28.4.05

IDEA DONE TO DEATH, OTHER IDEAS TO SUE

Just killing my last afternoon before the long weekend and found Upgrade boyfriend 5.0 to husband 1.0 - Pentium version.

What a piece of fucking magical comedy that wasn't. An upgrade to any fucking sense of humour ver. 0.1 would be a fucking good place to start and finish. I will say nothing about the mindless repetition of old, old jokes about husbands / wives. Flowers and chocolates version 6.9 were probably rendered obscolete by WIFE GOING TO SEED VERY FUCKING QUICKLY INDEED ver. whatever the fuck number you like. One wiff of security or commitment and the pies and cakes start going down like whores in a navy barrack.

So tell me: Why can't anyone generate their own jokes? Freedom of speech - yeah, yeah. You've got the freedom to shut the fuck up and listen sometimes too.

The one that really gets me riled is the Mastercard Advert copying phase that I really and truly hope is going to die out soon. Hoho! Lets tot up the costs and then put in an embarrassing picture at the bottom and name it priceless. So here we go:
New dress - $40
Meal at local bar - $50
Drinks at "Pete's Bar" - $75
Picture of someone falling off a table - worthless


The only proper way of using this with any humour is to write it on your toilet paper and remove the faeces from your anus with it.

My god, these perenial jokes that sprout like a fungus every year. I nearly swallowed my pint-glass when I heard old Grandpa DogChop start telling the "cut and blow" gag. Gag is the word.

So what's to be done about it? Well, whenever you see someting like this appear, stamp on it - literally if possible. Certainly, if it apears online leave a bunch of shit in the comment box.

Right, that's it! I'm off to stop chickens and all other sundry livestock from crossing the information super-highway.

Excreted by Mrs DC @ 9:11 PM 1 Noteworthy retort(s)

27.4.05

IF YOU'RE RACIST AND YOU KNOW IT, SMASH YOUR NADS

Bricktop351 sprayeth:
I fuckin hate racists, whether they're from Australia, Indonesia, Uganda, the UK - and I include Wales in there - Papua New Guinea, Chile, Vietnam, Argentina, Bolivia, the former Soviet Union, Bulgaria, Spain, France, Germany, Bangladesh, New Zealand, Pakistan or any other country, especially the USA.

I fuckin' hate racist cunts and cockgobblers from the USA, with their holier-than-thou racist outlook where nothing and nobody is as racist as them and their uber self-importance as they impose their racist beliefs, ways and alleged racist superiority onto lesser creatures such as racist Zimbabweans.

Join me on this magnificent journey through the nether regions of the personal psyche, dear cultural cringers, as I introduce you to the wonderful world of Nads Smashing [photos are still being developed], a craze that's bound to join folklore and tales of humanity prevailing where common sense ought to have, much like bungee jumping from vines and crashing head-first into the ground or carving miniature frisbees out of wood and threading them in elongated form through your bottom lip or ear lobes, or applying heavy, silver coils around your neck, tightening the motherfuckers and seeing who can resemble a giraffe the most over an indefinite period of years.

You don't need a special ticket, membership or a special suit and tie to smash your nads, just the ability to string together sentences, be it through written form or through reading form [I almost wrote 'readen' form then coz I'm sitting in a pool of my own excrement in front of the computer; fucking Indian curry] and a fist with working parts that enjoys the occasional contact with semi-squishy-cum-semi-hard objects. Ladies can enjoy this phenomenon equally as men, for you simply need to find a set of nads that you have a deepset resentment towards. But more of that later.

I guess my intolerance of racially intolerant people stems from my formative years, from the time I was conceived through to the time I was born [in Nicaragua] to the time I never quite understood what my Portuguese-speaking parents were blathering about to the time I looked them squarely in the eye and announced that I was ready to be delivered to Australia. Yeah, fellow travellers, freedom fighters and octogenarians that may have accidentally found us via the swift Yahoo! search service, my second birthday was one I'll never forget as my mother made various cheese cakes and baklavas that I promptly moulded and rearranged into a table-sized map of Australia, shouting, 'Take me there or just drop me fuckin' off, pooooooleeeeese.' I think Papa and Mama got the hint pretty early on about what I was alluding to, seeing as my English was about as recognisable to them as my illegitimate children's birthmarks are to me, although the internet wasn't the thriving conveyor belt for porn and private information about everyone except those in power and I wasn't able to log on, type a few well chosen words, such as Australia or map in order to make my meaning as obvious as the rain dripping through our living room ceiling.

But the message did get through, for I, naturalised Australian Bricktop351 that I am, was and am part of the a country known as Australia, which, as you no doubt are aware, belongs to the Commonwealth and the Queen of England...

What the fuck?


This momentary interlude is brought to you by Vaseline and Spermulon, the makers of Nikki Nova's Rubber Vagina: now available in blueberry flavour.

Fuck me. I just got sidetracked and had to look up whether Australia was an independent nation, existing under its own powers of government or whether it is still required to report to the Queen of England if certain events in its political armour are to be refined without the prior written consent of someone with a crown, to which the answer was no in the first degree and yes in the second.

You'd think that a nation as old as Australia [it's a couple of fuckin' hundred years old, for fuck's sake AND we've held The Ashes since the mid-80s!!] would've found the fortitude to stand up on its own two legs and power its way on a revolutionary bicycle along the world's uber superhighway without the UK's training wheels as secondary aid, wouldn't you?

Anyway, that realisation and minor crisis in lack of history aside, racism and I do not get along well for I happen to be of belief that racism and racist attitudes stunt our growth as human-like creatures and keep us treading water without sight of an end when we ought to be thinking about getting out of the fuckin' over-chlorinated pool and to the showers where gorgeous, clean, disease-free, succulent goddesses with tanned legs as long as the eye can visualise await us [ladies, feel free to juxtapose this very real wet dream with your own notion of idealistic orgasm inducing characters and body types, for I iz a red-blooded bloke and demand my steak with tomato sauce - not ketchup].

'So, when exactly did you realise that YOU were racist, Bricktop351?' my mates Cornelius and Dr DogChop asked simultaneously, both emphasising the word you, last night while dancing in the moonlight under the spell of hallucinogens.

Well, it was somewhere between Cooktown and Karumba, North Queensland - or somewhere between the rainforest and the dead-set middle of fucking nowhere outback if you're unaware of the geography - on the continent known as Ostrailya.

A whinging Yank [which is the word we give to ALL you fucking whinging Americans, in case you're a fucking whinging American and think it's reserved solely for those of you whinging cunts from the North or East or North-East; you pack of cunts, so submersed in your own tainted egos. We don't play by your fucking rules over here, so fuck yourself with as many stars and stripes as you desire. Fucktards.] said that she wanted to go to the toilet, to which I concurred by pulling the 14-seat 4WD off the dirt road and flopping Bricktop351 Jr out and introducing him to the nearest bush for purposes of relief. Well, did that set the alarm bells off for this cranky Yankee cow or what? She gets all flustered and starts with the histrionic hissy fit straight out of Sean Penn's Guide to Having It Your Way.

Urge to kill Americans rising. Urge to kill Americans rising.

'I'm not going to urinate anywhere other than a proper toilet,' she demanded, or words to that effect; I never listen to whinging fuckwads, especially whinging American female fuckwads. I must've said something remotely intelligent like that there wasn't a *gestures* [rabbit ears] proper toilet for another 350 km and that if she had to go she'd better do it now for the 4WD was about to begin momentum as soon as Bricktop351 Jr and the others were done.

To cut an exciting and short story shorter, she spat the dummy and began calling me and my naturalised country every name under the sun - again, for clarification mostly, I rarely bother taking that kinda thing personally as my ability to elevate my status above a baboon that enjoys rooting, playing and watching sports, listening to and commenting on music and partaking in luxurious midnight baths in the company of several women at once while chasing the dragon prevents me from doing so - to which I retorted by shrugging my shoulders, relocating the old fella to his rightful residence, getting the fuck out of there and giving the paying passengers the journey they had paid for, with a few extra tidbits thrown in for free for those who carried rollies.

Well, about a week later, once cops and a search team found this cretin, who had unbeknownst to her wondered South-West and almost reached Uluru, I was politely told to fuck off from the company that employed me as a naturalist guide-cum-racist handler. So much for free publicity and all that jazz, I guess.

I fondly grate my teeth on baked potatoes in aluminium wrapping and swallow the entire amalgamation as I recall this incident in my life. The resulting perception of Americans was like an uncontrollable bushfire through a forest of native eucalyptus trees and I was well on my way to hating virtually anything with an American accent that moved.

