure of it.

Deer Diary

2008-02-18T09:12:00.000-08:00

London was beautiful yesterday. Cath and I went for an amble through the sun glazed Victoria park, which ended with us feeding deer at an enclosure found at the eastern end. Nearby we overheard a boy querying his mum: "All deer can fly, right Mummy? Not just the ones in the rain?"

Sitting on the Fence

2008-02-13T00:05:00.000-08:00

Last weeks news:

Last Monday a Palestinian suicide bomber detonated his bomb within a crowded shopping mall in Israel in the first attack of its kind for a year. A second attacker, wounded in the initial blast, was shot on the scene by a police officer.

"I saw he was alive, his hand was twitching, " The officer said. "He raised it again to try and activate the bomb, so I shot four bullets into his head and neutralized him."

and neutralized him.

To me, this the biggest case of 'extraneous information' since Niall Bunyan told me about how his unprecedented case of ring sting gave him a most unpleasant sensation of stinging ring. How's the terminology too. Neutralized. I was confused for a minute there, because I thought he was shooting four sprays of deodorant into an exceptionally smelly armpit problem.

Furthermore, and I can only speak for myself here, but when I'm in the market for neutralizing people, I always shoot them an even four times in the melon. You just never know when a suicide bomb blasted, three shot head wound mo fo is going to re-incarnate and start eating peoples brains. Don't laugh funny guy I've seen it happen.

The Stumblor Guide to: Communication (updated)

2008-02-08T11:04:00.000-08:00

The Belated Birthday Text

I'm completely hopeless. For 10 years I have followed a rigorous process of carrying a diary with everyone's birthdays neatly highlighted in yellow for visibility, but do you think it helps? Forget everytime. The only thing it really achieves is not leaving enough room in my diary to jot down the days I'm supposed to be doing things, like winning the Nobel Prize, karate fighting the ghost of Bruce Lee or taking my delusion inhibitor medication. It's so annoying it makes me want to eat the Eiffel tower.

Happy belated birthday! This message, contrary to appearance is not in fact late, but is instead from the FUUUTURE (belated due to technology not being 10o% accurate). I am pleased to say that you are happy, healthy, and more radiant than ever. Also, Israel and Palestine have settled their differences, petrol cars have become passé and John Farnham is actually not doing any more shows. Ever.

The 'Missed Connections' Gumtree Message

I love these things. I could read them for hours. Does anyone truly meet people this way? And by 'people' I'm not referring to doll collecting weirdos called Festus Jude Lewdbody, although I would totally meet someone who was called that. I expect we would bond over the middle ground of series one Star Wars figurines and their role in modern day nerd culture. Did I mention we wouldn't have any friends? Totally no friends.

Looking For: Pregnant Lady who Stole My Heart
You were the beautiful pregnant lady who got onto the central line tube at Liverpool street. I was the middle aged gentleman in blue slacks who refused to get up for you; despite the verbal lambasting I received from the other standing passengers. Was it just me, or did we share a moment?

The Party Invite

I'm heading back to Australia in a few weeks and am completely giddy with the excitement of it all. One of the first things I'm going to do is see my toddler nephews and bring them up to speed on London drug culture. Although this is a weighty responsibility in itself, I also intend to get plastered with my mates.

Heyas!

As you may already know, I'll be back in Australia in a few weeks time. Although an empty bait packet to the tides of responsibility, I have been allowed some small windows to do with as I please -- and what I please is to see all you guys in a dingy bar type setting having one too many drinks with the potential for boozed up emotional outbursts. Doesn't that sound ace? I'm veritably psyched!

Gaslight Inn
278 Crown St, Darlinghurst
xpm xxxx, xxth Feb

The Gassy is like our old hangout. It's a bit like a big kids clubhouse but with less porno. We laughed so hard at a joke once that the owner heard us from two floors down. We've tried to explain the joke a few times since, but it always falls flat; apparently you have to be manically depressed to appreciate the subtle nuances. Sounds unlikely though, as I don't even know what a nuance is.
I would ask you to bring some Dippity Bix, but the Gaslight culinary specialty is Cheezels in Tabasco; as pioneered by Will during his 'cheese snacks from south of the border' phase. Personally, I try to avoid anything that is south of anything; it almost always leads to Tasmania.

Please come.

(I have a bet going that you will so don't let me down)
D A V E Y

The Phony Rockstar Reply

Step 1.
Find a kickass Led Zeppelin poster at the Camden markets you just know a certain friend back in Australia will burst over.

Step 2.
Remember that she told you once in drunken confidence that as a kid she sent the band a fan mail letter full of her hopes and dreams, to which she got no reply.

Step 3.
Send the poster to Australia, along with the following letter:

Happy Communicatin'

UPDATE

The bastard post office returned the Led Zeppelin poster! I assume because all the gaffer tape made it look like a large pipe bomb. Pussies. But what am I going to do now? Wait until I get to Australia and then go over to my friends house saying "Oh hi! Hey, look what I found on your front step! Heh Heh." And then I have to be there when they open it and... ahh its ruined.

Train of Thought

2008-02-01T07:21:00.000-08:00

After the copyright for my addictive apple cider (tentatively titled 'Tobbapple' due to its dangerously high tobacco content) was unfairly revoked by the patent office, I've been looking for something new to which I could focus my inventive aspirations. Not that my inventions are regularly anything more than meals utilising a single, questionable ingredient, but even a vegemite curry manages to give you the feeling that you are boldly cooking where very few idiots have dared to cook before, and that for me makes the debilitating diarrheoa almost worthwhile.

Last night though, I had a flash of inspiration that could very well be the best idea in the history of amazingly incredible ideas.

Consider these facts:

a) Germany has just introduced kite power to their sea going transport ships in an effort to offset both rising oil costs and their overall carbon emissions. Wind powered boats -- how progressive!

b) The earth has four steady jet streams located in the northern and southern hemispheres that are caused by the difference in thermal temperatures between adjacent air masses.

My proposal is this: Create two earth spanning tracks that follow the meandering line of these winds, dragging energy generating units along great distances by using the constant thermal power created by these jet streams, thereby creating a completely renewable energy source via the ground friction.

You heard me. Kite trains.

I've done all the complicated mathematics and physical modeling right here on my abacus and it all checks out, so I'm now focused more on the aesthetic possibilities.

I've prepared an artist's interpretation of what my kite trains might look like:

Pretty huh? And you wouldn't have to restrict yourself to those designs. I imagine that when crossing the Caribbean you'd want something more like this:

There are some drawbacks of course. Certain countries would be forced to bear most of the infrastructure due to the rambling path taken by the thermal winds. I suspect there would be some measure of public outcry initially, with people complaining that the kite trains created an unnecessary eyesore across the formally beautiful landscape.

Not to worry -- I'm confident that most people's concerns would disappear once they copped an eyeful of these bad boys sailing past:

Feel free to steal this idea; I recognise that trans-Atlantic, wind-powered Sesame Street characters solving the current energy crisis is an idea that is bigger than just me. It might be bigger than a lot of things. I'd say it was slightly smaller than a drug-era Elvis wandering drunk around the city of Lilliput, but hey, I'm just guessing.

Me, I'm just a small guy with big ideas, who is merely hanging around for the potential notoriety and the promise of hooking up with sweet babes.

"Hey, aren't you the guy who solved the world's energy crisis with those kites?"

"That's me babe." *wink*

"You asshole. One of your giant Kenny Koala's went berserk during a freak gust of wind and gave my dad a corked leg so bad we had to atomic wedgie him for two weeks just to take his mind off it."

"Sounds horrible. Busy Friday?"

One of these kids is doin his own thing..

2008-01-28T13:10:00.000-08:00

The headlines that the MSN 'news' channel promotes each day are without exception shallow, vain, depressing, and regularly hilarious; mostly due to their having a complete lack of self-awareness. You'll see what I mean, quite often they'll print a final headline that manages to neatly insult the intelligence of the previous two, but you can tell it's unintentional. It's a bit like the family dog who doesn't quite get why everyone finds his conical neck brace so hysterical, but appreciates all the attention he's getting regardless. You can't blame him -- Understanding conical neck brace humour really is some next-level shit.

I've been saving a few of the better MSN headlines for a while now, and in lieu of finding a final one I've decided to run a bit of a competition, which we'll call the Amazing Stumblor Story Headline Omission Game for the purposes of continuity. I assume the acronym is non-offensive, I really don't have the time to check. I'm a busy guy.

The rules couldn't be simpler: alls you have to do is guess which of the following headlines have been concocted out of the oozy depths of my subconscious (one per game), and you will win an incredible prize!

Said prize remaining undisclosed due to the fact that it totally exists, ok?

Easy one to start with:

Dr Glockenspiel Mix 1

2008-01-24T12:23:00.000-08:00

The Irish dreamer thinks that mixtapes are the best presents ever. I'm guessing that's because she's never been the proud recipient of a lovingly wrapped hovercraft, you know, specifically. On a ratio that grades fun factor versus the potential for amphibious transportation, mixtapes by their very nature would rate quite low -- but then no-one has ever gotten laid because of their devil-may-care attitude toward giving people vehicles that can tackle any types of terrain. At least as far as I know.

And let's be honest. That's why people make mixtapes. As Nick Hornby pointed out in the book 'High Fidelity', a mixtape is like giving someone a letter using other people's poetry. If that's true, an amateur mixtape full of crappy poetry can be a dangerous thing. Give someone a stinker and your romantic hopes could be dashed forever. After all, the last thing likely to get a potential lover swooning is a 90 minute collection of Lymerick equivalents all relating to that man from Kantucket.

Luckily I have a sciency friend from Germania who is right on the money when it comes to mixtapes. He sent me one the other day that I thought I'd share with you:

Davey,
How are you my friend? I hope everything is okay for you. I have some new girl where I met in my work, do you remember I tell you this story? Here are the songs that make us nostalgia.

1. Sweet Charles - Yes it’s You (mp3)
2. Sparkadia - Morning Light (mp3)
3. Phoenix - Consolation Prizes (mp3)
4. Peter Bjorn & John - Young Folks (mp3)
5. The Whitest Boy Alive - Burning (mp3)
6. Kings Of Leon - Fans (mp3)
7. Slow Club - Because We’re Dead (mp3)
8. Ambulance LTD - New English (mp3)
9. Bright Eyes - First Day of My Life (mp3)
10. Sarah McLachlan -Blackbird (mp3)
11. Madeleine Peyroux - Don’t Wait Too Long (mp3)
12. Sondre Leche - The Curse of Being in Love (mp3)
13. Yves Klein Blue - Polka (mp3)
14. The Shins -A Comet Appears (mp3)
15. Soko - I’ll Kill Her (mp3)

(Download complete mixtape here)

I meet this girl when I am singing the first song you see here by Sweet Charles. We are in the lab, and I am making a joke with the words and changing them. I am singing "Yes it's U-235, yes it's U-235" and I am laughing since this is being the periodic table element for Uranium. Hilda, she is coming right over to me and telling me that if I really wanted to make love forever to Uranium, I should choose U-238 since the half-life is being more than 6 times instead of U-235. She is a very funny girl, I like her more than 6 times.

I am happy to receive you in my house next time you are coming to Munich, it's when you want man!

See you soon,
Helmut G.

I'm Big Kev Excited

2008-01-22T10:35:00.000-08:00

Hey tigers. Guess what day it is on Saturday? I'll give you a hint: It's the best flippin day in the whole world.

Now if you answered 'Doris Day' to the previous question, congratulations. You're an idiot. I would continue chastising you, but I'm way too excited because Saturday is, in fact, AUSTRALIA DAY! Kaboom!

It's actually a bit of a sad day this year as I'm usually getting burnt to a crisp at the Big Day Out music festival in Sydney and discussing in increasingly slurred tones the hilarity of BDO organisers inadvertently turning the Australian flag into a symbol of rebellion.

Last year also had double decker layers of ace because I was involved in one of the coolest festival fence jumps ever: I helped my boss at the Art Gallery, a 10 year member of Australia's notorious subterranean exploration gang Cave Clan and 15 of his screwball mates break into the festival through the sewage tunnel next to the main arena.

I *know*. And I seemed like such a quiet, polite boy.

Once we had arrived at the festival, my friend Bud, who had initially agreed to help me lift the heavy iron grating blocking the tunnel, was starting to have reservations.

"I dunno man. Lots of people about."

Although not necessarily keen to incriminate myself either, I was preoccupied with the thought of getting retrenched because I left my boss wallowing in effluent. "Listen," I cajoled. "I'll shout you a bourbo if you help me do this."

"Done." He said, skulling one of the bourbon and cokes he was carrying. You can also get him to eat BBQ grit using the same tactic.

We eventually found the grate near to the entrance of the main arena. Three pairs of white, pleading eyes stared up at us from the depths below. Bud and I looked at each other, looked down, swallowed hard, and then purposefully walked over to a nearby pylon to put our drinks down. A hand tapped me on the shoulder.