The US competitors' showboating following a victory at a Track & Field event during the LA Olympics didn't do it - neither did that clown US swimmer, Hank Ubermensch or Clompus Bumstomper or Rapulon Van Tildesplat or whatever his fucking name was, at the Sydney Olympics in 2000 [as opposed to the Sydney Olympics in 124?] who said that the 4 x 100m Mens Relay team would, 'Pley the Uhsees liyke geetarrs,' in his typically wankerised American accent, to which the Aussies replied by winning and then air-guitaring in front of the Americans while laughing their arses off and no doubt expressing their thanks to motivating them beyond which words can quantify to stomping those arrogant Americans through the pool *gestures* [middle fingers raised in salute of achieving the desired result]. The annual garbage and overindulgent backslapping at the Grammy Awards and Academy Awards didn't do it. The countless pop Princesses and pop Princes infecting the world's music charts [If you even dare, please do. I oh-so-want to debate you and your five best friends about this one, so please, feed my hunger, maggot queens.] with about as much talent as my removed left testicle didn't do it. Come to think of it, the African American contingent - whether its through their mildly amusing but mostly irritating Gangsta Rapper guises or their contemporary R&B that is heavily disguised Afro Papsmear Pop [kinda like the Pink Panther with fake moustache; I see through that shitty disguise, you fuckers] - or whether it's the Oprah-esque loudmouthed Queens of the Rock Age with their, 'You go girl,' posteriors and postulating didn't do it. The patriotic, insular, counter productive American writers didn't do it and neither did the current or any previous President of the United States, for they are, as I'm sure you're all aware, under the puppetry of a multitude of hands and have about as much say in what they do as my removed left testicle does.

Nope, it was that incident in the outback in the middle of nowhere in my own country when that stupid, uneducated, patriotic, one-eyed, American, horse-faced cow made a lame effort to inform me, after she had spent approximately thirteen hours of being in my naturalised country, that there was a better way of doing something that I got paid to do that set me on my path of wanton American hatred.

That makes me a fucking racist, damn it; a term I thought I'd never tag myself with for I, as you may have gathered from reading this fairytale of a rant known as Neutralising the pH Level, which resides in the Kingdom of Fudge Puppets - have held countless jobs in countless places around the world where I've made a difference for the betterment of wherever I was and the people I was with. For the better part of my life, I've created; not destroyed.

From that moment on, or at least two weeks into my drug-induced binge where life was fucking sweet and the word work meant getting out of the spa, I swore I'd handle this unwanted human trait by dealing with it day by day. I've learned to cope by a method that I've termed Nads Smashing, though there's no patent pending or anything. Whenever I feel the urge to hate someone [let's face it, someone American], I smash myself in the gonads. Forcefully. It has caused untold damage to my sperm count, testicular shape - the one that's left; the right one - relationships, sports performances, bedroom performances, performances behind and on top of my work desk, and I don't even want to get started on the negative effect it's had on my professional cycling career.

Writing this rant alone has made everyone in the office look at me quizzically and cause two women to rush out of the room, no doubt in search of the most appropriate place in which to vomit.

As shocking as it may sound at base level, it's worked so far, as I've avoided brain embolisms and clogged arteries and been in perfect health for close to twelve years and counting, and I've yet to mame or harm an American during this entire time, though I know that you'll know the extent of difficulty this has been laden with.

Urge to kill Americans fading. Urge to kill Americans fading... I'm racist and I know it coz I smash my nads.

Dr DogChop, are you in the heeeeeeeaaaaauuuuse and are you racist, motherfucker?


Dr. DogChop chomps:
Doggy-doggy, choppy-choppy!

If there is one thing I hate, it's stuff being wrong with me. The only worse thing is admitting that to someone else. Could well be racist? It's different for Americans - everyone hates them. It's part of the nationality, you get a badge and a certificate when you graduate from High-school.

Let's have a quick jab with the left, duck the roundhouse and throw everything into a rabbit-punch to the kidneys. Let's batter, deep fry and serve it with chips. Wrap it in a newspaper. Feed it to the dog.

Let's take a look at it from a new angle. Define Racist - someone who judges people on their race. What makes a race? Their skin-colour? The country they live in now? Their choice of dog food? Or is it a bunch of characteristics that they share?

Now I am as open-minded as the next psychopathic step-father - I am as likely as not to give a new person a clean sheet, rather than a dirty one, or one that says, "fuck off!" on it in big red letters of bloody excrement.

Whenever I hear an American male voice my mind races with the possibilities - It could be Carl Hiaasen or one of the Cohen brothers. Usually it isn't and I end up with a whiny arse who thinks he's from "God's Own Country". I have a bunch of American friends and they are mostly nice people with a very limited understanding of the real world. You could re-title this piece Anger Management 103, talking about THE IGNORANT.

Do I mean everyone? Fuck no! Being American is a way of living your life and you could have lived anywhere all your life and still be an American without having ever set foot in the country.

I'm honestly surprised that American people don't keep their voices down and ears open once in a while. I'm really tired of hearing about the American Way of Life, largely built on the American Way of Exploiting Third World Countries. Yeah, I know, there are no cats in America and the streets are paved with cheese. The problem is that I haven't met too many Americans who can appreciate that TAWOL is only good for your typical American.

Example - I had a good long chat with a guy about gun-laws and the need to regulate gun ownership. I thought we should and he didn't because of his "constitutional right" to carry one. When asked to elaborate he went on to say how the people of the USA have a right to carry arms to protect themselves from oppression by their goverment. Firstly, we don't have a constitution in the UK and seem to be getting along fine without it, thank you very much. Likewise, I find the second part of his argument absolutely laughable. "Let's go guys. I'm going to bring down an F16 with my Uzi."

Anyway - the issue was that he just couldn't see that there was another way of doing things. TAWOL has no relevance to the rest of the world. TAWOL has no relationship to life in the US, either. I mean, let's not forget that the USA is a made-up country.

So, because I react badly to ignorant people, and most Americans are stupendously ignorant, does that make me racist? Reactionary, certainly. Their ignorance and arrogance is what defines America more than anything else. Sorry guys - the truth hurts but nobody cares how rich/powerful/big you are. We also know you are the only "developed" country in the world with falling literacy rates.

In answer to your question BT3, no fucking way am I about to start mashing my nads, with or without a catchy ditty, over racism concerning America. If anyone deserves it, they do.

BTW, I normally get the same feling when people from Australia start shouting about how great life is there, too. But at least they don't try and use it as an excuse to demand immediate satisfaction of their needs because they are paying and that is what a CONSUMER gets back home. Wake up! You're not there anymore...

Bricktop351 couldn't resist and had to insist:
I love it when Poms get serious. I really do, especially when there's a touch of insanity about the entire spray... If it's all the same with you, reckon I'll continue to smash my nads in fear of smashing the living daylights out of our Big Inbred Ignorant Brothers and the collective twat they represent.

Excreted by Kaufman @ 9:11 PM 4 Noteworthy retort(s)

22.4.05

NEW POPE TO EMPLOY ROTWEILLERS, GREETERS

Dr. DogChop stirs himself to give a shit about the new pope:
On the day the old Pope died the papers were all over the situation like flies on a Rwandan child. The Obituaries that had been ready for ten years or more hit the presses within minutes. A woman actually stopped me in the street to ask me what I thought about it. I was so taken aback at this that I replied more or less truthfully, "I couldn't give a shit."

Stop the Press! I mean, what is this shit? Really old man dies! Read all about it! Ok, so he was the head of the Catholic church and the earth's direct link to God. Fine, whatever and please give me ten minutes to wake up when you're done.

One article did manage to capture my interest for a few minutes, but that was more in the "How, in the name of all that's swolen, did that manage to get off the press?" That was The Onion. The Pope emerges as a beautiful butterfly - not on my watch he doesn't. It's bad enough that the man wears a dress for even the most public of occasions. Enough to set his dear old mum spinning in her grave.

The one that really tickled my testicles was one I just found on Yahoo News, which is literally one evolutionary rung up from The Sun.

The first stroke up my comedy prostate came (tee-hee) from the title BenedictXVI.com owner promises no porn. Take a look - It's enough to make me hang up my keyboard. I can't work out if the guy who wrote the piece is a comedy genius or not. Either that or ten-year old orang-utan with a flair for the mundane.

The whole story revolves around the bloke who bought six popular Pope names on the off chance that one might be the winner. This stems from the Papal name changing tradition. Perhaps this is done to throw the TV licensing people off the scent? Anyway, they all seem to have taken their lead from BT3s mum, as all their names seem to end in numbers, a trait they share with type-writers and other old-fashioned items.

An American who registered the Internet name BenedictXVI.com before the new Pope was chosen said on Wednesday he had not worked out what to do with it but was pretty sure it would be a sin to sell it to a pornographer.

Absolutely hilarious - He paid for a bunch of domain names with no clear idea of what to do if he was successful. Very good, but the absolute blinder was the claim that it would "probably be a sin to sell it to a pornographer." I'm sat reading this and there is absolutely no chance of me not reading this to the end. You know the feeling when you're watching a romantic comedy? It's the complete fucking opposite of that.

Without the help of a lawyer or any other kind of evil spirit, I reckon The Clergy might be able to push the envelope a bit and get that one added to the list of sins. Taking the Lord's representative's name in vain should warrant a few years in Purgatory. Imagine taking that one into the confessional?

But, why not? You could have a great deal of fun theming the site with Kitschy little cartoons and specialist sections. Alter(ed) girls? Uncensered - too obscure? This could be just what the Catholic Church needs - some good heterosexual tie-ins to counteract some of the recent bad press they've been getting in the US. It would have been the best thing since they comissioned Father Ted.

Anyhow, the guys earnest aims "not to anger 1.1 billion Catholics" strike me as a little bit strange. Why not? I'm sat there thinking that surely not all of them will even hear about it, nevermind jump on the anger bus. It is only likely to rile a small minority of, say, 12 million or so. Well, that brings it down to the level of that time I brought London to a standstill by hammering a safety valve off a nuclear reactor. That brings it to a level of Neighbours and Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? These shows must have angered more people, Catholics among them, than any number of Papalporn.coms. Therefore, it's all go on that front.

The list of demands for the potential buyout of the site by the Vatican was, well, pedestrian at best. A Pope's hat and a weekend at the official hotel. I would feel embarrassed even bringing that proposal to the table. Like in Austin Powers number 1 - "I will destroy your capital unless you send me one million dollars!" Why not ask for a big diamond or fifty gold ingots? Something that fits the situation. "Send us fifteen kit-kats, or you will never see your daughter alive again!"

Which is why I think it's all a clever hoax - The Clergy are behind it, you mark my words. If I know the clergy they are off after a bit of free publicity. Priests the world over are always whoring after the press. The next thing we'll be hearing is that the whole deal is being used as a porn-site to boost traffic to Pope.com. I'm certain the whole thing will boil down to a revenue builder to pay off the hefty legal fees incurred by all that child-fiddling that went on in the US.

Bricktop351 doesn't give a fuck but says while inspecting his faeces:
Per my previous rant, where I spoke about being born, the process of aging and the choices we have in both matters, I was born, therefore, I am. Then I was baptized - without my approval, I will add - and subjected to the ludicrous idea that I could have religion inserted, like a catheter or syringe that mainlined omniscient juices into my being. All I can squeeze out at this juncture in time is that I care as much about being born Catholic as I do about... Hmm... What a real doughnut muncher toughy of a situation I've got myself into hyar.

Nope, don't care one iota, two scrotums, three Jake The Pegs - diddle, iddle, iddle oom - four lovers in my bed, five years from now, six domain names registering likely Pope names, se7en Brad Pitts and Morgan Freemans, eight fists up the Olsen Twins vertical smiles, nine demonic heathen ripping my head to shreads, ten times the agony of wondering where it'll all end.

I just don't fucking care about Catholicism, Catholics, cathodes, chicks with the name Catherine [that's Catherine with a "c"] or Popes, Bishops, Cardinals, Arse-Rapers or whatever you want to call the imposing aging figures at the helm of the tugboat of sheepdom. I don't flaming wel lcare for any religion, even those of the rich and infamous, like Scientology; the ability to appear certain about everything associated with nothing without the need to commit to anything remotely rock 'n' roll, like the religion of music. [Digression is officially over.] However, I do enjoy the masterful work of Frank Black and The Catholics, for they rock my soul in the busom of Abraham.

But a man with a fucking sinister outlook, who I've known ever since befriending him without his knowlege or approval and striking at a Honda Accord like two Rotweillers at Fabio's golden locks, is Brother Spoz the Agnostic, who rants about the new Pope in his piece 'Heil Benedict' with far more jurisdiction and likelihood of turmoil within the Catholic Church than moi. And the lad isn't even Catholic. I believe the Nazi in all of us will want to know more.

'I see angels, Mickey, and they're riding bit white horses...'

Which movie, Gringos?

Excreted by Mrs DC @ 9:11 PM 6 Noteworthy retort(s)

20.4.05

THE GOOD, THE FAMOUS AND THE AGING

Bricktop351 rants:
Fucking aging: the questions that come with it and the lack of answers that seem to go hand-in-hand with this natural process. Am I like wine? Fuck no; neither red, though very much on the side of white at the moment, nor entirely liquid, nor likely to get better with age. Am I like cheese? I don't know; if it's a case of my feet smelling like a corpse and flaking at the ends to provide a rather state-altering sprinkling for my kids' pasta carbonara, then I guess so, but who compares themselves to cheese, apart from the Swiss or the Dutch? Am I like Lance Armstrong, where I can make a determined comeback following a monumental set-back [an understatement of mass proportions] to where I'm literally back in the saddle and looking back at all the losers coming second and beyond anyone's cares? Did someone say, 'We can rebuild Lance: stronger, fitter, more determined, better than ever; the best, even' or did Lance just decide it was to be that way? ...A chorus of angels and all that shit.

My birthday was amazing. I awoke with a mouthful of protein thanks to Tokyo's ability to crack eggs with only one hand, and I swear I had no less than three raw eggs dribbling down my throat until I stopped dreaming about single-handedly raising the Titanic, shagging that Pommie chick on the way to the surface, mudering James Cameron in the process and then joining the living to a chorus of, 'Surprise, Dad!' as I gagged but swallowed nonetheless. I'm a man and I don't mind a hit of raw protein to the gob. It's good for what keeps me grounded and glosses over the stench of brew, pot and anything else that Cornelius may have added without my knowledge but approval.

I was showered with gifts from my family and when all the fussing and kissing was over, I checked my email.

About 20 minutes into the procedure, I had to turn off the computer in fear of it zapping circuits or scrambling eggs way off in the kitchen from the bulging inbox that read like a schoolgirl's wet dream: 'Happy B-day, you old cunt,' wrote Noel Gallagher, while Liam added, 'Sod off, you pussy-whipped child lover!' and then there were the actors, directors and real musicians: Scorsese, De Niro, Pitt, Norton, Hartley, Gilliam, Ritchie, Malkmus, Orbison [the dead can email, let me assure you], Schwarzenegger [The Cuntinator himself], Beyonce [which I promptly read, got a bar over the attached jiggling nudie .mpg and deleted; didn't want the Missus to get jealous] and some fucker called Baldwin, though I didn't find out which of the cunting brothers it was [why bother?].

I sifted through the Everest of insults that masqueraded as genuine electronic letters of congratulatory back-patting to find one bearing Billy Corgan's name. It held my interest for one of two reasons: it wasn't Jarvis Cocker playing another of his hilarious practical jokes and I never knew Billy could type. So, upon opening the attached Yahoo! e-card, where Snoopy and Charlie Brown were playing cards on a bed of roses - inspired by Bon Jovi, no doubt - I read with uber amazement:

'Dear Bricktop351, You may think this isn't a genuine e-card from me, Billy Corgan, but I assure you it is. I've been a huge fan of yours for ages, circa Gish, I'd venture to guess, and I just wanted to let you know that I'm thinking of you on your birthday. As one aging bald man to another, I wish you all the best and dedicate my next solo tour to you. Happy Birthday, Comrade. Fight the powers that be, Billy Corgan.
P.S. I dictated this letter as I cannot type.'

And with those words entrenched in my mind, I felt ill at the thought of being associated with Billy's solo stuff. Seconds before I hurled, I took one last look at the monitor and saw Snoopy go down on Charlie Brown and Charlie Brown's face turn a brighter shade of lavender before the e-card dissipated into an entirely white landscape. Then we ate more eggs for breakfast and went pig shooting.

Naturally, once all the pigs had been shot - I'm Dead-eye Dickcheese when it comes to moving targets - and all the beers had been drunk, it brought me to this thought: How many other people are like me, in the sense that they've been raised on a hellish diet of parental abuse, copious amounts of non-prescription drugs [or drugs as I like to call them] where the identifiably rich and famous hang out and associate with you because you happened to carry a definitively sized torch, know-how in every conceivable situation that life throws your way and ultra-hip coolness thanks to firm buttocks and the ability to wear sunglasses like no other? Don't get me wrong, I ain't the Marlboro Man because I don't inhale tobacco and I ain't Bruce Willis because Bruce Willis is Bruce Willis and one is most likely more than enough for the world, but the ego landed well before that hairy-cocked Pommie fuck pretending to be somewhere between gay and a Hell's Angel said it did [no offense to the Brits at large; just a description to help identify this unidentified dipshit].

I'm the first to admit, as nobody else cares or notices, that it's only been this way the past, say, 23 years, and none of these clowns would have given me the time of day prior to my losing a lung and holding a camera underwater as Jacques Cousteau talked to me via two-way like a priss, some 300-odd metres from any real action in what became a two-hour doco on the Great White Shark or since losing my big left toe and its two closest mates and scaling Ben Nevis using only a Kathmandu Sherpa as a drug supplier. Fuck yeah, these aging arsewipes were nowhere to be seen when they were at the zenith of their chosen field. Never once did Dean 'I Love The Nightlife, I Love To Boogie' Jones say, 'Meet me behind the gym with a syringe,' when the fat bastard was carting West Indian pacemen over the boundary ropes - until now - and I never heard a peep out of John McEnroe until too many years into retirement and too many years into commentating. 'Get me back to where I belong,' he said, so I pulled some strings. You'd think someone cast alongside Winona Ryder would be a certainty at some panty party action, but The Mac just blew any chance when he announced his arrival prematurely. While Winona will put up with a lot and even experiment from time to time - I secretly filmed her and Ben Stiller, so I'm better equipped to know than most - I know that she wouldn't with something as amateurish as that. Mac's premature announcements aren't a secret, as a look into the past - no matter where he happened to be - reveal. That's The Mac for ya, though, and he ain't getting better with age either.