"You gonna break into the storm water drain?" asked the 14 year old Fear Factory fan, his eyes wide in anticipation. Observant kid.

My dry mouth minced the words. "Not exactly. Watch."

We walked over to the grating and yanked it open with surprising ease, expecting it to be heavier. Nothing happened for 5 long, heart thumping seconds, but when the first head popped out through the hole an excited cheer erupted from the surrounding crowd and people ran over to help pull out gate dodger after gate dodger -- as fast as they could climb the ladder. When all 16 were out, everyone cheered and clapped and slapped backs and then immediately dispersed.

The only person left hovering around the grate was a yellow shirted security guard, frantically looking left and right but finding nobody to grab by the shirt collar. The mob had won.

And we had a courageous story to tell for the rest of the day.

Overly Censortive

2008-01-21T12:29:00.000-08:00

Last week I decided to conduct some research into what was generally regarded as the worst ever Beatles song. A worthless project based on a fundamentally subjective posit some might argue, but I was not discouraged. Like most hypothetical critics the task of ignoring them was simple and besides, I had some actual work that was in dire need of procrastination. To the google-mobile!

It was pleasing to see that most people considered 'Yellow Submarine' pretty dire, but my nostalgia was irreversibly bruised upon discovering the childhood favourite 'Octopus' Garden' being slagged off with alarming frequency. In most cases I noticed that it was Ringo's involvement in the songwriting that usually lead to disaster, but on more than one occasion it was the arrogance of McCartney that resulted in an annoying single simply not having the legs. Oh dear. Nothing changes, huh?

Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da is a classic example. A disgusted Lennon left the studio halfway through the recording only to arrive back an hour later completely wasted, loudly declaring that he was "more stoned than he had ever been and that they would ever be". (referring to the other members of the band) Given that this assertion was made by the same man who had only recently identified himself as both a walrus and an eggman, this was a weighty claim indeed.

Suddenly I stumbled onto something amazing:

Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da one of many songs deemed inappropriate after the September 11 attack.

Was this on the level? I read on. Apparently a media conglomerate called Clear Channel Communications (recently suspecting of having been behind The Dixie Chicks ban) released to the media a 'comprehensive' list all those songs they considered contentious and that may cause offense to Americans in wake of the tragedy.

Let me first stress that I do not find the World Trade Center attack amusing in any way, nor do I wish to make any jokes at the expense of the families who have suffered.

What I will do though is publish some of the songs that appeared on the Clear Channel list:

Dave Matthews Band – "Crash into Me"
Jerry Lee Lewis – "Great Balls of Fire"
Animals – "We Gotta Get Out of This Place"
Foo Fighters – "Learn to Fly"

I'm not making this up.

What I find incredible is that in the interests of protecting those who suffered, this organisation publicly released a list of songs that directly references aspects of the tragedy in gory detail. I wonder how protected you'd feel having lost a loved one and then subsequently coming across this list while ~~cruising for porn~~ conducting valid research like I did? To my mind that's the protection equivalent of setting up a safe house for abused children in the Neverland Ranch and then distributing a recommended trouser list that promotes only those that button up at the bum.

(sorry, that one grossed me out too)

Futhermore, at 166 songs total, the list could hardly be called comprehensive. Take for example:

The Bangles – "Walk Like an Egyptian"

[eyes turn kaleidescopic]

I understand completely. We must do everything within our power to stop people walking, riding, and segwaying like Egyptians.

[shakes it off]

Is this a thinly vielded accusation at the assumed perpetrators? Curiously, I couldn't find any reference to The Cure's 'Killing an Arab'; presumably because no negative message could be discerned from that song's lyric.

What finally got me though was the inclusion of this tune:

P.O.D. – "Boom"

Why you ask? Need I remind you of such musical classics that WEREN'T on the list, such as:

Fresh Prince - "Boom, shake shake shake the room."

OR:

Paul Lekakis - "Boom Boom Boom (Let's Go Back To My Room)"

No I need not.

But then I suppose if those songs were ever going to be banned, it would have happened long before now.

Tick, tick, boom.

Ahh Theology

2008-01-15T01:12:00.000-08:00

Is there anything it can't answer?

My favourite quotes:

If we evolved from monkeys, then how come we can't speak monkey?

My mum always said I was 1/8 Cherokee, but I knew something wasn't right when I accidentally incinerated the garden shed when attempting to send smoke signals. Furthermore, my name isn't prefixed with 'running' or 'dancing'. It's just Dave sadly.

You got it backwards. Creationism is based upon science, reason and tons of evidence. Evolution is based on the blind acceptance of superstitions and fairy tales.

Now I'm really confused. Evolution is the one about the chick evolving out of a dude's rib and that other guy evolving water into wine, right?

I can sum it all up in three words: Evolution is a lie

Sorry, I only got as far as 'Evolution is a'

and finally...

A missionary I knew watched a bullet headed for him do a RIGHT ANGLE before it got to him.

Surprising: that missionaries have the ability to see speeding bullets.
Not surprising: that missionaries are being routinely shot at.

Cry Me a River

2008-01-10T15:02:00.000-08:00

Blackwater Worldwide, the hapless mercenary outfit responsible for assisting the American war effort in Iraq made headlines again yesterday for, you guessed it, all the wrong reasons. You might remember their number one hit: 'I shot the Sheriff, but I didn't shoot those 17 innocent Iraqi Civilians'? Nah, me neither.

Anyway, this time Blackwater security personnel released a chemical known as CS, a substance similar to tear gas, from a hovering helicopter and nearby armored vehicle directly into a crowded Baghdad intersection because, and get this..

..the road was busy and they wanted to bypass a traffic jam.

Well why not? CS gas has only been banned by the International Convention of Chemical Weapons, who as we all know are just a bunch of pen pushing nerdburgers. I bet they don't even inhale. Pussies.

American army personal at a nearby checkpoint were also heavily affected by the gas. Afterwards the senior officer at the scene was quoted as saying:

"This was decidedly uncool and very, very dangerous."

Hold on. Five-o said freeze. Did I read that right?

"This was decidedly uncool and blah blah.."

Decidedly uncool?

Huh. Let me just run a few idle thoughts by you.

Frangipani bumper stickers
Croc Sandals
Being the only kid who forgot it was muck up day
Bike riding outfits
Farts in elevators
Engelbert Humperdinck

These are all things that strike me as being 'decidedly uncool'.

Now I could be yelling Marco at the wrong end of the pool here, but the use of a banned toxic chemical during a peaceful day in the middle of a civilian area to clear a traffic jam strikes me as.. oh I dunno... like an incredibly fucking reckless act of moronic violence?

Like I said though, I can be pretty clueless when it comes to what the kids find cool. I once wore a hat with a little propeller on the top of it because I was thought that sooner or later, I'd get up enough speed to take off. I didn't of course. Looking back, I'm just pleased that I wasn't relying on it in the event of a tear gas emergency.

I guess the lesson to be learned from all of this is that if you work near the Blackwater offices, make damn sure you car pool with them on the way to work. You certainly don't want to be caught being the red-faced blubbering guy on the street cursing the manufacturers of his propeller hat for carrying misleading advertising.

Trust me.

Cap't Buzzkill and the Zoltar Run in

2008-01-09T13:43:00.001-08:00

[Capt' Buzzkill and Beaker are skulking quietly through an amusement park in the dead of night]

Around this next corner? Nay. By th' 'airy God o' 'Ades, I know 'e be around 'ere someplace.

Ma meeep!

Always the 'arbinger of disaster, aint ye?

Meep meep MEEEP!

Quit yer bellyachin' ye braggart, th' guards are all 'ome in bed at this 'our, so ye've nothin' t' worry 'bout. Now if only we could just find th' rottin'..

Ahar! 'Ere 'e be.

Mooma meep!

Aye. A very rakishly angled 'at it is too.

Moop?

Ye look fair as a feather good mate! Now just let me find th' place where ye put... 10 DOUBLOONS? By th' beak of th' Krakaan, that be wretched exorbitant. Aye tell ye mate, th' Xbox 360 got a lot t' answer fer! Thank me stars it be pillagin' week.

Zoltar awakens!

Ferchrist! Gave me th' fright of me life ye' did.

Zoltar awaits your question. Zoltar sees all, knows all,
predicts all.

Harr! Aye find tha' 'ard to believe considerin' yer dwindlin' target market. Where was yer power of second sight when all th' kids got bored ay? Out clearin' yer bilge 'ole?

Zoltar... predicts... everything except gaming market fluctuations.

Oright mate (elbows Beaker in the ribs). Wull, bein' all-knowin' as ye are Zoltarrrr, ye be already aware o' of th' recent 'eart troubles I be sufferin' at th' 'ands o' tha' scurvy ex lass o' mine. Awful business it was, left me reckless as a sea dog and twice as mangy. But yer see mate, aye've found meself in a bit o' a pickle concernin' a new wench tha' aye 'ad the good fortune t' win in a dice game, 'bout a full moon afore.

Zoltar is listening.

She be a salty lass and no mistake! Grim as they come. 'er foul mouth alone could stop a belchin' sea wind in it's tracks. 'Er belchin', wull tha' stops clocks. Surely, she be everthin' a man could 'ope fer. Recently we be spendin' most 'o our wakin' hours together. Fer a landlubber, she sure knows 'ow t' lub.

Zoltar is wondering what your problem is.

Wull aye once 'eard about these things called 'feelins' ye see. Aye 'eard yer supposed t' 'ave em fer people when ye be sharin' th' cutlass so t' speak. Bein' a bit o' a scallywag in recent times, aye get th' feelin' aye may 'ave lost me ability in tha' respect.

Zoltar submits to you that you are being a wuss.

Not t' mention th' trust issues she 'as concernin' th' fact aye won 'er in a game o' chance. Don't get me started..

Zoltar is considering your predicament.

"One lousy bottle o' rum?" She goes.
"Is tha' all aye be worth t' ye?". Don't get me started..

Zoltar assures you that Zoltar could not be further from getting you started. Please allow Zoltar a chance to think.

Aye just want t' know where it be goin' mate. Whuther aye should make 'er me first mate or whuther aye should just weigh anchor an' relegate 'er to th' poop deck.

Zoltar is becoming aware of the answer you seek. It will come to pass that you will shed your concerns of the future and live more in the moment, knowing that nothing good was ever achieved from focusing solely on illusory negatives. Once you have achieved this state of mind, an elegant solution will present itself and you will act decisively to achieve your goal.

Thanks fer nothin', ye' lousy machine.

Meeoop!

Oright Oright aye was just about t' ask 'im. Ahoy Zoltar. Me mate 'ere wants t' know if th' Seekers are ever goin' t' reform.

Meep Ma Moop!

Right. If th' Seekers are ever going t' reform with Judith Durham a' th' 'elm.

Zoltar requests additional compensation before answering further questions.

Aye.. see.

Moop?

Arrr.. Sorry me hearty. Th' prognosis be bleak.

Meoooo...

[Inspiration loaned from Rosie's recent posts on Astrology and Pirates]

Can of Worms?

2008-01-08T02:02:00.001-08:00

From Facehunter:

The Curse of the Boobsmith

2008-01-04T07:52:00.000-08:00

That last post about novelty boobs got me thinking. Firstly about boobs in general and their contemporary relevance to a modern renaissance man (yes, still relevant), and then subsequently about the guy who actually makes them. You know, the factory guy. What about that guy? I don't know if I'm being condescending for saying so (I usually am), but I really feel for him. I've complained ad nauseum in the past about how my job is a bit of a social stigma at times, but I think my worries pale in comparison to those faced by your average novelty naughty bits factory captain. How does he feel having to explain to people what he does?

Here's how I imagine it:

Girl in Bar:
Hugo. Great name. That Hugo Weaving is simply divine. You're not an actor too by any chance are you?

Novelty Boob Guy:
Um, no. (waits for a change of subject that never comes) I umm.. I actually make fake plastic boobs.

Oh! You're a plastic surgeon?

Er, no.

Oh silly me, you make prosthetics!

Er, no. I actually make fake plastic boobs. Novelty ones. Like you see on that drunk guy over there who is loudly vociferating his fondness for pain.

(Disappears in puff of smoke)

But you know, maybe he pulls it off. Maybe his sweetness and conviction (and kickass name) are enough to render his occupation an irrelevant inconvenience to the fairer sex, and he eventually marries a lovely girl that has a penchant for exotic fauna and rollerskate parties.

Here's how I imagine their life:

*ring* *ring*

Girl Formally in Bar:
Hello?

Novelty Boob Guy:
Honey, it's me.

Oh hiii! Will you be home soon?

I'm really sorry honey, I know we've been planning tonight for weeks, but I'm afraid I won't be home for dinner. One of the plastic boobs got caught in the nipple renderer and the entire boob order is backed up.

My stars.

I'm literally up to my ears in boobs right now.

I understand completely. I'll keep dinner warm for you.

You're the best. Oh ferchrist, we've just run out of honeysuckle pink. Gotta run babe.