I'm a year older and there's no doubt about the fact that I'm not getting wiser [hairier in places I shouldn't be; yes, balder; by the minute... almost like shaving my head serves no purpose other than as a token gesture or self-imposed reverse psychology] but all these other arseholes aren't getting any younger or wiser either, so... What's a boy supposed to do? The killer in me is the killer in you, my love. I send this smile over to you. Et cetera.

I never understood why we human-like creatures celebrate being dragged out of our mother's womb every year. I mean, it's not like we:
1) Had a choice in the matter,
2) Made any voluntary decision in the process, be it where we were conceived, whom we were conceived by or where we were born. If this were the case, I would be far happier with the two parents I would've chosen [Martin Sheen and a Vietnamese prostitute whose name I can't pronounce], my place of conception [aboard a frigate following a near miss with a German U-boat torpedo] and my place of birth [at the top of an erupting volcano in the tropics].
3) Knew anything about the lead-up to the big event or remembered the event like if it were some momentus achievement,
4) Had the luxury of cognitive thought to stop the process dead in its tracks and retreat back to where we belong; not even a thought of two people fucking.

Dr. DogChop helps BT3 back to the table:
I too have found growing old to be a fairly negative experience in most places and find myself very much in envy over your three raw eggs for Birthday Brekkie. I can't off-hand remember any of my kids waking me up on my Birthday. But then, the chemicals have restricted my memory of almost everything.

By the way, MGF BT3, don't let the title "proscribed" put you off. Many are the times I've spent alone in the hospital dispensary with Courtney Love and Darren Day, merry as a lord. There is a whole wonderous world of chemical bliss hovering behind the asprins and the bladder syringes.

But do not let yourself become downhearted. No, that would never do - what would Billy say about that? What with you queering his turf and everthing.

Excreted by Kaufman @ 9:11 AM 9 Noteworthy retort(s)

18.4.05

ANGER MANAGEMENT 102

Dr. DogChop feels another long one coming on as he has had his whole fucking day cancelled yet again:
Some of you may have read my inaugural crock titled ANGER MANAGEMENT 101 - a masterpiece of, an essay in to the realms of, a depth charge into the vast ocean of, a cruise missle through the bunker window of, a dose of anthrax into the water supply of, well, something.

Something happened today that brought me back to my old way of thinking, there is no need for anger management, we simply need to go to the source. My plans for neutralising fools are well under way. The ratio of fools to functional mindpots like ourselves is well over 20 to 1. This can be tested very easily by clicking the "next blog" button at the top of the page another 20 times.

Doing so has often surprising results. Some of the more usual entries include radical christian efforts, which I enjoy as a kind of blog equivalent of R and B - rehashing an old bunch of stories to give no new meaning and less value. "I read the bible and it changed my life about 45 years ago. OK, fine. An unexpected Massive Attack track on my MP3 player, or some other similar event, changes my life at least three or four times a week. Since I signed up to Bricktop90210s new religion, FOUND MY RELIGION, BUT IS IT YOURS AND DO I REALLY CARE? , I am perfectly entitled to put this on the same level. My mind is a maze of cogs, sewers and plastic tubing, like the set from a Terry Gilliam movie. Somewhere in there, there is a link.

Also popular, maybe just because of the time I am usually looking at the net, are a huge number of, well, what do we call them? Answers on a postcard to the Comments Division. Usually written by schoolgirls in Singapore, they have titles like, "and the wind rushes through your hair", or "Life with you is like a stroll on the beach". If I can find the beach in question I will be mining it in short order. In which case life will be like a struggle to get your legs down out of a tree while your lover (probably imaginary) struggles to maintain a loosing fight against gravity, speadeagled over a separate mine, beads of sweat threatening to roll down his body and set off the super-sensitive switching mechanism and let the wind rush through some new parts of his body.

Anyway, I've had a bit of a pontificate on the whole deal and decided that, although they will have to go for the sake of humanity itself, they cannot really be blamed for being unutterably stupid. "Stop being limited by your limitations", is a request that even Margaret Thatcher would not make, may God rot her eyes and bowels.

So, for a while, my new replacement Therapy is going to be "Rude people management". The story is not an new one so I will keep it as short as possible to stop everyone from tuning out. I'll take my humour gland outside and kick the rust off it. And the human excrement and pieces of tinsel.

For me there are many kinds of rudeness - internet based rants and so on that can be sense-defyingly nasty but still largely innocent given the annonymity. There is a kind of lazy arrogance that exists in children and fools, largely down to their mental capacity and lack of negative pain linked conditioning, or posibly a lack of a reallity gland. The list goes on but each one has it's own mitigations / background / excuses.

What really fucks me off to highest degree, what really twists my mellon, what entirely rains on my papier-mache parade, droughts on my boating party, power-cuts on my blog, is the open-eyed cocky non-entity who has the situation judged nicely and does it only knowing that the effort of retribution is just the far side of doable. Or so they think.

I'm in an office situation and all thoughts of violence have been put in the mental equivalent of a straight-jacket in a padded cellar somewhere. The golden rule is: Do not cut loose at work. Giving full play to my emotions in a confined context like work would be a kind of pre-war-declaration Pearl Harbour. The devastation would be immense and a bunch of people would definitely know I was getting myself involved in the situation, but should it chance that I loose the battle the sanctions imposed would basically ammount to the annexation of my soul. With the Americans in charge.

So this amoeba knows this and keeps pushing the line further and further. He is safe in the knowledge that he is largely free from reprisals. I might add that he is Mr. job in this office, so there is nothing in the work line to hold against this piece of fluff. No doubt at all it is some kind of territory marking exercise, as jamiesrjam was saying in a comment relating to a previous entry. Weeeell, if you are experiencing things from the emotional level of a cat, what can I say? It does kind of fit this guy though.

Here is what he doesn't know: I am kind of famous for pushing a point if sufficiently riled-up. The mistake he has made is thinking I find myself constrained at all by my environment. I am in fact constrained by my laziness and this time he has gone too far.

You are sat behind me. From over my shoulder you see I am doing something that looks suspiciously like work. Maybe it is, maybe it is this blog. Mr. Job gets up, wanders over to my desk, plucks three tissues from the box on my desk and walks off without looking at me or even saying a word. And a little laugh escapes from my lips. I mean, come on , at leat try and play the game by the rules. Being polite is literally what separates most of us from the level of cats and dogs. I do not include myself in here.

Let me tell you how ridiculously easy it is to follow someone home. Equally easy to come back later with a car full of surprises. Seeing as this is a matter of priciple, there is no need for death or dismemberment. Yet.

Stage 1 is the hammering of six inch nails through the roof of the car(s) spelling out the name of a popular media figure of your choice. This will put the fucker off balance for weeks. The name is what will really get him thinking, although the effect of getting into your car and seeing a bunch of spikes coming out of the roof is not to be underestimated either.

Stage 2 is the superglueing shut of all the doors and windows of the house. This one can be augmented with sticking squares of red and green fun-fur at various points, as time allows. Again, the emotional damage is going to be the puzzler. "Why?"

Stage 3 is the insertion of dead fish into every opening to be found in the house. Each one is to have a fortune cookie selotaped to it's head, like a hat. Each of the fortunes is to be a good one, for the sake of inconsistency.

Anyway, stages from four off to infinity can be thought of purely as circumstances dictate. For example, if the victim / penile ulcer that started this has a dog. The dog can be shaved down one side and have big cartoon penisses drawn on it in non-toxic marker (the dog is after all, blameless).

Just so we all know what's going on, the final bit is the glueing of a box of tissues in the centre of his windscreen. And then when he next walks across the room to take a tissue, you can drop a meaningful glance in their direction.

Excreted by Mrs DC @ 9:11 PM 10 Noteworthy retort(s)

14.4.05

DONNING WAISTCOAT WITH THE BEST OF THEM

Dr Dog Chop says:
It has been a sadly degrading week - I was caught stealing lines from other people's books and the latest admission has brought me to new lows and it's only Tuesday. The Lord (not God, my mate Lord Dave) only knows how the week will end. In the newspapers again, I make no doubt.

The news that people are actually reading this guff was enough to drive me to drink late last night. I dropped a fair bit of Amber Nectar (XXXX) before I got my hands on some good beer. Actually, while we're on the subject, who actually buys Shitweizer? And why? It is good enough for training the kids and unblocking the toilet after Bricktop321 has been round. Beyond that.... "This beer was born on ". What they don't tell you is the day it died pissing itself with fear at the hands of a megalomaniac, ham-fisted brewer. My mother, God bless her soul and whoever she sold it to, would call it "cooking lager". She could only do that because the years of pipe-smoking have killed off all her tastebuds.

Anyway, I got totally bud-arsed with a load of ersatz Ratweiser and woke up feeling the worse for wear. It was one of those genuine eyeball-burners that novelists like to talk about. I was kind of trapped between the sleeping world and the waking, in a torment with no way of escape this side of lunchtime. Like watchinjg Neighbours.

As one might guess, there was nothing to eat or drink in the entire house, so I dragged my stinking carcass to the car and beetled off to a popular burger "restaurant". You know the one - they have a Scottish name and a big name for human-rights and equal opportunities.

So I am there, on the specially designed seats (comfortable for ten minutes), munching on a McOfal burger and a side order of McLardies. The triad was completed with coffee that beats anything I have ever bought out of a machine for foulness.

[Stay with me guys - this is not about the Filet-o-Fish-Market-Sweepings Burger dealing corporate monster. This is just back-drop for something that pisses me off even more.]

I was sat there, with my delightful repast, marvelling at the relative speed that my, I won't call it food, consumables (?) had arrived, this being the notoriously slow branch in the area. I had already weighed up the pros and cons of driving an extra ten minutes to get my food faster at this point. I am sitting facing the counter and analysing the staff when in walks the man of the moment. The others are the usual assortment of students, DJ wannabes and midle-aged mothers of four. We are not interested in them. As I say, the man of the moment has arrived, though perhaps "the man of all eternity" might be closer to the mark.

There's one in every low quality work-place. Why? Because the person, for whatever reason, simply cannot get a better job. I latched onto this guy immediately because he was wearing a waistcoat. And not just wearing it, but wearing it.

What do I mean? In the world of one-size-doesn't-quite-fit-all world of collesterol and lard, there is no such thing as a uniform that you can take pride in. That's the whole point, am I wrong? A half decent uniform is a sign that you are there for the duration. The other thing about a uniform is that it changes you more than you change it. If the cap fits your soul is in serious danger of being worn. The uniform fits this man in more than just physical dimensions. It goes right down to the genetic level and is probably down to some rotavirus or other pathogen. Let's face it, it's not right.

The guy walks across the room and visibly notices the uncleared trays on a table. I am not kidding, you could genuinely see the guy, "What the fuck is going on here, then?" So he walks over, picks it up and puts it over by the garbage receptacle. This is his way of marking territory. Alfa male/alphabet man, having established that he is in the building and knows what was going on before he came, then moves behind the counter where a magical empty space has appeared. Note that the actual garbage disposal end of the deal is left for someone else, as a point about how badly they are doing their job. What a cunt.

This man is Mr. Job. If something runs out, he knows where it is. If someone has done something wrong, he nods like a cunt in the satisfaction of a job that he could have done better. He takes pride in having told you what was going to happen and certainly won't hesitate to relive the moment with other members of staff. Most of the things that happen in his life happen daily, so most of them are reflexes, like Pavolovs Dogs.

So now he's Mr. McMinimumWage. If we're in a pub, he's Mr. Pub and if a barrel needs changing, he's the one that does it. If you are in Sainsburies, he is Mr. Sainsburies and has the stock levels off by heart. If you work in a school, he is Mr. SaintDogChops, or whatever.

Anyway, the man's horizons are severely limited. Specifically, by the walls of the establishment. Like the exorcist, he has three tools - the book, the bell and the word of the lord.

The book - everything goes by it, irrespective of the logic of the procedure. The rule book accorded by, no one can touch him.

The bell - This is the bell end, himself. He knows he is the most important person in the building. Not to be confused with the actual most important person in the building.

The word of the lord - usually what the line manager said to Mr. Job alone. What this person can take as a hint, or what he can pick up in a passing comment borders on the sublime.

Why am I ranting about this now? What is the point? Who are we? What's the Frequency, Keneth?

Professionalism, in a word. Professionalism in what is, to all intents and purposes, not a profession. Have some self-respect, for the love of Christ! What makes you think it is worth the effort? What childhood trauma damaged your pysche enough for you to take this kind of work seriously? I know people have to do these jobs and I have been there before - not beneath the golden buttocks but many similar places - and it's a kind of mute understanding that they pay you as little as they can get away with and you do as little work as possible.

I can imagine the nightmares of self-loathing that these people suffer every night. Generally, the worse the job the lower the level to which Mr. Job will sink. So Mr. Shelf-stacker is a little more human than Mr. WarehouseBoxThrower. I speak from direct experience here, in my pre(licensed) dogchopping days I had my share of minimum wage endurance tests. The big exception to this pecker order is the catering industry.

I had my adventure there, too. I have never seen the like, before or since. Your head waiter has got to be the architypal Mr. Job. The pettiness and anal-retentiveness would be enough to send Kenneth Williams running for cover. Anything in front of the customers, fair play, yes, I take the point. In the kitchen? Out of sight? Refusal of a ten-second bottle-opener loan. That's breath-taking. And the cleaning. A) I don't really see the need for a list. B) The things on it don't need doing in the order they are written in.

There are two kinds of infection: Acute - short sharp and not necessarily crippling if caught early. This type of infection is most common in thin males being subjected to some kind of education. The most effective treatment known to man is even the smallest possible amount of recreational drugs. Failing that, a short, sharp dismissal will usually show them the error of their ways. "Fucccckkkk! I poured hundreds of hours down the toilet and managed to emerge with enough savings to pay for a week at university. And I worked really hard, too!" You can bet your bottom dollar that Mr. Cleaner will be Dave the cleaner in his next job.

If the infection is not caught quickly enough it progresses to the chronic stage: The subject is no longer able to function with any less than six working days a week. This might be eeked out with "picking-up my pay" and doing a bit extra for free on the one remaining day off. Uniforms, and particularly waistcoats, are begining to occupy a greater proportion of the wardrobe. The subject is repeating jokes heard at work to other members of the work-force, often the original source of witticism. Topics for conversation include; recent policy changes at work, uniforms and waistcoats, discussions of other staff members.
The final stage of the infection is characterised by a constant quest for moral ascendency achieved by various means including; knowing where things are, knowing who did what where when and inserting a why, covering anything in needless detail often on other's time, anticipating master's wishes, etc. The subject has lost all sense of value. Everything now comes from above and finishes below. He is like an aesophagus, a length of gut.

Once a person has reached phase three there is no help for them. The disease will manifest itself in each subsequent job after a suitable incubation period. He fully deserves his life of meaningless servitude, working for companies/bosses that really couldn't care one ounce of monkey's jism if he drowned in a pit of barbeque sauce.

Finally, the subject may turn malignant and bcome an UberMetaJob. Like one of those huge fungi they have in Canada. The individual is lost in a mass of organisms. His only role is to infect as many other individuals as possible. Once part of the management he is subject to golf, conservatism and other evils. The best he can hope for is an early exit thanks to a heart attack or a stroke.

So, I left my half-finished dainties on the table, put my ice in the bin and left, anger burning a hole through my soul.

Bricktop351 says:
While I've searched hither, dither and thither for things to nitpick and get flatulent over because I'm mildly encouraged by your increasing usage of bandwidth and long to sway back to where you're merely another entry on my list of To Be Mamed, I cannot lay claim to having found adequate reason to argue with or challenge your assessment of these waistcoat wearing types, Herr Doctor.

I'm sure many of us over the age of twelve have experienced some form of waistcoating [a verb] during our times in the bowel regions of what is loosely termed employment and, perhaps, some of us have been... ahh... privy, is a word, to the feel of the fibre of said fabric and its close proximity to our own human-like flesh. But I only know from third-hand experience what the latter is like, as I, too, tended to be the shitkickee rather than the deluded and ever pitiful member of the shitkicker brigade whose visions of grandeur and ultimate association with own arse and Eminem-like imaginary throne were negated by counterproductive duties, the ability to appear in charge without having a smidge of assertiveness and the added bonus of being required to submit meaningless paperwork [read: entry of data onto compyootah] upon completion or beginning of every month.

It's times like these that I bow my head for Gillian.

Someone asked me to clean a nightclub - dunnies were part of the gravy train - every weekend, so I did. Another person asked me to remove cobras from villages, so I did, playing cricket with some rather talented young locals in the process and leaving a few well-appreciated pointers for future generations. Someone other than the first two people asked me to ride shotgun in a 24-year-old Jeep and film stampeding elephants in 51-degree [in the key of C] heat, so I did. It was all part of the learning process that I like to call acquisition of funds and I don't regret a single squelching turd under the nails, a single fang to the genitalia or a single demolished toe.

There were also traditional jobs, much like your description, DDC, involving pre-work pot and shelves that demanded to be restocked, but it wasn't all fun and games until I learned that whatever needed to be stocked could also technically be overstocked without waistcoaters [a plural noun] smelling a rat in the horticulture. So, 46 stubbies of XXXX [your fave, by all accounts; I go the Cooper's "Mr Sparkle" Ale route myself] became 58 stubbies of XXXX and an enjoyable ride home on the bus, where a few well-chosen Judas Priest tunes were loved by all, while 16 packets of Tim-Tams became 18 packets of Tim-Tams and a brisk walk home to avoid accidental seepage of arse juice.

The most memorable time of my life has nothing to do with what we're ranting about here, so try not to get sidetracked by this red herring of a paragraph.

Actually, I've just made a liar of myself, for I [insert superhero theme here, dear proof reader] was once a Manager and therefore a waistcoat wearer. Yes, I was, and I use the term Manager with a capital 'm', see, just like that Scottish-named chain of alleged food stores you ranted aboot [intentional], Dr Dog McChop.