You see? I can't help but get carried away with this, I really feel for the guy. I think this is the first occasion when I've considered the multinational hostile takeover of a small and struggling business a good thing. These kinds of operations need to be run by emotionless robots, not by people like Hugo.

Affirmative. I build wearable synthetic mammory organs. Your sexual advances do not compute. Warning! Warning!

Three French Hens, Two Plastic Wangs

2007-12-31T01:39:00.000-08:00

I don't understand office Christmas parties. It seems to me that a large percentage of the population consider it the adult equivalent of the bubblers during a game of tips -- a 'bars' zone where the real rules don't apply. Half hearted office romances are brought to a Jägermeister fuelled head and every man and their dog goes gang-busters to be the first idiot to remove their pants. Hilarity: I knew thee well.

The thing that confuses me is that they wait this long. The rest of us have been trying all year to develop a definitive rat bag model, then these jokers come in lagered to the hilt and think they can pull off a one night coup without even considering the collateral damage to the industry. It's bringing the craft of yahooism into disrepute, and that makes me sad.

Furthermore, on the subject of office romance, who in their right mind would think that an office Christmas party is the adequate stage for the making for pre-marital whoopee? Seriously, would you really want to be having this conversation in your not so distant fuuuuuture:

Friend:
Didn't you guys get TOGETHER at the last Christmas party?

You:
Betcha nuts we did. Me and that cute filly you see over there were one minute fetching a glass of Midori Lemonade, next minute WHAM BAM - photocopier room gettin' in ooonnnnn.

Friend:
High five!

You:
That's how I roll.

Friend:
That's a story to keep for the kids alright.

You:
(leans in conspiratorially) Speaking of keeping, I even managed to grab the accidental Xerox we took of her arse, you know, for prosperity.

Friend:
You're a die hard romantic, Stan.

You:
(winks) Takes one to know one, Gary Glitter.

no no NO. I'd much rather the conversation I had with my friend Sluggo after I cunningly escaped my own Christmas party ("Holy shit! Is that one of the Ronnies from that show with the two Ronnies? You know what's it called... the Ronnie brothers?") after things started to get a bit out of hand:

Sluggo:
Hey dude. How's the party going?

Me:
Secret Santa was a bit unnerving. My boss was disappointed with the fake buttocks he received, that is, until he discovered that they could instead be worn under his shirt as fake boobs. This was later deemed inappropriate, so he drew some nipples onto each buttock with a magic marker and then added about a hundred toothpicks into the front which I can only assume were supposed to resemble chest hair. I left him at the point where he began beating his chest repeatedly where the toothpicks were and shouting "I love the pain!" to anyone who dared look at him.

Sluggo:
So.. well then?

Me:
As well as can be expected. I got a beanie that was shaped like a big penis.

Sluggo:
I see what they did there. Clever.

Perhaps I should just grow up and accept that strapping a big plastic knob to my forehead is all part of social networking in the real world. It's funny you know, they never tend to mention this stuff on Oprah.

Merry Christmas!

2007-12-27T09:27:00.001-08:00

Creepy-looking David Bowie says:

Merry Christmas, you funky junky spaceman!

A big thankyou to everyone who has stopped by this year, it's been a lot of fun. Assuming that I make it safely through the new year festivities, I'll see you and your kind for more in 2008.

How to Win at eBay and Influence People

2007-12-20T08:56:00.000-08:00

Decide that a beautiful new sunburst lawsuit-era Ibanez guitar with pretty pictures on it will exponentially increase your quality of life and your chances of hooking up with babes.
Studiously scour eBay during office hours until such a guitar appears.
Notice with disdain as two hateful eBay novices start a bidding war for the object of your affection, paying no heed to the eBayers code of last-minute engagement.
Decide to balk convention yourself and immediately contact both members, kindly pointing out that bidding on an item 6 days out is fruitless and serves only to increase the final sale price. Feel confident that you are being helpful and avoiding unnecessary condescension.
Receive no reply from the first member, and the following message from the second:
Wrinkle nose at lack of punctuation and civility. Shake head at overly clichéd war-cry. Begin devising cunning retaliation.
Download eBay sniping program Auction Sentry. Marvel at application's ability to automatically place winning bid on item 30 seconds before auction close. Configure winning snipe on lusty guitar and cackle in pre-emptive glee.
Win guitar.
Send following message to Strummer69:
Take receipt of guitar at work from long haired death metal rocker that smells of Vicks Vapour Drops. Impress pink haired ladies at the front desk with less than adequate rendition of Stairway to Heaven. Receive no reply from substandard rival. Live happily, guitar playingly, ever after.

From May 2007, no chance I could afford this now.

When NineMSN turns bad

2007-12-18T18:52:00.000-08:00

Coincidence?

I think not.

Incidentally, my keycard still hasn't arrived, which means I've now been 4 months in London without access to money. Any money. At all. Except Mums. Thanks Mum!

So, I'm now building presents for people out of whatever I can scrounge together. Because my scrounging skills are somewhat limited, I've decided that homemade cards, mixtapes, and compliments are the go this year.

I've just made a new Hackney acquaintance that is well into (shudder) Phil Collins. She loves him dearly, so I thought I'd put together a Phil Collins covers CD for her. You know, as a means of her weaning herself off him.

My research has so far yielded thus:

And this:

The Postal Service - Against All Odds

I'm kinda digging on both of them. Tell me I'm wrong.

I make hamburgers, I get all the girls

2007-12-16T09:36:00.000-08:00

Although this probably won't satisfy the requirements of Miss Bloom's meme request, it is none-the-less a story. It is set in the past. It does contain two or more primary actors. The main hitch I can see is that it's not one of my earliest memories -- though considering the amount of self inflicted amnesia I was suffering at the time due to the excesses of high living, I'm pretty certain I can contest that point with some success. Perhaps not in a court of law, as they say on the telly, but in any court that ol' Hell on Wheelsanor would be privy to I dare say.

When I was only a little Davey of 19 years I decided to take a year off from the pressures of first year Uni (retroactive scoff), move out of home, and get myself a job at the high class catering establishment known as 'Pizza Hut'. It was a shitty job. I smelled like pizza most of the time and after paying the rent I only had about 100 bucks left over to live on. Most of that was inevitably spent on weed, with everything left being spent of booze and petrol. I guess we figured that sustenance could be established through the ritualized consumption of pizza. I can't remember being that concerned with the effects that this diet was having on my health, but as you might imagine, being healthy didn't rank too highly on our give-a-shit list.

I was working under a new government initiative at the time that was putting fast food workers through a monthly Tafe training program. A 'catering traineeship' I think it was alluringly called. While this seemed great in theory, the entire process was a complete farce. The lesson plan at Tafe revolved around simple sums and role playing scenarios such as:

A customer approaches the counter and makes a complaint about finding a hair in their food. Do you:

A) Laugh and say 'Plenty more where that came from!'
B) Ignore them and hope that the problem goes away, hiding behind the counter if necessary
C) Apologise and offer an immediate replacement for the food, followed by a refund.
D) Ask for the box. The box!

In exchange for this wealth of information the powers that be had devised an ingenious trainee compensation plan. Firstly our pay was docked to cover the course, then we were given longer hours to make up for those lost studying, and finally we were allocated extra responsibilities so that we could 'practice' what we were learning -- so long as it wasn't during work hours of course. It was a grueling schedule, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that I had an illustrious career ahead of me working at like, Hungry Jacks. Tops.

I used to ride my skateboard to work. We were pretty big into skating at the time anyway, and due to never having more than 5 bucks worth of petrol in the car driving was out of the question. It was a boring and routine life, and I did it 5 days a week. Week in and week out. Nothing really changed in my schedule until one morning.

Opening the store, bleary eyed and pot hazed, I yawned my way toward the back of the kitchen. Suddenly, surreality wearing a balaclava and brandishing a shitty looking knife jumped out from behind the cool room door and yelled "Drop the board man!".

Although my stoner reactions were probably still grappling with the nuances of the previous evenings Simpsons episode, some olfactory sense must have kicked in and my hand immediately let go of the board. I was astonished at the speed of my reflexes to be honest. If only I could pull the same moves during Datona I'd be the undisputed rally driving king of Port Jackson Crc.

"I don't want to hurt you man!" my intruder blurted excitedly, ripping me from my dreams of racing accolade and manhandling me into the back room. "Just open the safe and you and the girl will be fine! Ok?"

Girl? Oh shit. Michelle. "What have you done with her?" I demanded with transparently false bravado, thankfully remembering to omit the suffix 'you cad'. "Is she ok?"

"She's fine. She's tied up in the cool room." Oh what a relief, only lifelong counseling to deal with then. "So just shut up and open the safe man!"

Sensing a disruption in the force, I immediately executed a perfectly timed roundhouse kick to the face, immediately knocking myself unconscious. The next thing I remember is that I got two paid days off work. Score!

Ok, ok. That bit is made up, obv. In reality I opened the safe, got tied up on the floor with plastic slip ties and began accusing the guy of picking up his crappy knife at a Woolworths sale on the way to the gig. It was a completely stupid and reckless thing to do in hindsight, but then most of my behavior was in those days. He laughed and said that's exactly what he did, and then took off. I waited for a few minutes, pulled out of the ties and barreled into the cool room. I found a hysterical Michelle gagged and bound. I got rid of the tape around her mouth and her hands. She was a limp kneed mess of tears and anxiety.

"I didn't know what he was going to do to you!" She finally managed through the sobs. I just held her and waited until we could call the cops.

I did get two days off work out of it. Undoubtedly I had to make it up later. Michelle was given much longer, thankfully. I'm not sure whether they helped her get counseling for what happened as she didn't really work there much after that, which is completely understandable. I never thought to get any help myself. It didn't really seem necessary.

Maybe the 19 year old pseudo tough guy in me was still making the decisions. Who knows.

sorry for the long post!

Books? You mean scripts, right?

2007-12-10T01:33:00.000-08:00

Apparently the publishers of the Harry Potter series had to change the titles of the books in America because they feared that people wouldn't be able to understand some of the more difficult words. Those zany Americans. What will they think of next? Government sanctioned torture? Ya big kidders.

First of all they had to change Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone because no-one could rightly say what a philosopher was. Who can blame em! Instead, they decided to call it Harry Potter and The Guy Who Thought About A Lot Of Stuff's Stone. Well, that's much more descriptive! Publishers 1, Stupid Kids Nil.

Then you've got that romping epic Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Goblet? What the hell is that? Isn't that the bit of a chicken you throw away? What idiot would go around causing spot fires with chicken goblets? Luckily they managed to shuffle a few things around with the title guys and came up with the much more arresting title of Harry Potter and the Big Gulp of Fanta. Such canny product placement! You'd hardly even notice it. Man I feel like a Fanta.

But who would have thought they needed to change Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban? Surely everyone knows what a prisoner is? Anyway, apparently that one needed to be changed to Harry Potter and the Unlawful Enemy Combatant of Azkaban. I assume that there was some legal reason for doing so, but it's all a bit over my noggin to be honest.

Although there are a lot of naysayers suggesting that this strategy of 'lowest common denominator' is counter productive to the intellectual growth of our kids, I'm all for language rebranding. After all, the argument suggesting that a person's vocabulary suffers from coddling is flawed.

I would point out all the reasons why this is so, but I've really got to dash. Im cing m8s 2nite 4 phun or sumthing LOL.

Parroting My Mates

2007-12-07T02:12:00.000-08:00

Charlie made up a joke about a group of pirates playing hangman.

Pirate 1: "Is it ARrrr?"

Pirate 2: "Yes. Thar is one ARr."

Pirate 3: "Is it ARrrr?"

Pirate 2: "Yes. I already said thar is one ARr."

Pirate 4: "Is it ARrrr?"

etc.

Snooze. Just a little longer.

2007-12-07T02:08:00.000-08:00

Recently I've started to think that I might be suffering from sleep apnea. I may have to go to a sleep clinic to get it checked out, which actually sounds quite appealing -- I really like the idea of people working for me while I take a nap.

Kerblammo!

2007-12-03T15:24:00.000-08:00

Amazon announced recently that they have decided to diversify their already extensive product range. Recovered artifacts from the Pacific Rim you think? Pft, old hat. Titillating under garments for the bedroom connoisseur perchance? Ho hum. Depleted isotopic weapons grade uranium?

Wheee!

How much fun could you have with this stuff? I bet it could make all kinds of explosions. And you know, assuming you don't have the necessary brain thinkery to setup another Chernobyl-esk fireworks display, you and your trusty can of u-238 could always provide the local Pets Paradise store with a horde of jive talking ninja types.

This is sounding better by the minute. Just have a listen to all the satisfied customer feedback:

An adequate solution...., November 30, 2007
by Chris Gladis "Chris"

I have to admit, I've tried many different power sources for my orbiting satellite death beam, and nothing does it like good old U-238. If you've never held an entire nation hostage for your maniacal whims (I always ask for my ransom in kittens), then you haven't lived yet. And this can make it happen!