I fondly demonstrate the ability to reflect light from my glistening cranium as I recall those three weeks in my life where I was wearer of a waistcoat, albeit a figurative waistcoat, and where I had the honour - nay, ney, and naigh, d-u-t-y - of being like that turd muncher who poked Cartman in the eye... SCOTT BAIO, a.k.a. Charles In Charge, 'cept I was Bricktop351 In Charge [not Bricktop321; an inferior model or possibly clone, as claimed by the Doctor about 4,621 words ago] and I had been, in society's eyes, a worthless, unemployed, good-for-nothing Surf Nazi with a killer instinct for unmissable oncoming sets for 106 weeks prior to landing the managerial gig.

A week after I realised the extent of backdooring and slurping of superiors' rearends, not to mention the entry of data onto compyootah, where I had previously only seen the contraptions in the guise of providing countless hours of intimate moments with Da Ladies, I handed in my two-weeks' notice and backdoored and slurped region of the same no more. Actually, I must come clean, for it is written in texta on the inside of every pair of white jocks I own [I love my kids, though none of them are admitting to the deed] 'Liar Be Gone', I left the day after I handed in my notice and sent my mate Mahmood in to pose as me for the duration of my forewarning and managerial changeover. By all accounts, he hated being Mahmood-Pretending-To-Be-Bricktop351 In Charge more than I hated being Bricktop351 In Charge, as the $3,358 in window replacement costs verified.

That week of bossing and cocaine snorting while wearing a uniform opened my eyes to the possibilities that existed for those who sought enlightenment in commanding a position of futility. It enabled me to see that if the delusion was strong enough, then the desire to achieve and become a member of a likeminded pack [I believe I read the word 'alpha' somewhere in your rant, DDC, though it may have been Alfa Romeo for all I know, as everything is still a blur from the associated sting behind your wrath] would be the ultimate journey to reaching Waistcoatdom.

My foil-eating counterpart and Head Chef, Cornelius, and I often sit and gabble over a few rounds of boiled potatoes and LSD about his treatment of staff in the kitchen and I can't recall laughing harder or accidentally breaking wind more times than during these heady moments that I like to call Wednesdays. Somehow his antics and tomfoolery give me impetus to trademark my series of hilarious deeds at my place of ineptly named "work" [*gestures rabbit ears with four-fingers*], but I just can't find the energy or time to get away and submit the paperwork.

Plus or minus a finger, I'd potentially ruin the opportunity of fulfilling a prophecy, foretold to me by a 7' 3" female fortune teller on the shores of the palindromic Glenelg beach in Adelaide, my former place of reality, that I would one day be whisked from work in an ambulance due to a ruptured organ from excessive laughter.

I'd rather die in the arms of The Hamburglar than miss out on that.

Dr.Dog Chop has a final pearl to lay before the swine:
My dear mother (as in expensive), always used to say, "A uniform is a great leveller." To which I would invariably reply, "Fuck off! No it isn't."

Later I came to realise she was talking about laying out the punters.

Excreted by Mrs DC @ 9:11 PM 7 Noteworthy retort(s)

12.4.05

SIN, THEN JUSTIFY, THEN PROSCRIBE

Dr Dog Chop says:
My "friend" Bricktop, you post like the sheep defecate - copiously and at random all over the landscape. Clearly you are wanting for something to occupy both time and mind. My doctoring keeps me far too busy (most recently I have been doctoring the milk at the supermarket) to keep up with your furious rate of output, which also resembles sheep defecating in other, less poetic ways.

No doubt you call yourself writer but I lost my right just there with my hideously insupportable theftery of someone else's simile, or analogy, or whatever you want to call it. The other guy whose line I stole covered all the bases, forcing me to break the golden rule. Karmically, I have already paid for it, having sat and read through two of Bricktop351's posts at one sitting. What makes it worse is that I am at work with no access to either shower or swarfega.

I had a quick look at Lost in Transmutation and decided that even you wouldn't possibly bother to write a post "I had a pain," so I had a closer look. More fool me for that sentiment. What I found was a kind of UberMorrisseyism disguised as a blog. To whit: parental dissafection contained within the disguise of another subject entirely.

Interesting that you should mention my kids (not to be taken as an admission of paternity in any of the outstanding cases currently lancing their way through the courts like rusty nails through a cheap training shoes). I make them read your offerings when they soil themselves or cry, often with remarkable results. I make no bones when I say that my kids know more adjectives than any others of their age. I can see what you mean about it being nothing to write home about. I have never found anything worthy of that task.

And we are to believe that you are the future lead of Oceans 10? I'd have thought Scooby Doo would be more in your line. Either that or Look Who's Oceans Too! Or Ocean's Back Nine, a golf-themed comedy gay porno. I am assuming a type-casting here.

So, back to the script: You are having reality problems, work related problems, medical issues and a few fanciful ideas about the England cricket team. Added-up this tells a very sorry tale in a monologue. Probably told by Stephen Hawking. Were it not for the cricket input I might put the whole thing down to an overfondness of twanging the ole one string bass. The prognosis: not good. For therapy I suggest Therapy?s last album and both hands glued and broken-glassed, just to be on the safe side.

Which brings me back to where i started, you with too much time and not enough glass on your hands.


Bricktop351 says:
I dangled the cricket carrot in front of you and you didn't nibble. Not once. It caused me to believe you no longer cared.

Excreted by Mrs DC @ 9:11 PM 9 Noteworthy retort(s)

FOUND MY RELIGION, BUT IS IT YOURS AND DO I REALLY CARE?

They say that laughter is the best form of medicine, so while you're laughing your puny arse off, pass me that bucket bong... Pooritty please.

Mick Stipe lost his and no doubt various other fuckers are in the process of losing theirs thanks to whatever it is the Clitoris Administration is trying to achieve over there in Bad Arse Bigger and Badder Than You Are Land [also known from time to time as the US, the US of A, the USA, the United States, the United States of America, the Centre of the World Map, the Meaning of Life, the Big Texan With The Tiny Dick's Ranch, Dumb Cunts Incorporated, Salvation George, the Big Bang Cometh O Lord, and Fudge Land].

You may have picked up that my views of religion are not what you would deem conventional and that while I border on what are technically Atheist views, I'm in morbid fear that my soul will suffer eternal damnation should I actually bite the bullet and label myself as one. Actually, I'm not and I'm happy to face whatever outcome is dealt to me or whatever outcome I walk into, for I do not indulge in dwindling and fearing something I have no say in or control over.

What I do fear are real and actual things, like an attack by a demonstrative throng of Pro-Life lobbyists who upon seeing me feel my overwhelming antipathy to their cause and who set the wheels in motion of dismembering my every moving part, to a point where I'm powerless to defiantly raise a middle finger in their direction and enquire, 'What else you got?' Yeah, if I knew what I meant by that, it would instantaneously result in two wiser people on Earth right now.

Undermining the value of my lack of belief is something that I wish to avoid at all times, especially in the presence of children and elderly, so please don't ever call me an Atheist or a bald cunt, though I resemble a bald cunt moreso than an Atheist. Any Atheist.

Being a non-believer got me thinking... Those three periods in a row signify thought, y'all. Wanna know what I thought? It got me thinking that there's gotta be other shit out there that no-one has touched upon or if they have then they've done a first-rate job at covering up whatever riches of the soul were contained within, in a marginally original way of minimalising bastardisation of a non-mainstream, non-defined religion.

Here's my point: I'm a music freak; can't play any, can't write any, can't sing or dance [any] and I sure as VD breaking lose at a pyjama party of 17 year-old virgin femmes [fat fucking chance, I hear you cry] don't plan on releasing a duet with mah homie and non-pluralist 50-Cent [or as our understanding of the situation demands, Fiddy 'What Does Plural Mean?' Cent] or that skinny-arsed, Little Lord Fontleroy Justin 'I Aint Got No Willie, Vanili' Timberlake, but I fuckin' LOVE, luuuurve and luv music. It fuckin' reaches out and touches me in places that even my masterful right hand hasn't tuned in to and when something so powerful as an identification with my own soul is apparent, I tend to hang onto it as proof of something beyond commonality or redundant, outdated, no longer identifiable religious views.

And I'd rather be raped with a corkscrew still inside a bottle than join the hordes of sheep who believe the likes of Bono and his clan aren't cohorts or part owners of something far more evil than the conventional Satan and his evil fucklings. 'But he's done so much good for various other causes, most of them involving tens of thousands of underprivliged children and people,' comes the claim. We'll, so fucking what, I retort, stating that I never EVER got into that global mentality of listening to and identifying with music that appeals to so many on such a Rio Grande scale as my defence... It's demeaning, degrading and deliciously defiant of your claim that you're able to think without someone else giving you a thought to latch onto.

It's like those fucking Melrose Place screenings they used to have at various locations in inner city Adelaide about a billion years ago that those who, according to them, were in some special, members-only loop that included them and 50,000 other equally privileged uber important types. NO THANKS, COCKHEADS, I'd rather take my bum raping with the corkscrew still inside the bottle than lap up that kind of false belief in the almighty. And if this reads like a case of sour grapes then I'll be first in line to scream into your ear that it isn't. I never wanted to be a part of that, though I was invited, and never did join. Still don't wanna, either. Fuck them and their superior masses opinions.

My definition of mainstream music is any music type/category/definition that sells shitloads of copies and reaches the charts. It's not definied by music type, but by sales. 'But, Bricktop351, your beloved Pavement's single Cut Your Hair made it onto rotation on MTV at one point in time and the Archers Of Loaf track Web In Front, which I distinctly remember due to that catchy opening line, was also a perennial favourite with us alternative types, but it DID scream into the Top 5,000,000 at one point,' come the disapproving cries from the front row celebrity types that know and loathe me. 'And, correct me if I'm wrong, but I did see you in the pit of mosh when the Red Hot Chili Peppers came to town.'

Yes. And? Is there more or are you taking your bat and ball and fucking off home?

Let me answer those questions with questions of my own. Did the bands mentioned above then become sell-out fuckers with super slick vidz and permanent residence on covers of shite magz that sell by the millions [I include Rolling Stone here; it's as mainstream as Hello Kitty underwear] - apart from Red Hot Chili Peppers - or were they still played by said TV channel or did they sign multi-album deals and countless stadium concerts that guaranteed their artistic demise - apart from Red Hot Chili Peppers? No, no, no and fucking no fucking way, are the correct answers, ladies and fuck you other lot.

Yeah, I reckon I've found MY [the operative word; open for public discussion and comment at your leisure or feel free to avoid the issue altogether] religion and it comes in the form of - maybe - around 20 to 30 musos-cum-bands that are either still kicking around or have pulled the pin for whatever reason beyond my knowledge and I consider it a religion in the true sense of the word, where it's for me and Me and ME and ME and nobody other than ME. Get it?

This notion that religion needs to be a group experience astounds me and I see it nothing short of an exercise in PR ascentuated and glorified the world over through common held views that a particular belief is right and that another particular belief is wrong. According to whose fucking scriptures, if I could be so blunt? Yet, can any of these people claim to feel that they're on the same spiritual and emotional ride through life or do they have views that aren't necessarily the same as other sheep, pardon me, I meant dedicated believers and, in fact, opposite or even slightly 'nah, mate, you're fucking wrong'? Did anybody question Pope JP II or did people just bow and say 'As you wish, Your Eminence'?

Fuck me, but how can the feelings I get from listening to music translate into a group experience, unless I am ready to divulge my innermost self in a false attempt at trying to see through your eyes, ears, mouth and soul? See, I don't know the answer to this, which is why I'm asking.

I'm not of the old-school belief that 'the Old Timers' in music circles did everything there is to do with music and that there aren't new musos/bands [and I include DJs in this list of super heroes; except for Moby coz I reckon he's turned full circle and is now ready to deny his own existence] able to make a dent on this concrete-set soul of mine and yours either. I think that's escapist propaganda [aka bullshit] that people who have given up on music or people who can't look beyond their vinyl collection and commercial radio station fetish say to those of us who are kicking on stronger than ever before... 'Nothing beats The Beatles or 'Zepplin or Cream and if you think the current crop of artists has anything remotely interesting to contribute to music then you're a sad, pathetic, cockless, wonderbra.'

All I can say to that brilliant ideology is I know you are, but what am I? In fact, I can say a whole fuckload more, which I will and am, if you bother to read on. But first, I agree with this sentiment wholeheartedly, coz if you're listening to the current slop of mind-numbing mainstream music garbage then the aforementioned imaginary person's views are an arrow into the bullseye of truth. Further more, I can crush your Beatles with my right testicle, ignite your fucking 'Zepplin with a movement of my bowels and a match, and smear that fucking Cream of yours right out of my existence, you pitiful, vacuous, moron with no vision beyond the blinkers that direct your musical judgement.

I'm not going to name names on either side of the fence, apart from those I've already mentioned earlier in this post, but there are some exceptions to every rule: Red Hot Chili Peppers are not one of those. Radiohead are.

I know music appreciation is one of the more subjective things we can debate and form opinions of, so if you think I've offended your musical tastes or even if I've accidentally raised awareness of something you thought didn't have a leg to fart on, feel free to view your thoughts. See if you can guess who this is by [Dr Dog Chop is ineligible to guess]:

I'm so alone tonight,
My head feels larger than when I was small.
Lost in memories, lost in all the sheets and old pillows
So alone tonight,
Miss you more than I will let you know,
Miss the outline of your back, miss you breathing down my neck.

All out to get you, once again.
They're all out to get you, once again.

Insecure, what cha gonna do?
Feel so small, they could step on you.
Called you up, answer machine,
When the human touch is what I need,
What I need...

Is you.
I need you.

Looked in the mirror, I don't know who I am anymore,
The face is familiar, but the eyes, the eyes, give it all away.
They're all out to get you, once again.
They're all out to get you.

Here they come again...

If you let me breathe.

They're all out to get you, once again.

Excreted by Kaufman @ 9:11 AM 6 Noteworthy retort(s)

8.4.05

LOST IN TRANSMUTATION

I was spending a bit of quality time over at the PHREAC's phine ether establishment when I had a sudden attack. Hyah! Blessed are we for we are able to be attacked without forewarning. It went something along the lines of: 'Ah, fuck! What is that?' as I felt a sharp twinge approximately 6.5 cm above my wrist watch, located on a part of my personal bodyspace that I like to call my right arm.

As I observed the area under microscope, for I am not or will ever be a scratcher, like Penelope Cruz, I realised after about 32 minutes of exhaustive befuddlement that I had a miniature, microscopic even, creature burrowing its way through my intergalactic planetary planetary inter... Beastie Boys in mah head... burrowing its way through my spiritual and emotionally extravagant realm.

'Pain be damned and sod you to Hell and beyond Thunderdome, you little spineless tunneling miscro-ism fuckstigmata of confounded imminent infection,' I screamed in a manner unbecoming of the future leader of Oceans 10, a tale about prequels epitomising farcical flaws in creativity as the pursuit of artistic endeavour reaches the bottom of a desert-like well [which leads me to the quote: 'It's time to... discuss your philosophy of drug use... as it relates to artistic endeavour'... Ah, Peter Weller; the comparative of a forgotten (de)generation: good, Weller, the best].

When I heard the micro-ism answer, 'I'm doing this for your own benefit,' my floor hit the chin and the fan hit the shit as me brain made a frenzied search for understanding and my co-workers took another gargantuan step away from me in what I concluded was their problem.

'What could this mean?' my brain thought, as if asking me if I had a clue, to which I had no cognitive reply.

'Go ask yourself and get back to me when you're through,' I said somewhat egotistically after about five minutes, as if trying to slip one past the keeper. Pausing and awaiting a response that would no doubt put me in my place, though secretly hoping there'd be none and that that [love those double thats] would be that [;)].

The silence extended beyond anything I had ever known.

As my allegedly superior intellectual part of myself continued to fast track to an answer, which I had imagined would be a resounding and irrefutable FIIK [fucked if I know], the micro-ism continued its all-you-can-eat exploration of my internal dimension. Then it spoke. Again.

'Tell me what you wanna know,' it said. 'Huh?' I said. 'Tell me what you wanna know?' the micro-ism repeated, now looking up through the barrel of the 'scope and burping.

I had to digest the offer. 'Think, man, THINK,' I thought without even thinking about what I was thinking. And then it hit me. I knew what I wanted to know the answer to more than anything in this whole damned world I like to call Water. Since the dawn of when Arthur C. Clarke wrote that book about those monkeys that eventually became creators of computers with red lights that tried to destroy their creators ever so cunningly by never talking or blinking, I've wanted to know one thing and one thing only.

'Did reality really used to be a friend of mine or were PM Dawn really just out to shag chicks with that line?' I asked the ever fattening micro-ism.

The micro-ism gave me this look that I had seen somewhere before and after careful deliberation and consumption of an entire bowl of plasticine on my part, the winds of change drifted through the entire Missile Watch offices, reminding me of the time I first spoke. Yeah, my parents looked at me in the same way, mind you they had every right to because fluent English from an 18-month-old kid in a Portuguese speaking family that understood zero English would have been a bit of an uprooting experience.

So, as this micro-ism fucker continued to stare, I saw my parents in the glint of his pitiful eyes. And I was far from impressed.

'Who the fuck do you think you are, cell muncher?' I asked the micro-ism pipsqueak retard. 'I'm the sum of all your fears, if you'd really like to know, and since you can't ask me a legitimate question that resembles even a modicum of intellect, I'm gonna start eating on the most satisfying part of your pitiful contents.'

'Not my balls!' I screamed, as I observed the micro-ism dart up my bicep, through my trapezius, along the backend of my spine and into the back of my skull.

'You're fucked, jizzball,' the micro-ism said, which I thought was a damned impressive one-liner for such a short and glaringly ugly creature that had just run an awfully long way, again, comparatively speaking.

I had had [love those double hads] enough of this tiny turd's miniature Olympics and wasn't particularly enjoying the uncontrolable spasms in my left eyelid. On top of all that, the pain wasn't anything to write to my, or Dr Dog Chop's, illegitimate children about.

I reached for the 'adjust' switch on the mechanical bull and when that failed I snapped it off and began cracking myself with all my might across the back of my head until I must've passed out.