Does anyone else suddenly feel unfulfilled due to a distinct lack of orbiting satellite death beams in their lives? Yo mum! Scratch that homemade beanie for Christmas, I'm now in the market for a bitchin' space laser. Yes, yes, I'll be careful.

Better than Ovaltine. , November 30, 2007

by J. Stanfield

When mixed with Tuscan whole milk I gained the power to control deceased woodland creatures. I am now in the process of raising an army of undead wombats to overthrow the government from deep within my volcanic lair. Soon you all will bow down before the wombat king!

Ok, I'm now seeing that there could be some drawbacks to this whole 'playing with radiation' thing. Not that I'm saying an army of mutated wombats wouldn't have its charms, just that they would be more disarming when controlled by someone less, well, volcano-like. Like me for instance. I'm very un-volcano-like. People have always said that I'm your more 'meadow' type of guy. Plus, my mutant wombats would be all awesome and friendly and house-trained, like Fatso from A Country Practice.

Anyway, I think I've clearly demonstrated how great this product is. I'm going to order a crate as soon as it comes back into stock. You're all welcome to chuck in, but please be aware that I have a strict security protocol to ensure that it doesn't fall into the wrong hands. Basically you can't be Russian, or the Shredder, or live in a volcano.

For everyone else it's party time.

All customer feedback reproduced from Amazon. Original link. Seriously, I didn't make this up.

And the Winner Is..

2007-12-03T05:48:00.000-08:00

I managed to catch up with Will briefly over MSN yesterday, which I regretted almost immediately as he begun talking about the 2007 Music Oz Awards show that he had recently been asked to present an award for. In my opinion, a close friend like Will should have been far more sensitive in the way he broached the news, considering that being an awards host is a lifelong dream of mine. In fact, it's Lifelong Dream #208; right behind playing a game of life-sized ten pin bowling using people as pins. Which is of course right behind owning an island shaped like a giant butt, you know, so that anytime a helicopter tried to land you'd be effectively mooning them with the entire island.

Anyway, sulking, as it turns out, is a highly ineffective battle tactic when the only form of emotive communication at your disposal is based around the smiley methodology. Furthermore, *pouts* just wasn't cutting the mustard. I begun trying to point this out to Will, but he obviously had far more pressing issues to talk about. Sure, pressing to HIM.

Will (avenge my life):
So I'm presenting the award for Excellence in Dance Music.

Davey (smells):
Excellence in Dance Music... Isn't that an oxymoron?

Will (avenge my life):
You're an oxymoron. The issue is that I need a gag to say before I present the award. You know. They always do these 'gag' things. I'm fairly sure it has something to do with humour.

Davey (smells):
Surely the award itself is funny enough.

Will (avenge my life):
I was thinking something along the lines of: "You know, it really irritates me that everyone thinks that as a DJ my life revolves around taking drugs and partying all weekend."

Davey (smells):
Good so far.

Will (avenge my life):
"Well it's simply not true. For instance, sometimes my dealer is out."

Davey (smells):
Yeah, and sometimes you're so wasted you have no idea whether today actually falls on a weekend or not.

Will (avenge my life):
Haha, Awesome! I'll say that.

Davey (smells):
Yeah. I mean, standing up in front of a room full of your colleagues and peers -- how could a joke about drug abuse NOT go down well?

Will (avenge my life):
My thoughts exactly. Now.. powder blue rayon suit, or that hot little number I wore briefly at the Bathurst B&S ball?

Obviously the suit, considering that the other outfit had been (thankfully) impounded and (hopefully) incinerated. Clothed in this regal ensemble and armed with the new material, Will took to the stage and gave it his awards-hosting all. I was told later that despite my reservations, the joke went down a treat, with music aficionados and band cool kids hooting in self-depreciating approval. How about that! I suppose you should never underestimate the music industry's capacity to see the funny side of drug induced catatonia.

Easy mistake to make though.

The Oz Music Awards screens Wed Dec 5th on Channel V. See Will make some jokes up about Whopper value meals, and all kinds of other exciting stuff.

Hangin' Trough

2007-11-29T09:13:00.000-08:00

It's not often that you waltz into the urinal at your local pub and find the resident condom box posing an eternal philosophical question. Now you might say that up until now I've lived a pretty sheltered existence, given that I'm easily impressed by the capacity of the local prophylactic vending machine to prompt introspection. But hey, where I come from, our rubber dispensers are limited to 'do you wanna?' based Q&As. Call us simple. Call us dumb. We can take it.

About five of us crowded around the thing attempting to decipher the cryptic catechism.

Performance?

..or Security?

By God, if I hadn't been asking myself the exact same question. It's like finding out whether someone supports coal or conservation, war or peace. Heck, I'm even going to stop asking people whether their preference is butts or boobs; THIS is my new social tuning fork.

I can imagine the meeting room at Ansell & Co:

"You know Bob, I'm getting the feeling that our product isn't asking the big questions. I propose that we start appealing to people's base human instincts. Start posing philosophical discussion pieces that prompt self awareness coupled with.. oh I don't know.. maybe an impending sense of annihilation?"

"Dude, we sell frangers. Don't you think we should try to steer people's thought away from potential annihilation?"

"You got no vision Bob. No damn vision."

What really gets my goat is that you are forced to choose between the two. Why can't we have both? It's like those new pain relief tablets that are 'fast acting' but apparently not as potent. You know what happens? You end up taking twice as much. Allegedly.

I'm not saying that this corresponds directly to the condom thing.. you know.. I'm just saying.

Freedom: Chaos with better lighting.

2007-11-26T15:22:00.000-08:00

Life can be pretty confusing sometimes. Cataclysmic events can be spawned by seemingly innocuous moments in time that have little or nothing to do with the eventual outcome. Explained reasons are often bewildering and abstract. People's motivations are concealed behind a smoke screen of subterfuge, obfuscated even from themselves. Cause and effect, logic and reason, action causing reaction (or over-reaction) are all ill-defined in a world where it is said that the disturbance created by a flutter of a butterfly's wings can eventually lead to atmospheric havoc.

Spooky huh? Think about it too much and your head will explode. I don't want to alarm you, but it can happen.

It's no wonder we're all nervous wrecks. Constantly fearful as we are by the possibility of anti-social exploding head death (Boom. Who brought that guy?), it's a welcome relief when you see something that immediately answers one of life's many questions. Whose logic is irrefutable. Where the validity of the argument is so inescapable that you wonder why you ever questioned it in the first place.

Take the following picture for instance. Now, the question: "Why didn't this guy get invited to the work Christmas party?"...

..can immediately be answered with: "Well simply because his fruitcake basket had reached such critical levels of ding-a-ling that he thought it wise to noose a baby effigy from the roof of his forklift."

You see? I imagine that you're now all slapping your foreheads good-naturedly and muttering "Of course! Now why didn't I see that one coming."

ps: How disturbing is that photo? Yeesh.

My Contribution to Political Discussion

2007-11-23T09:32:00.000-08:00

Because everyone else is doing it, I've decided to jump on the proverbial band wagon and write lil' somethin' about the imminent election. Incidentally, I'm also going to start smoking, wearing skinny leg jeans, and listening to 'Emo' music -- despite only having vague notions as to what that actually entails.

Below is a conversation I had over email this afternoon with Simon The Questionably Diagnosed Aspergers Sufferer. Simon The Questionably Diagnosed Aspergers Sufferer is a guy I met at Oktoberfest this year. I advantageously stole his friend Malcolm's seat, and then his beer, but somehow managed to lay the charm on so thick that they forgot my indiscretions and let me stay. Even Malcolm didn't seem to mind much when he returned to find a lager swilling, sea shanty singing Australian stealing his, well, everything.

Basically Simon has been diagnosed with Aspergers because he's weird. And smart. He revels in the fact that this somehow vindicates his behavior. I like him because he's got an excuse to be weird.

Me:
Did you make it down to the Australian High Commission to vote this week dude?

Simon:
For the Aussie elections? I'm a New Zealander dude.

Me:
Oh yeah. Sorry. Must have already claimed you along with Crowded House.

Simon:
Yeah. It's usually rather annoying, but we're kinda thankful that you relieved us of Russell Crowe. I guess you're lending your fulsome support to John Howard? He was great as that ginger kid in "Happy Days", but I don't rate his work as a director.

Me:
I voted for Chachi. Not too sure of his fiscal management experience, but that chick he dated was dope.

Simon:
I'd vote for Chachi because he went on to star in "Diagnosis Murder". I've never actually watched the show, but I intend to, once I'm in my 70s.

Rumor has it that his "Happy Days" spin-off "Joanie Loves Chachi" was hugely popular in Korea because - so the story goes - "chachi" is Korean for penis. Seems unlikely though, as it was only shown in Korea on the American Forces Korea Network, in English without subtitles. Moreover, the Korean transliteration for the name Chachi is , which does not mean penis. However the Korean word for "penis" is the similar sounding jaji, which is spelled . It's a shame really, because it's a good story.

Me:
I really hope you've got Wikipedia open right now, weirdo.

So yeah. Happy election everybody. If I wake up and Chachi is in power, you're all getting smacks.

Must. Become. Destitute.

2007-11-22T02:18:00.000-08:00

As if the urge to spend all of my money on eBay wasn't strong enough already without this kind of incentive being thrown into the mix:

Me:
"You know, it's nice and stuff, but I've only got three records and one of them is Barbara Streisand."

Universe:
"But its got your name written on it dude."

Me:
"Sold!"

Totally Swede

2007-11-19T02:12:00.000-08:00

They're "just breasts"!

This is the rallying cry of a network of women who have launched a campaign for the right to bathe topless at Sweden's swimming pools.

In a preliminary action in the middle of last month, seven members of the Bara Bröst network (literally translates both as 'Bare Breasts' and 'Just Breasts') hopped into a pool in Malmö wearing only bikini bottoms. Before long, they were whistled to the side and asked to leave.

"We want our breasts to be as 'normal' and desexualized as men's, so that we too can pull off our shirts at football matches," spokeswomen Astrid Hellroth och Liv Ambjörnsson told Ottar, a magazine published by the Swedish Association for Sexuality Education.

..

http://www.thelocal.se/9078/20071112/

I am behind these women 100%. If I'd have known that feminism involved chicks getting their kit off, I would have paid a lot more attention during that women's studies course I took last year, you know, rather than trying to mack onto the totally hot lecturer after class.

Ps. I'm moving to Sweden.

Big ups

2007-11-18T03:28:00.000-08:00

I was clearing out my email archives the yesterday and inadvertently came across this gem from Charlie sent to me earlier in the year:

From: Charlie [xxxxxxxxx@xxx.com]
Date: 16 Feb 2007 02:15
Subject: Word to my mother
To: Davey [xxxxxxxxx@xxx.com]

Background:

Last Monday Mum and Dad left Australia for Europe. They flew out of Sydney airport, so in the morning they caught the bus from Canberra to Sydney.

Extract from an email from mum:
---------------------------------------------
Hi Charles,

Yes, flight was good thanks and it is good to catch the bus to Sydney from Canberra because we just pulled up straight outside International airport and walked into check in with a few hours to spare. Sat next to a rap group sound engineer - group was called "Snoopo Dog" and they had been at the Gold Coast for 2 days only from California. However they now have a break for a month before heading off to Europe. He was a delightful young man. The rapper himself was not on board but 2 of his musicians were.
---------------------------------------------

Priceless. I'm surprised Mum said he was nice. She usually only has time for East Coast rappers.

Slash dot

2007-11-17T03:38:00.000-08:00

"..cause nothing lasts forever, even cold november rain."

November Rain - Guns 'n' Roses

That's pretty rich coming from a 12 and a half minute song.

Smooth Operator

2007-11-15T08:09:00.000-08:00

Grr.

My new VAIO laptop: Young, hip, bright-eyed and full of revolutionary fervor had been struggling for months under the crippling yoke of an oppressive Windows Vista operating system. The media had been gaged, the people too frightened to resist. Their memory was full with all too vivid recollections from previous market crashes due to the overloading of the local pathways.

There was only one thing for it. Revolution!

Taking to the streets, the people formatted the laptop and rejoiced. There was a feeling of hope and self-determination in the air, despite the quiet whisperings of losing a lifetimes worth of carefully cataloged pornography during the uprising. Such things were of no consequence however, as reformation was finally occurring in their beloved laptop. The new system of government would operate with more efficiency than ever before, and never falter in its efforts to boot, process & copy. Viva la Windows XP!

What? Device drivers? Crap. No access to wireless to download drivers. Rgh. Ok fine, download them at work. Software revision 2? I thought I had it. Whatever, download that too. System freeze during the install of software revision. Oh Crap Crap Craaap.

VAIO Website: "Warranty void if Vista removed."

Hmm.

Ok, maaaybe should have researched that information prior to bringing about the downfall of an entrenched institution using questionable tactics. I thought it was going to be all motorcycles and barn dances. Damn you, Che.

Two Tales of a City (Part 2)

2007-11-08T08:08:00.000-08:00

The mob was growing louder as their numbers increased, culminating around the inactive Gothic fountain at the center of town. Flaming hand torches were being passed around by the more organised among the crowd, as the aggressive chants and slogans were delivered with rising ferocity by the incensed blowhards toward the rear. A pitchfork or two dotted the peripherals, as if trying desperately to complete the caricature.

"Harlots!"

"Painted vixens!"

The mob screamed it's encouragement and echoed each sentiment with relish.

"Women of unseemly virtue!"

Not as much support for that one, though it didn't particularly matter. The intention of the party was clearly set. Vicar Dibley, eyes shining like fire hardened brimstone, was pleased. Standing a foot taller than most of the partisans gathered, he walked briskly among the throng, loudly proclaiming God's unwillingness to be mocked and the inherent righteousness of the party in doing, as he called it, 'The Lord's Work'.

Sensing that the animosity of the group was reaching a critical mass, he moved quickly to the front of the pack, and upon grabbing a flaming baton from a greasy bystander, commanded the crowd to follow him. They did so, and his courage swelled as a result. His leadership of the congregation had finally been confirmed. Never again would his moral guidance by branded as too authoritarian or archaic. Tonight the house of sin would be damned to hell, and he would bask in God's glory for being the main catalyst in it's obliteration.

Within minutes the crowd had surged through the outside gates of the small East End building. Handing his torch over to another, most likely greasy, associate, Vicar Dibley rapped loudly three times on the door; timing each knock so as to give the impression of his supposed authority. The vicar prided himself on his capability to deliver a robust knock.

A crooked woman dressed in rags answered the door, a look of bewilderment and anger arresting her grey, aging demeanor. Her features demanded an explanation, even though her voice failed to follow suit.

An uncomfortable silence developed. It remained long enough to allow a cough to be heard from the back of the crowd.

"Harlot." Dibley finally said, although it lacked the force required to make the utterance sound like anything other than a question. "Painted... umm.. vixen."

"Ye damned fool!" The crone screeched. "Can ye not read th' sign I 'ammered to th' front door?"

As one, the mob turned to read the notice nailed to the wooden entry.

"Ooo.." said the Vicar. ".. Awkward."

Two Tales of a City (Part 1) - here

Not that anyone will remember my other post, but this is actually a completely new 'No Hos' sign that I found on a London door in Shoreditch. Considering that this type of signage may be just about to explode fashion wise, I've decided it's high time to invest in a sign for my door that reads 'No Triceratops here - Triassic era herbivores only'. It'll clear up soooo many misunderstandings.

Life. The Non-Exact Science

2007-11-05T10:33:00.000-08:00

It never fails to surprise me how small the world is. Oh sure, some scientific boffin sporting a bad come-over and claiming ancient Greek ancestry will try to convince you that the circumference of the earth is somewhere in the vicinity of 25,000 miles, but I know better. The size of the Earth of course fluctuates; shrinking in direct proportion to the amount of people there are out there in the world that you absolutely, categorically don't want to run into.

A fine example of this phenomenon occurred last week. I was having a quiet beer with the MaCahon sisters, daughters of one of my Mum's close friends, who had very generously agreed to meet with me on the basis that it was a charity job and could later be written off on tax. Luckily we all turned out to be only mildly psychotic, which relates to 'pleasantly engaging' in pub terms. Stephanie later confessed to me that she had called my number after noticing the sudden appearance of a dilapidated loner at the bar, who was studying his A-Z with notable fervor. If the hobo had answered his phone, she had resolved to leave through the back door at once. I made a quick mental note to avoid engaging these cunning lasses in a battle of wits.

Quickly forgetting my resolution, we embarked immediately in a battle of wits. Choice of battleground: a particularly tough UK pub quiz. Through some very nimble brain wizardry Jess was managing to keep the team afloat, but by around half time it was pretty obvious that the Karmagutsas were about to live up to their pessimistic namesake. My daydreams of our downfall were interrupted suddenly by a girl at the table next to us who was looking at me quizzically.

"I'm sorry, but I've got the feeling I know you." She said through her quizzically accusing death ray eyes.

"Mm?" I ventured, trying to sound non-committal.

"You grew up in Canberra, didn't you." Accusation, not question. "What's your name?"

"Umm.. David Price."

"OH. MY. GOD. You went out with my sister, Fleur."

"Oh, Fleur! You mean the 3 week relationship - 5 hour torturous breakup girl who couldn't understand the multi-faceted reasons as to why it wasn't working who then subsequently ambushed me in the Pancake Parlour when she was drunk and loudly accused me of having a heart darker than Satan to which I responded meekly by bowing my head and having another bite of my now sodden blueberry flapjack attack?"

"Um. Yeah."

"Wow. Tell her I said 'Hi'."

Expanding universe my arse.

Sit on this and Translate

2007-11-02T01:58:00.000-07:00

When using Babelfish to translate something extremely important into Portuguese the other day, I was not at all surprised that once I translated the Portuguese message back into English the entirety of the message was a little bit skewed in it's terminological exactitude (thanks Churchy). This phenomenon is nothing new, as many a bored internet veteran could attest. I was however, particularly proud of the transformation that had affronted my usual and none-to-sarcastic sign-off of 'kind regards'.

What Babelfish has chosen to change it to was:

...
Amiable consideration,
Davey.

Which is no doubt a fairly literal interpretation of both 'kind' and 'regards' but is no less fundamentally awesome for being so. I started to wonder if other languages had a harsher interpretation of those two words, depending on their culture and language. Let's have a look at German, shall we?

...
Friendly respect,
Davey.

Gee, that's swell... although it does bode for some rather ominous imaginings of what my unfriendly respect might be. Even still, it's not like you're going to be confused with being sympathetic to the Nazi party any time soon. Let's move on.

French:

...
Sincere Friendships,
Davey

That is of course until everyone else wants to do it too, then we'll simply object for the sake of being argumentative. Oh but you gotta love the French. When my French friend Cedric was staying with me a few years ago, he walks up to me in the morning and says "Oh Davey, I am so angry!"

"Ced! Why are you angry? Is it something I've done?"

"No no.. I am angry! I need to eat something!"

Poor dude was hungry. So I made him eat Vegemite. That's called 'Forging Bilateral Relations'. Take a note.

Italian:

...
Kind Cares,
Davey

.. I'm sure he does. But I don't! Ha ha. Ha. heh. Eye ties. LOVE those guys.

Russian:

...
Heart privity,
Davey

What the HELL? What is privity? You may as well be signing off Heart Cavity for all the good that one is going to do you. (Mental note to sign off Heart Cavity next time I email Will. Mental note reminder about previous mental note.)

Japanese:

...
Kind point,
Davey

Well, yeah, but you're still pointing dude.

After amusing myself for countless hours looking up the various incantations of cultural pleasantries, I noticed an odd translation option at the bottom of the drop down box:

Norseman, eh? What, those sweet and doddering old soothsayers from a bygone era? Weren't they known for constructing lavish wedding gifts and throwing dainty morning teas? Surely they'll have have some heart warming way of bidding their fellow countrymen adieu. Surely.

Pfft. As if any of my friends have crops. What a gyp.

This Looks Like a Job For..

2007-10-30T10:45:00.000-07:00

Went for two job interviews today. Although I am probably the most unemployable ratbag of an occupational health and safety disaster waiting to happen ... um... person that I know, I do hold an unbeaten interview record; in that I've never been to an interview and not gotten the job. Pretty scary really, considering I'm coming off the seedy end of a 5 month travelling bender and currently about as employable as a Commodore 64 tape cartridge.

The first interview was for a lovely little NPO called The Learning Trust, who are based in Hackney, which as you know, would be very convenient for me locality wise. They basically deal with the administration of all the schools and learning centers in the Hackney area.

These jokers made the completely transparent play of sending one of their really hot colleagues down to collect me when I arrived at the front desk this morning. Little do they realise that I fell for it completely! Ha! Anyway, I thought the interview went really well and 30 minutes after leaving, the recruiter called me up and offered me the job. Queue celebratory dance - which coincidentally looks just like the mambo with a few 'Heys!' thrown in intermittently.

This afternoon I went to another job interview for a smaller company based in Shoreditch, which is a really cool part of town a 20 minutes bus ride away. Great looking company, really young and innovative and I'd get to learn a lot, which is good thing for someone in the ever-changing nerd business.

Now, although I went in bolstered by the confidence of the previous job offer, for some reason this one was bad from the start. They asked me questions on things I had slightly lied about on my CV, I laughed at inappropriate places and didn't laugh when I should have, and I'm not altogether certain but I might have been wearing my underpants on my head.

I left with my tail between my legs, and thankfully with my underwear back where it should have been. "Oh well," I thought "at least I'm still addicted to crack and have 5 kids I've never met." I then tried to name all five of them, but got stuck on Roger. It really wasn't my day.

Then the phone rang. "Hi David, this is Pete from the interview... could you come in tomorrow to meet the CEO?"

Apparently a discerning admirer of pantular headgear. I accepted.

.. Which one though?

1. More money, NPO, cooler office, walk to work, hot colleague
2. More innovative.. umm.. that's about it.

Halp!

Boo! Shake, shake, shake the room.

2007-10-28T07:17:00.000-07:00

Halloween, as it turns out, is great. You get to dress up as Teen Wolf, participate in parent approved solicitation of lollies from strangers, and BOO! the bajeezus out of unsuspecting flatmates while simultaneously excusing yourself from the subsequent abuse barrage because you were merely attempting to be 'festive'.

Little did I realise however, that for all these years I had been inadvertently missing out on the best bit of Halloween, for it was only yesterday that I realised that I had never ever once carved a pumpkin not once in my life. Riding in a helicopter could wait, this was far more accessible to a man of my current means. So, while the rest of the house was cooking and cleaning and moving furniture in preparation for our Halloween party yesterday, my flatmate Charlie and I resolved to jazz the place up somewhat by creating some arrestingly spooky squashes.

After every incision, I would turn my orange obscenity towards Charlie and say "Hey dude, check it out." which would illicit a avalanche of hilarity from the both of us. Then Charlie would make a cut, show me, and we would again erupt in pumpkin fueled elation. This rotation ensued for the remainder of the afternoon, and by the time our constructions were completed both Charlie and I were utterly convinced that we should pursue the art of pumpkin carving on a more professional basis from this day henceforth.

We were, of course, showered with praise for our fine efforts once the merrymakers began arriving at our soirée later that evening. I stood beside my creations and beamed with pride, discussing in triplicate the techniques I had utilised to create some of the finer details.

I call this guy the 'Yak-O-Lantern':

And this charming character I imagine being pictured under a bold printed newspaper headline which reads: "Headless horseman relieved after cranium recovered in ditch".

Charlie tried to recreate the nuances of Pete Doherty with his pumpkin. We thought that perhaps by creating an realistic effigy we would somehow tap into some eerie magic power vortex resulting in Kate Moss appearing at some point in the night demanding to see the 'two pumpkin artisans', but unless this occurred while I was in the can, our hopes were well and truly dashed in that respect.

I've got to be completely honest, we did get a fair bit of inspiration from this site, very edgily titled 'extreme pumpkins'. Just wondering what can't be dubbed extreme these days...?

Tune in next week while I explore the extreme sub culture of quilting. Peace out dawgs!

Will Styles for Cleo Bachelor of the Year

2007-10-24T10:42:00.001-07:00

Will received this email in his inbox the other day:

Hey guys,

See below re: Cleo’s Bachelor of the Year.

It’s always good to have some DJs in this competition, so if you’re interested & single (see requirements below), please get back to me & I’ll be happy to forward your details onto Jo @ Cleo.

It’s a bit of fun also, so don’t be embarrassed :)

Thanks, Angie x

-------

So CLEO Bachelor is about to start up yet again.

We’ll be locking down this year’s crop of 50 bachelors over the next month and shooting around Australia in early December.

I’m sending this to you in the hope that you’ll suggest any suitable talent who you think are CLEO Bachelor material.

Looking for young-ish (no older than 35), unattached* boys who are not only hot, but successful and have a bit of charisma. All we need is a happy snap and a few basic details:
Name
Age
Occupation
City they reside in
Contact phone and email or publicist contact
Plus a few words (100 max) on why they’d make a great CLEO Bachelor.
(NB: * by ”unattached” we’d prefer single, but if they’re dating someone and it’s not too serious – i.e. they’re not living together or haven’t been together for a few years – then they will be considered).

Email any suggestions to xxxx@xxxxxx.com.au and please circulate to anyone you think may be interested!

Thanks!

He contacted me pretty soon afterwards, and we began a thorough investigation of the material in earnest. Although we both agreed that morally we could not condone a competition that so ruthlessly grades one man's worth over another, we still could not deny the fact that Will had a fairly solid shot at the title. He had placed very well in Mad Magazine's Alfred E Nueman Lookalike of the Year competition only a few weeks prior, indeed, had almost gone home with the coveted sash. We decided to go for it.

To allay our ethical concerns, we promptly concluded that the amount of good Will could accomplish after being crowned El Macho Bacho would eclipse any harm done in promoting the event. After all, there were still all those starving kids in like, that country with all the dust. It was common knowledge that most of them didn't even have decent iPods!!

Concentrating on this fact, we got down to the persnickety business of constructing Wills application.

To whom it may concern,

Will Styles, Sydney DJ and cafe socialite, is spry, entertainingly dim-witted and turns a distinct shade of mauve when shaken violently. His antics as the last guy to leave every party are only matched by his susceptibility to lose an argument with a chair for 3 days straight.

Although he would love to win the competition, I am sure he fears that all the attention would distract him from his true calling of collecting arm-pit fungi. A keen amateur biologist, Will breeds them into new strains of super-fungi, such as his favourites Parisite Hilton, Sir Scratchalot and Allyourhairis Allfalloffus.

Will would be a great choice for Cleo Bachelor of the Year because there is no doubt in my mind he will be a bachelor for the rest of his life, and when she reads about him, I'm sure your reader will definitely agree. [Singular intentional.]

Warmest personal regards,
David.

We're still waiting for a response. They were probably just so beguiled by Will's 'come hither' look that they're still trying to find the words to express their infatuation. Anyway, I expect that any day now they'll send the limo packed with babes, so I'll keep you posted.

Wanna Be In My Gang

2007-10-21T06:43:00.001-07:00

Yep, this is how I spend my time when I should be looking for work.

UPDATE:
Sarah got back to me:

To dear David 'Not so nice' Price

I was so ecstatic upon receipt of this email/offer that I immediately started bashing my head against the heater in excited anticipation. The bruises will look amazing with a tassled jacket.

An interview and tour of the 'headquarters' would be right up my dark, dirty and stinky alley.

From Sarah Jane Inflictor of Pain

Great name, don't you think? This gang is going to be great.

Moshzilla

2007-10-18T07:40:00.001-07:00

It was no co-incidence that the day I finally realised the true potential of the internet coincided directly with me stumbling across the moshzilla phenomenon. Although there was a secret shame in finding someone else's complete and utter humiliation funny, it was, never the less, pretty fuckin funny. It transcended funny. It had to power to render adversarial work colleagues temporary allies, with your sworn enemy ambling meekly up to your screen to see what all the fuss was about. I've found that these internet moments are rare, and should be treasured for their puerile purity. After all, life is fleeting; infamy is ageless.

The repercussions on my life after this event were all too predictable. For a while, no-one could get much sense out of me, and any photos that happened to stray into my neck of the woods were immediately seized and then painstakingly grilled for potential photoshopping opportunities.

My boss at the Art Gallery Craig, knowing better, should never have asked me to backup his recent holiday snaps from Thailand. That's like asking a glue sniffing addict to to be captain of the scrapbook team. My eyes saw red. Not being able to stop my primal urges, I grabbed the following image and went to work.

I considered not sending the result in a company wide email for about 5 seconds. Then I got distracted by a butterfly that landed on the mouse, causing the click to engage and in turn sending the email. "Oh well," I thought "At least I can always blame the butterfly."

157 people in four departments received the following email:

To: All Staff
From: David Price (Art Gallery Society of NSW)
Subject: Up, up, and a Craig.

Amazingly, the whole affair was deemed a hilarious caper, and I was crowned First Class Photoshop Artisan for that week. It may have helped that my boss had a bit of a thing for The Man of Steel, but this could only be attributed to blind, dumb luck considering that I found it out after I could have been fired.

I wish I could say that my bosses also had a pet interest in experimental cryogenics. That could have saved me so much explaining two weeks later when I actually did get the boot. Live and learn I guess.

Gypsy and Punk

2007-10-18T04:30:00.000-07:00

Together at last.

Politics. Show Business For Ugly People.

2007-10-16T05:09:00.000-07:00

And there's no business like it, with the divisional lines between reality and fiction further being blurred this week by the American Supreme Court:

Not that they need encouragement, but politicians have been given the green light to lie about their opponents by the Washington state Supreme Court.

More than a dozen states have laws that make it illegal to say false things about political candidates. The laws are, in practice, aspirational. By a 5-to-4 vote Thursday, the Supreme Court in Washington state added that the law in the state was also unconstitutional.

...

[The International Herald Tribune]

Politicians begun exploiting the new ruling immediately, although no one seemed to be able to tell the difference.

I would just like to point out that although the government of a country should always be seen as a source of moral guidance, I am loathe to emulate my political contemporaries in this instance. If there's one thing that my years as a cage fighter in Brazil taught me, its to always be honest about your opponents.

Title quote taken from Jay Leno.

It's Like Rain On Your Wedding Day... No It Isn't

2007-10-15T01:29:00.000-07:00

While reading The Economist the other day, I could not help but chuckle over the misfortunes of eBay, who have only recently admitted to paying an extraordinarily inflated amount for the purchase of internet telephony software company Skype.

Now I'm the first to admit that my grasp of irony is tenuous at best, and that when trying to define it I invariably quote directly from (and often incorrectly from) the movie Reality Bites, but that's all in the past now. From this day henceforth, I shall simply refer to this article while making sure I have a look of pompous self importance on my face.

Think about it. The world's biggest bidding site making the mother of all bidding blunders?

Irony. And if its not, then by god, I'm going to start listening to Alanis Morissette. I probably deserve it.

Two Tales of a City (Part 1)

2007-10-13T10:32:00.000-07:00

He flew out the house, leaving his father's menacing roars having only the slamming door to reprimand. It was not the first time he had been forced to escape these drunken outbursts. Not the last time either, he thought sadly, lowering his head and jumping smoothly onto his skateboard, pushing the ground away and picking up speed down the bike path. Away from that house. Away from the neighborhood. Everything in it.

Could he help it if poetry had chosen him? No more than he could help his fathers distaste for it, surely. His love of words and of the esoteric relationships that existed between them had transfixed him from very early on, and it was true that his determination to consume the work of others had surpassed any other interest that had tried to impress upon him since.

He lifted his front foot, skidding the board to a halt halfway through Turnham Green. In front of him stood the brick wall that bolstered the overground rail; a place he often came to when he needed to be alone and think. That wasn't on the cards today. He pulled a greasy spraycan out of his backpack and walked purposefully up to the wall. The discerning simplicity of Frost, the bombast of Kerouac, the unfaltering support of a thousand long dead poets culminated in his mind as he slowly enabled the trigger of the can.

He stepped back, exhausted, admiring his work. For all it's profundity, he nevertheless accepted his inevitable role as an unappreciated artist. "One day," he told himself, "One day someone will blog about this, and only then shall my life have meaning."

Procrastinating

2007-10-12T01:57:00.000-07:00

I really should be putting my new and improved CV together, as the finances are dwindling faster than.. ummm.. my stockpile of similes. Its job findin' time, and although I realise that this is the inevitable consequence of blowing my vast squillions on the open road, I can't quite find it within myself to start looking. Not. quite. yet.

In the meantime, I suggest we do something pointless. No, we've already invaded Iraq, lets do something else instead.

My suggestion, read some of Craig Dack's penpal correspondences. If these don't tickle your funny bone, your best bet is to take up wearing brown suits and start discussing actuarial accounting at your next dinner party.

Totally Craig Dack's Penpal Correspondence with Sandra Adams

Totally Craig Dack's Penpal Correspondence with Wole Benson

Totally Craig Dack Wins the Lotto

Ok, so like, his name's not really Craig Dack. And he's not really from Bathurst. So that gives you every right to be offended, okay?

Thanks to Eleanor for the reminder, and to Bernie for the link.

Help Me Rwanda

2007-10-11T02:54:00.001-07:00

So I started my new, and very damp, life in London a few days ago. At this stage its a temporary move; I'm quite paranoid about my nephews growing up in Australia without a knowledgeable guide to watch over their 'throwing rocks at things' endeavors. Nevertheless, they will have to make do for the time being, while I attempt to come to grips with my new city.

I've been walking around London for the last few days, trying fruitlessly to ascertain my bearings. Although I'm still yet to find a place that sells decent coffee, I did manage to find an abundance of tasty vegetable somasa (not very hard in a Bangladeshi immigration epicenter), a reputable merchant of salt beef 'beigels' (why in Gods name have these been kept from me for all these years thanks Mum) and a pretty good health food store. While perusing the organic grain feed chick peas and the free range coconuts, I suddenly happened a comely bag of what I presumed to be pretty innocent coffee.

Union Hand roasted, from Rwanda. The caption reads: The EASY GOING coffee with a big grapefruit kick for breakfast time, and a soft chocolate and orange hints for a HARMONIOUS afternoon.

"Hold on," I thought, "What if I want to drink it at night!?" but then afterwards began wondering how a company could market a Rwandan coffee based on the ethos of being both easy going and harmonious. Surely the Tutsis would be concerned about this new development, I mused, assuming of course there were any left of their people to be concerned.

In such circumstances I would usually congratulate myself on the keenness of my critique, and immediately follow this by a round of shooting my mouth off to anyone who would care to listen. Such is the nature of my kind.

For some reason though, I didn't. Bemused by my lack of audacity, I decided instead to do a bit more research. Wacky, I know, but what the hell.

Look what I found on the Union Website:

Rwanda Maraba Bourbon

This clean, fruity and deeply smooth coffee comes from an amazing group of smallholder farmers in the beautiful Maraba district of southwest Rwanda and is the country's first-ever sold as a single origin. We have been working alongside the Abahuzamugambi Ba Kawa co-operative for more than five years now and have made many personal visits to help them develop the quality of their coffee and improve quality of life in their community.

Our efforts have seen a remarkable transformation in the local environment - yet none of it would be possible without the total quality produced by the farmers themselves.

Okay, so maybe I was a liiiitle presumptuous about their lack of sensitivity. I think we've all learned some lessons here; Never underestimate the annoying virtuosity of health foods stores or the fallibility of my quasi-political satire.

Even My Dreams Are Against Me

2007-10-10T03:42:00.000-07:00

I had a weird dream the other night. I dreamt that I was Jessica Alba's boyfriend.

"You're a walking contradiction!" She scolded.

"Yeh, I've been meaning to talk to you about that." I said, a look of embarrassment creeping across my face (I imagine that it was creeping, because I couldn't actually see myself.) "You see, I'm technically not your boyfriend. My real name is David Price, and I've been time travelling into your boyfriend's body off and on now for ooo the last 6 months or so. Although I know you don't want to hear this right now, we are very much in love."

Not seeing the obvious long term benefits in the situation I was describing, she immediately screamed and collapsed, which is unfortunately the reaction I'm most used to when discussing my feelings with girls. I'm really looking forward to a time when I can casually drop "Oh by the way I think my associations with the devil may have rendered our child the antichrist" into a conversation with my beloved and have her reply "Oh really well that explains the primeval shrieking at dawn and I guess we should replenish the holy water cupboard" without a second thought. But I guess we all have dreams.

The Final Day

2007-10-04T05:16:00.000-07:00

9th November, 1989. Günter Schabowski, East German propaganda minister walks into a seemingly routine press conference nursing the tail-end of a blistering hangover. His recent vacation had been a memorable one, and his head is swimming in the deluge as a result. Wading his way through a yawn inducing tirade of pre-rehearsed questions regarding the status of the German textile industry, the press conference suddenly takes a decisive and unexpected turn.

What is the nature of these questions being directed at him? How is he expected to be responding to inquiries regarding the freedom of the German people to travel? He had successfully managed to miss the press briefing this morning, a point he had congratulated himself on repeatedly since. The only thing he had been given was..

THE BRIEFING MEMO. Brilliant. Deftly removing the typed page from his briefcase and expertly positioning his stylish reading glasses, Günter begins reading, for the first time, the highlighted sections of the page before him.

"..we have decided today (um) to implement a regulation that allows every citizen of the German Democratic Republic (um) to (um) leave the GDR through any of the border crossings."

The audience is stupefied. What did he just say? Temporarily regaining his composure, one of the reporters present manages to raise his voice above the resulting media squall.

"Without a passport? WITHOUT A PASSPORT?"

Again consulting the document, Schabowski confirms that to his knowledge, the new changes would replace any previous requirement for travel documentation. His political comrades on the sidelines wince at the omission, their animated hand-to-throat motions signaling 'please stop now Günter' going obliviously unheeded by the drowning minister.

A timid reporter, who has so far been quiet for the during the conference, stands up, squeaking out his decisive, and historical, question.

"And when do these changes come into effect?"

Schabowski, only now realising both the enormity of the situation and the length he has yet to endure his poor aching head, searches in vain across the page for a date in which to attribute these changes. He finds only the date at the top of the memo, written directly next to the words 'TOP SECRET' in bold red font. He replies softly, a man defeated.

"According to my information, immediately."

Schabowski could not have known that these changes were intended to have come in over the course of years. They had only been discussed and proposed that morning, probably at the same time Günter had been swallowing his first aspirin.

Armed with this incredible story, several reporters leave the conference at once, breaking the news across East Berlin within hours. People begin to crowd checkpoints all across the city, demanding immediate access to the West. The Guards at the gate are confused; they have received no orders from their superiors regarding the wholesale immigration of East Berlin residents. Frantic calls are made, but no minister is willing to give the order to use lethal force. Yet still the gates don't budge.

His confidence bolstered by the exponentially growing numbers of his fellow countrymen, one brave Berliner, using his friend as leverage, hoists himself onto the wall. Ignoring the aggressive shouts from the guards below, he looks out over the west - a part of his city that he has never seen before. Suddenly, he feels a thudding jolt slam into his lower back, and immediately fears he has become the final casualty of his city's lethal duality.

But he remains. Far from being shot at, he has been targeted instead by a water cannon! This joyous epiphany spreads across the mob within seconds. Feeling no reservations in facing a barrage of water, people begin to scale the wall in droves. Resigning themselves to the inevitable, the border guards finally relent and open the checkpoint gates. East Berliners, for the first time in 27 years, walk freely into the West.

West Berlin news crews rush up to some of the first people across the border. Asked what they are thinking, most people echo remarkably similar sentiments.

"Crazy" they breathe, shaking their heads. "Just... crazy."

Transcribed from a story told by Andrew from New Berlin. The more important details of the story I made every attempt to check, but is still sure to contain many inaccuracies and/or poetic license.

Anabolic Rhetoric

2007-09-26T10:23:00.000-07:00

The two day White House environmental 'summit' concluded today with President George W. Bush outlining his plan to achieve what his environmental minister James Connaughton describes as the 'aspirational' goal of reducing greenhouse gas emisions.

When asked to clarify exactly what was meant by this definition, Bush declined, saying that while he aspired to answer the question directed at him, in reality he had no intention of actually doing so.

2 days to go, and officially shitting myself

2007-09-21T08:56:00.000-07:00

Things To Do Before I'm 30
(23rd September)

~~Champagne breakfast in a hot air balloon~~ Lacking ballooning skills and suitable romantic counterpart
~~Invent hover board~~ (c) Universal Studios ergo high litigation potential, not to mention lack of technical know how concerning hovering
~~Get married / have kids~~ One week not long enough - blame late generational awareness
Go to Oktoberfest in Munich and determine requisite answers through the bottom of an impressively large glass.

One out of four aint bad I guess!

Play that funky music

2007-09-15T09:59:00.000-07:00

Things were not always this grim. I used to have a very interesting job. Once upon a time was a very popular Sydney DJ.

Don't laugh, it's true.

Well, I may be stretching the truth slightly, considering that maybe five percent of the people I ended up talking to about it had actually heard of me, but that's beside the point. What was most noticeable during these exchanges was the veritable tirade of questions that could be launched as a result of mentioning my occupation.

"Oh really! What clubs do you play at?"
"Oh really! What style of music do you play?"
"Oh really! You must be really worried about your future, yeh?"

I could never really understand the general fascination, but was always pleased with amount of conversational attention it elicited. I mean, most of the DJs I knew, while being completely lovable in their own right, were at heart music nerds of the highest order. Not unlike computer nerds in many respects.

Eventually, I made the decision to give it up. There were a multitude of reasons for doing so, but I very quickly found myself explaining them ad nauseum to a throng of incredulous scensters each time I went out.

"But why?" they would lament, shaking their beer to enunciate the point.

"I simply couldn't do it anymore." I would respond defensively. "Working 9 to 5 during the week, and then going out every Friday and Saturday night. Being forced to go to clubs when you didn't want to, missing peoples birthdays, going away parties, weddings. Hanging out with people younger than I was, who weren't my friends. And look, even if I did make it big, I really couldn't see myself being a travelling musician and being away from my (very hypothetical) wife and kids."

"I see." they would say, scratching their chin and nodding solemnly. "But tell me this, why did you quit?"

It wasn't long before the momentum of such conversations led me to feign drink emptiness and back away slowly, trying unsuccessfully to avoid eye contact.

It was pretty tiresome. The interesting thing was, no-one in the industry who was working a similar circuit to me ever questioned the decision. They understood completely, perhaps even better than I did. I think my closest friends Will and Spook were disappointed, mainly because it meant that they would have one less friend to heckle, draw texta on the face of, and buy indigestible concoctions of alcoholic beverages with questionably inspirational titles (The flaming funktrust, the kanga cricket, etc). But as they were well aware, there's only so long that your stomach allows you to drink something that was previously on fire.

During my last few months of DJing I began working at a place called Cargo, which was to all appearances a swish Darling Harbour nightclub. In reality, it was an arse pinching thoroughfare of oily haired bogans with delusions of class. It was here that I met Mikey, a beer swilling, sailor-talking ray of sunshine in this womanising wasteland. We had a simple approach to dealing with the place: Drink a lot of beer and make up jokes at other peoples expense.

It was during one of these cycles that I was approached by a girl of extremely questionable age who was obviously about to request something I'd never heard of, as was the usual fare in the place.

"Hi," She said, attempting to catch me in her doe eyed tractor beam. "Can you play [something I'd never heard of but five bucks says she saw it on video hits that morning]?"

"Sure," I said "Or alternatively, you could just wait until your next blue light disco and then hear it there."

I then erupted in peals of laughter, slapping Mikey in the stomach and retelling the story paying particular attention to my brashness and wit. When I turned around, she was still there, scowling at me. She raised her hand to her head, formed the letter 'L' with her finger and thumb, the international teen-symbol for 'loser'.

"Oh my God!" I bellowed, spilling my beer. "Could you BE any more from high school? You're like a really bad parody of yourself!"

By this stage Mikey and I were having the time of our lives; jumping around and spilling drinks all over ourselves. The track on the turntable could have been running out for all I cared, I was beyond doing anything but hoot with delight. I'm pretty sure the girl wasn't having quite as good a time as us, she made another offensive hand to mouth gesture (which made me almost die, I can tell you) and then left, never to be seen again.

Needless to say I didn't play her track. Looking back now, you'd be forgiven for assuming that I'm an arrogant, opinionated bastard. But you gotta admit, I'm a bastard who comes up with some pretty damn good drunken quips.

I'm going to pay for that night one day, I'm sure.

MIA

2007-09-14T09:34:00.000-07:00

Very sorry for my absenteeism of late, I've been well and truly lost on Mykonos, in the Greek Islands. My hard won programmers tan is looking a very unhealthy brown.

On a lighter note, I did see my friend pay good money last night to don a crash helmet and get struck solidly on the noggin with a fire extinguisher.

Don't let anyone tell you that this end of the world is gimmicky.

Some stories coming soon.

Cap't Buzzkill and the Aftermath

2007-09-07T00:36:00.000-07:00

[Buzz and Cold Pimpin' are in an alehouse, at the business end of beery afternoon]

An' ye know what tha' worst thing is? She's gone an' put a restrainin' order on me. I canne' contact 'er even if aye wanted too!

To be fair, you did attempt to feed her to the crocodiles.

Aye merely ORDERED it, ya' lily livered genteel!

I'm afraid, good sir, that in her eyes the difference may be negligible.

She bloomin' got away, didn't she? So where's the 'arm? Ay've been tryin' ta' think of another way of talkin to 'er, you know, to tell 'er bout me feelins'. So aye wrote 'er a poem, aye did.

Oh capital. Please impart your distilled wisdom on mine ears sir, though I surely consider them unworthy to receive the impending script.

Put a cork in it ya' dandy, and jus' 'av a listen.

let go me son, let go, aye say
for rope stretched taught will break
those learn'd knots will fault aye say
regardless sweet sail make

ye boughs are warped
ye keel askew
ye mast bereft asunder

tha' water leaks
tha' floorboards creek
tha' crew make known their wonder

'oo knows these tides that break our front
each wave widows anew,
of monsoon scale
this evenin' gail
that 'opefuls sail into

Rubbish.

Aye think me metaphor might be a
lit'le 'eavy 'anded.

I think you should give serious consideration to never writing poetry again. Tell me, have you given limericks a crack? I believe their construct might be a little more malleable to your talents.

Ta' be 'onest, it be an old poem anyway, so aye prob'ly shouldna' use it. Aye just dunne' know what else ta' do mate.

Listen, my fish fouled friend, I have a proposal. Quite recently I have become the sole proprietor to a large fortune of engagingly proportioned 'hoes'. Perhaps you would consider accompanying me to get 'jiggy'? It has been my experience that nothing settles a partitioned mind quite like the embrace of a well endowed biatch.

Nay, nay. Ye a generous soul, aye grant ya', but me mind shan't know no rest until its 'ad its parlay.

Well said sir. Perhaps then, you might consider breaking your silence and just talking to the maiden?

An' say what exac'ly? That me bones ache to tha' point of agony from tha' drought that 'er absence 'as created? That aye'd do anything ta' be with 'er? Cap't rowboats for a livin', 'ave a 'alfwit theivin' scoundrel for a boson an' ne'er speak a word to 'er but 'appy ones?

Well, quite, although perhaps with one or two less pirate references. The sentiment is nice though.

Ay've always 'ad a 'abit of 'oldin that "to 'ave an' to 'old" 'oo 'aa in 'igh esteem.

Never would have guessed.

Job Description: Boring

2007-09-03T01:12:00.001-07:00

Life when you're a computer programmer sure is sweet. You get to stare at a lifeless computer screen for the majority of your working life, talk in a completely justifiable nasal voice, and understand those strangely unsettling jokes on the Internet referred to as 'nerd humour'.

Yep, the fun never stops for us code monkeys. There's just one thing that I'm yet to get a proper handle on: being able to to discuss my job in a social setting. Take the following as a rough example. The scene could be any bar where you have just recently been happened upon by a comely lass of questionable virtue. It happens a lot, trust me. Us programmers must give off some kind of musky scent that attracts 'da ladiez'. An 'odor de coder' if you will.

her: So, what do you do?

you: I'm a uh... a computer programmer.

her: ...

you: Which has many additional benefits such as knowing the quick-key to bringing up your desktop.

her: Do you know the quick-key for escaping without ever having to talk to you again?

you: ...alt-e?

You see my predicament. Its not that I can't be thoroughly engaging, its just that I can't be engaging on any social, personal, emotional, or theoretical level. Like, big deal!

Recently I've decided that the best way to combat the problem is to engage in a little process I like to call 'complete dishonesty'. Originally I was just going to reinvent myself as a Harley Davidson riding bounty hunter called 'bruiser' who wears cutoff denims with the reckless abandon of someone who 'just doesn't give a crap about having warm arms', but lately I've come to the realisation that the whole thing will be so much easier if i just steal someone else's identity. It will give the ruse an air of realism, and has the added benefit of saving me countless hours in development time. Everyone gets ice cream!

So, thanks to Jared's Dad and a great story that he told us over daintily held scotches in the Soho district of London last night, I am now a courageous firefighter who used to work in the second response truck in the fire department of Hobart, Tasmania. Pretty cool, eh? Here's some background on my coolness:

One night while we were sitting around playing cards in the station, the alarm suddenly sounded: A fire had broken out during the renovations of the Theatre Royal. Being part of the second response truck, we arrived at the scene to see that things were slowly sliding out of control. The fire was being fought hard on the lower levels of the building by the first team, but it wasn't hard to see that the flames were climbing toward the roof at an alarming rate. The dense, hot air forming toward the top of the building needed to be cooled, and quickly.

Noticing that the outside of the building was covered in scaffolding due to the renovations, I immediately signaled to the rest of the team to get the hose ready for a roof-based position. It seemed an obvious choice at the time, I knew my way around these kind of structures from working odd jobs in construction over the last few years. Once I'd climbed to roof level, I threw down the retrieval rope and pulled up the hose as soon as it was safely secured. By this stage, the fire had vented through the roof and the air around me was a howling wind of sucking , super heated oxygen. Corrugated iron sheets were being torn off indiscriminately and thrown skyward by the thermal currents, coming precariously close to shearing me in two. Kneeling down, my eyes a blur from the chocking clouds of black smoke, I turned on the hose and pointed the flow of water down the flaming turret.

After 6 intense hours (that seemed like 1), we managed to save the Theatre. During the struggle, a opportunistic photographer from the local paper took some pictures of the 'hero on the roof' who managed to 'thwart the fire and single-handedly save the historic Theatre'. I'm sure the boys at the station would have been none too pleased had those photos ever come to light. To this day I still haven't seen them.

You know what, this is never going to work. I think I'll just stick to 'single handedly saving the database' from the evil grasps of the 'stored procedure bug'.

I'm more of your 'ones and zeros hero' kinda guy anyway.

Small article on the Theatre

Cap't Buzzkill and the Breakup

2007-08-23T02:17:00.001-07:00

Buzz, honey, I'm sorry to pull you out of your 'Captains with hatpins' meeting like this, it's just that I really needed to talk to you about something.

Oh ferchrist. 'Ere it comes.

I've been offered a position on another ship Buzz, I'm leaving you.

Ack! Bajesus! I be gobsmacked. Of all the scurvy... lowdown... Lily livered..

Why by thunder? Why?

Well, he just offers me such great opportunities Buzz! We'll be involved in all sorts of legitimate trading opportunities in the West Indies, he's been good friends with my family for years, and well, he's just.. so.. educated.. Buzz.

Educated? Blow me down. EDUCATED? I be educated too ya know!

You took night school Buzz.

I BE LEVEL FOUR IN SHIVERING TIMBERS BY THUNDER!

The board expelled you when they learned you'd been selling bootleg liquor to minors moonshined yourself in the mixed dorm bathtubs Buzz. Three of those kids got acute alcohol poisoning!

I thought they be just POSING as minors. And anyway, those hypocrites on the board would 'av 'ad nay'r a problem if I'd 'av plundered the grog meself! "Pirates don't brew" they told me. Scoundrels!

Really honey, this is all beside the point. I've made up my mind. It's not that I don't love you, it's just that all this nefarious behavior has to end at some point, and I just don't see you wanting the same things as me. Remember last week when I told you I thought our relationship needed more spark? You bought me a new canon. You just never listen Buzz.

That canon cost me 50 doubloons.

*sniff*

I'm sorry Buzz. I'm leaving now. Too many people will be hurt if I stay.

I be understandin' completely. Allow me tha' honour of sayin' just one more thing.

Of course Buzz.

I hope ye taste good. I wouldna' be wantin' to give acute scallywag poisonin' to tha' crocodile.

FEED HER TO 'EM ME HEARTIES!

Aye Aye! *shove*

The 'Bow and Leave' Technique

2007-08-19T12:48:00.000-07:00

My Mum's great. She has an abundance of artistic and creative talent, cooks a mean Bolognaise, and gives great but often unwarranted advice. Yep, you sure can say a lot of things about my Mum, except for maybe one thing: Her comedic faculties are a little skeewiff.

Don't get me wrong. She laughs a lot. In fact, I've seen the whole team of Kenyon floozies in uncontrollable dinner table hysterics that would rival any 6 year old hearing his first ever fart joke. So, it's not that she doesn't love fun, it's just that she hasn't really been known to make up any jokes. Good ones anyway.

Until last Christmas holidays that is.

It was getting toward the end of a quiet night. Dad had trundled off to bed and Mum and I were spending the last remaining hours finishing off a bottle of red wine and watching Mum's VHS copy of Pride and Prejudice (BBC version of course). As embarrassed as I am to admit it, P&P has become a bit of a security blanket for me over the years. I once saw that a guy that had created a support group on Facebook called 'I know every line to the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice' and I was like 'Oh, what a great idea'. I guess for me it represents all the good things in life: Love, unrequited love, family, intelligence, quick-wittedness, Miss Eliza Bennet... meow.

But most of all: massive, rich, decked out, county estates. With lakes to fish in and horses to appear gallant on. My kingdom for such lavishness. I swear.

Anyway, enough discussion of such things. I can feel what small grasp I have left on my manliness slipping through my callous-free fingertips.

As we were watching the video, I was playfully giving Mum shit about the degradation of the film quality due to it's overuse. 'Dust!' she proclaimed, but I wasn't buying a word of it. Why would dust collect specifically around the area where Darcy asserts how much he 'ardently admires and loves' Lizzy? You can't fool me you old romantic.

During a ball scene, we watched a socially uncomfortable Darcy leave mid conversation by bowing stiffly to his contemporaries and simply walking away.

"Wouldn't that be great?" mused my Mum. "Imagine being at a dinner party and being stuck in a boring conversation. You could just bow, then leave!"

What. A. Concept.

Still rude to be sure, but so noble. Back in Sydney, I spread the word immediately. The Bronte crew thought it was the most inspired thing they'd ever heard of, but then they're easily amused. Particularly when it comes to new inappropriate ways to conduct themselves.

We began practicing the technique at a rather morose barbeque, and everything was progressing nicely until someone deemed to question my behavior after what I assumed was a perfectly executed bow and leave.

"What are you doing?" He asked, looking very confused.

"I'm bowing." I said. "Then leaving. It's a new thing we're doing."

"Well it's weird. And very impolite." He shook his head and walked away.

"Oh fine, just leave then!" I bellowed after him. "No wonder they say gallantry is DEAD!"

I quickly wanted to gesticulate just how much this breakdown of social formalities had affected me, but considering I'd already bowed once, I kinda just turned and skulked away.

My 'turn and skulk' technique definitely needs work.

I still don't get it

2007-08-17T16:52:00.000-07:00

Waking up in San Sebastian to find the day outside a bit overcast, we quickly decided against going to the beach. Ryan and I filled in the morning doing the obligatory internet and email thing before quickly getting bored and deciding that we needed to get out of the house. By this stage, our host Morten had groggily entered the lounge room and after a very involved eye rubbing session, suggested we go for a drive. His football training didn't start until five after all. We had wanted to go and check out the Guggenheim museum in nearby Bilbao, and since we did not mind at all being chauffeured around in his brand new, football club provided Mercedes, we happily accepted. To Bilbao sir, and don't spare the mustard!

The Basque region of Spain really is jaw droppingly beautiful. Green rolling hills, pine trees everywhere, and those little tunnels that go through mountains like the ones you see in model train sets.

I tried to take about a million photos, but only too late did I realise that I had stupidly set the camera to 'incredibly blurry'. I should have had it set to 'Awesome pictures to make your friends back home jealous', but what can I say, it's an easy mistake to make.

Truth be told, I didn't really know a great deal about the Guggenheim. If i was asked during Trivial Pursuit two weeks ago in what country it was located, I would have answered 'Germany', quickly followed by a 'Well it sounds German!' remark to deflect any patronising guffaws. After taking in it's stainless steel kitchen-esk exterior, my first impression was that the architect was a bit of a prankster - reason being that the stairs leading to the entrance are the kind whose length is configured so perfectly that they result in being uncomfortably long. You even have to do a feet switcharoo halfway up to give each leg a turn at climbing. Strange thing to notice, hey? It's true, we are a culturally deficit mob of yokels.

But at least we are street wise enough to be visibly afraid when flower-cyclone death is imminent.

The museum was exhibiting an artist called Anselm Keifer that I'd seen before while working at the Art Gallery of NSW, so I immediately began gloating to my comrades at having an extensive taste in cultivated arts. Of course, as soon as I was asked for further information about him I had to reluctantly back down from my effrontery, due to knowing absolutely nothing about him. We were finding it difficult to understand his work too; large metal-bolstered concrete stair structures secured one by one up a high wall. An engineering marvel to be sure, but quite unintelligible to the likes of the yokel party.

Looking at one of his massive, 20ft high collage works, I started to imagine what his neighbours must think when he began putting one of these things together. "Oh Anselm," they'd chuckle, shaking their heads and having another sip of their morning coffee. "What in Gods name are you creating now? Hey Anselm! Quit fucking around and go and trim that hedge like we asked you last week!"

After reading one of the descriptions posted on the wall, I discovered that he lives as a hermit in an old converted factory in Barjac, France. The place has numerous interconnecting warehouses, living quarters and greenhouses that he uses to create these massive constructions. The place has got loads of secret tunnels and rooms connecting the different areas. He has spent the last decade fashioning the place into a living piece of art, piling up fragile concrete structures and letting the elements do the rest. Calls himself an alchemist. Cooool.

I'd probably go a little bit loopy in that environment. I'd start wearing a 24-7 monocle, developing a cackle, and answering the door saying things like "So doctor! We meet again, at last!"

Not ol' Anselm though. He's still keeping it real, driving his big construction cranes (I assume, otherwise he's just REALLY strong) and waxing lyrical about life.

The book, the idea of a book or the image of a book, is a symbol of learning, of transmitting knowledge.. I make my own books to find my way through the old stories.

-- Anselm Kiefer

Propaganda

2007-08-16T03:46:00.000-07:00

Speaking of Copenhagen's general aversion to anything non-law-abiding, have a crack at this:

Can you spot the two things wrong with it? Here I'll help you.. you're taking too long.

1. People would not idly stand by without trying to immediately turn ducks into duck pancakes. Even if they were Danish. As everyone knows, it's contrary to human nature.
(formula being: life = willingness to eat duck pancakes x Pi)

2. People would not be smiling at this blatant disregard for the Dansk pedestrian road processes! They would be CHASING them with STICKS and singing viking war songs loud enough to chill the blood in your veins. Believe me, it's fuckin frightful.

No disrespect to Hans Christian Anderson, or indeed, any of his subsequent offspring; I'm sure they're all delightful. But it has to be said here and now that the man was A CHARLETON.

I think the abundance of evidence here clearly speaks for itself.

Four fucked cars and a skatepark

2007-08-14T10:09:00.000-07:00

Auntie warning - indiscriminate drug references and usage of big words like 'dichotomy' that know one really uses anymore but have the ability to give you the appearance of being a bit of a wanker at dinner parties. Not that I'd know.

Copenhagen is a city of opposites, a hotbed of dichotomy if you will (bam). The scale is skewed between an obstinately law abiding public spurning even the most pedantic of criminal discretions, and the hash hazed underbelly of the little suburb republic known as 'Christania town'.

Our interest in this differential anomaly spurred us into further research. The public had to be informed! Unfortunately, our overall knowledge of the scientific method was a little rusty, so we had to improvise a little. This improvisation basically meant we hung out in all the seediest areas of town and jaywalked a lot. Wouldn't you know it? At the time we weren't even aware that we were conducting field research! That's called avoiding the observer uncertainty my friends. Our lot don't do things by halves.

Firstly, let me describe jaywalking in Copenhagen. Happy as Larry, you arrive at the road in question, humming along to 'Road Trippin' by the Chilli Peppers because the Eftpos machine you just used was called a 'Blu Chippen', so you started substituting that into the lyrics for your companion's supposed amusement (she WAS laughing, so it was funny, ok?). Everyone is waiting by the side of the road, patiently awaiting the little green man to do his walking thing. Due to the street being completely empty, you decide to make like Young MC and bust a move. Whamo! Everyone turns on you faster than a backbencher in a prostitute scandal. They pursue you for streets, and it is only through utilising your expertise in Judo that you manage to beat your non-too-hasty retreat. Immediately afterwards you get a "thug fo' life" tattoo on your bicep, and feel quite chuffed at the penmanship and the way the colour of it matches your eyes.

Then there's Ye Olde Christiania town. We'd gotten wind that it was a marvelous place to pick up some embroidery gems and that the local fauna was quite charming, so you can imagine our horror when we discovered some of the local dignitaries openly selling blocks of hashish in full view of anyone who happened to look. Biting off chunks for sale with their blemished incisors no less! In their defence, there did seem to be a very strong anti HARD drug stance, as we discovered when a foolhardy wastoid deemed to presume that our chunk biting trafficker might be holding anything *stronger* than the sticky brown stuff. The uncomfortable atmosphere that ensued following his inquiry positively gave us the willies.

Fortunately we managed to regain some of our composure by regaling a young gent skateboarding with uncharacteristic skill in the local skateboarding emporium located not far from our former scene of barbary. Patrick, one of the more vivacious in our fellowship, did not appear to be joining in with the general euphoria and seemed quite inconsolable after the incident.

"What's up dude?" One of our party inquired of him. "Feelin bummed or somethin?"

Patrick eyes blurred dreamily. "I used to skate." he explained sadly. "Probably would have been better than that dude too, back in the day."

Ah yes. That old chestnut. Numerous times have the vintage 'Thrasher' and 'Skateboarder' magazines showing Patrick's younger motif been presented to us during the early hours of a particularly intensive research trip. Quite impressive really; Unequivacably radical was his form, his demeanor authority challenging.

As it turned out however, our chum was creating a devilish ruse. His dispondance was simply a mechanism for which to present us his whimsy.

"I mean, whose bright idea was it to take me to a skate park?" He bellowed in Australian twang. "I'm bloody turning 30 in under five hours! Here's this little blonde dude systematically ripping the skate park a new one, and I'm stumbling around goin 'Got any hard drugs mate?'"

Don't stress Patty, I'm pretty certain that even at 14 you were still a crack toting scumbag. There there.

Names, places, faces and facts have been changed to protect, well, me really.

Don't look.. I'm hideous!

2007-08-13T09:36:00.000-07:00

Inspired as I was by the lovely Miss Bloom's foray into pop art inspired cartoonery, I thought it wise to show my own efforts in contorting the public image of myself:

That's right, read it and weep suckers. The story behind this frankensteinal monstrosity was that I was attempting to demonstrate to my friend Leah the intricacies of a particular outfit I had planned for a friend's engagement party. What's that? Well yes, OF COURSE it was during work hours, as if I would have bothered otherwise?

Anyway, I suppose it had the desired effect. She immediately printed it out onto A3 paper and stuck it up in her team's shared cubicle space, thereby turning it into their unofficial mascot. For all I know my poor characture is currently sporting 3 cheap plastic darts sticking out of his obliviously smiling cranium.

Everything happens for a reason I guess.