I woke up about three minutes ago and all I've got to show is four litres of blood and a tiny red prick on my right forearm [open for discussion].

I wonder if this is how our world leaders spend their lunch hour.

[Coffee is making me impotent, I swear.]

Excreted by Kaufman @ 9:11 PM 9 Noteworthy retort(s)

7.4.05

GUTTER PRESS PASSING HINTS TO AL-QAEDA

Dr. Dog Chop sayeth:
Judging by his most recent offerings, Bricktop351 has been dipping into the press, more specifically the bottom end of it (BECKINGHAM PALACE-UPON-ENGLANDOM IS CRUMBLING / I WANNA BE A DIVA...). I tend to avoid the media at all costs, knowing that the bastards are all out for themselves in the worst way.

A quick dip into The Sun, shows me that I may have been a little premature in my judgement. It transpires that SUN MAN Alex Peake penetrated Windsor Castle security driving a van with a fake bomb in it. It seems he drove past the Queen's apartment on his way to the chapel where Charles and Camilla will be blessed.

My sources have yet to reveal whether Al-Qaeda, or any other enemy of the UK (Australia, for example), read The Sun but it is my opinion that they might learn a thing or two from Alex Peake. He began his career in the 1980s at school, where he succeeded in smuggling arsenic into the kitchens, and has been working his way up to this shining example of investigative journalism ever since. His career was marred when one investigation into Nursery School Security led to the dismemberment of several toddlers after he smuggled a rabid baboon into the Teddy-Bear Classroom. He was able to set his career back on track with the stupendous feat of smuggling a killer whale into a water-park in South London.

The Una Bomber is quoted as saying, "Peake was inspirational in his early career, a shining example." Peake is also said to have influenced several of the Real IRA, "in their strategies and logistical texts."

Whether the top brass at Al-Qaeda will follow suit is yet to be seen. Keep your eye on Al Jazeera to see if any things emanate.

All jocularity aside for a moment: What kind of fuckwit is impressed by this kind of shit? I assume that there is some kind of fucked-up supply/demand excuse for this kind of journalism which says a lot about the average Sun reader. The Sun is, for those of you who don't know, the UK's, "Biggest selling newspaper" (which isn't even correct English).

I'm no fan of the royals, but I am a firm believer in the saying, "an English man's home is his castle". In this case, the Queen's castle is her castle. So let's stretch a point, push the envelope a little. With a little wrangling, the whole thing could be looked upon as High Treason, which is the only crime in the UK still technically punishable by death. Let the fucker rot on a spike over Traitor's Gate, like they did in the good old days.

The last guy who tried something like this was er, Guy Fawkes. He got caught sitting on a big pile of gunpowder under the houses of parliament, there to spread the King all over London. Three hundred years later EVERYBODY STILL KNOWS WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM. The scrotum hair was executed and people commemorate the event every year by burning his effigy on a big fire.

Here is what we need to do: Walk into Peake's office with a TV crew. Arrest him in the name of the Queen and put some old-fashioned manacles on him. He will be thinking it is a joke as we lead him through the streets on the back of a hay cart in the stocks. When the procession arrives at the Tower of London, he is to be put into a cell, still smiling. Then we nail his knees to a piece of wood and tell him he has to wait until November the fifth, at the Her Majesty's pleasure. Then he is to take the place of Guy Fawkes on the top of the fire, with no appeal because there is absolutely no excuse or mitigating circumstance that can possibly detract from the crime he has committed.

And that fucking Auzzie, whatever the fuck you might say about him having moved, shite Murdoch is to wear sack-cloth and ashes for ten years after being forced to light the fuse, destroying the offices of The Sun.


Bricktop351 addeth:
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum. This sounds remarkably like a good old-fashioned sea shanty, minus a sea, a pirate, a ship, an eye-patch, a parrot, a whale, a harpoon, a homicidal axe wielding maniac like Alexei Sayle or a bottle of rum. I've heard about certain British types making valiant attempts at penetrating the Queen's defences [I've heard Prince Edward - is that his name; I can't tell one posh bastard from another, but I mean the guy who is married to her Royalness - usually steps to one side and gestures with an open palm to anyone wishing to 'have a go' as it were, only to be stabbed through the heart with a bayonette by one of those straight-faced afrohead types] as some form of political stunt. I recall a bloke in a hot air balloon, a bloke on a hang glider - which was like the days of yore at Glenelg Beach, famous in the parts of Adelaide, Australia, Dr. Dog Chop, where fully sloshed thrillseekers donned their PJs and fins and hang gliders to see how many metres they could fall into the sea - and I even recall a bloke trying to tunnel his way below the perimeter of Windsor Castle, only to see daylight at Stalag 13, or perhaps I'm mistaken and it was Gulag 13. My isn't memory it what to used be... And my word order is even crapper.

Is The Sun the one that has titilating young ladies showing off their tits? That was all the rage back in the '80s; not in newspapers here, but on TV stations and in magz, as they ran stories about how it was causing a stir in the motherland. I think my dad had a yearly subscription. I vaguely recall Sam 'What's Her Face' Bigtits being propelled into the spotlight.

The media/press/quasi-Polizei/Murdoch Mafia/low-life evil fucks... We all have different names for these craftsmen and women of the trade and we all know, claim to know or claim to have read about at least five of them. Those that I do know or claim to have read about are skanky rags that have had every ounce [to use a term of measurement familiar to someone other than me] of life sucked out of them by the likes of red wine, chardonay [if, indeed, that is how one spells the word] or gin straight from the bottle. And that's not even mentioning the blokes, who tend to resemble abortions in suits, if I can get semi-observant for a second. The latter sounds like the man you're talking about. We have several in Australia working for a TV network that I shall call Nine to avoid any potential lawsuits by any of the low-browed vaginas that work there, though most of the cockless cocks that I'm talking about are unable to drive vans and are instead driven everywhere by those who know how.

More information about me that you don't need to know but shall: I used to have a Journo Badge that I proudly displayed whenever purchasing booze at bottle-os [read: drive-through bottle shops] and over the counter at most inner city establishments, as it carried a 15% discount with purchases of more than 30L; a mere trickle down the leg from what I can remember. Needless to say, I looked like an abortion in a suit that had the life sucked out of me during that phase of what I like to call my pre-life, though it may have been my after-life misplaced in time and space. Who cares, really? I fondly twiddle my balls as I recall gestures from the three-toothed bar wench or unemployed uni student cum actor-in-training, often accompanied by a token sigh, congratulatory pat on the back or a superfluous attempt at conversation with someone decidely more fucked up than them, which usually went along the lines of, "If only I was a Journo like you."

That was one motherfucking crazy era, the '90s, or the post '80s as Hank used to call them.

This Peake character sounds like a student of the dearly departed Hunter S. Thompson and like a true believer and practitioner of Gonzo Journalism, which leads me to think that he could well be more fucked up than you think, dear Doctor.

I wonder if any of the intelligence organisations, like MI5 or CIA or FBI or U2 or B1 and B2 will want a stern word with Mr Peake or if, perhaps, they'll just assume he's insane and lock him up until he's proved himself to be innocent of all said allogations. The wait's going to be one nail-biting affair for the kids - you do know that I have two daughters; twins, not one? - and especially for me. I'm never one to root for the masses and instead prefer to root for the mass resistance, but this Peake character sounds like a brain surgeon without a brain and I don't like the way that pans out.

Should we have a debate as to what should happen with Mr Peake, if that is his real name? I, for a lack of two, happen to think that your plan to get Black Adderesque on his arse is a good method, but that it doesn't quite go far enough. Treason is one thing, but treason in a van is quite another, dear Doctor.

How about we up the stakes and sit Mr Peake behind the wheel of Nigel Mansell's old racing brum-brum [an American term, apparently] at Silverstone, handcuff his... err... hands behind the seat, control the speed of the car via remote from the commentary position [gold seats are fine] and ask her Majesty to fly overhead in one of her choppers as she drops hand grenades on Mr Peake. Perhaps it could double as a live broadcast on British TV and a four-page, full-colour spread in The Sun the following day. I vote we keep Rupert Murdoch out of this as there's money to be made from the sales of seats to view this event and I wouldn't want that sucker of Satan's vast pecker to sink his teeth into profits that are rightfully ours.

Excreted by Mrs DC @ 9:11 PM 5 Noteworthy retort(s)

6.4.05

LEFT HOOK, JAB & A LEFT-HANDED OPENING PARTNERSHIP

Dr. Dog Chop has to ask:
What the fuck is it with you, Bricktop351? Whitney Houston? Divas? I didn't think that well of you, but I thought better than that. Everyone knows that famous people are only there to keep weak minded fools from noticing how ghastly their lives are. The Beckhams?

It's seven years ago and one of the most miserable times of my life. I'm at school - whoever came up with that old phrase "the best days of your life" obviously went somewhere much better than I did. That or a sarcastic genious. Anway, I'm on the school bus, another pit of misery. You can't move for Lacoste, Paul Smith and Jenifer Aniston hairstyles but there's not a thought in sight. That's right, just a fucking in-built reflex arc that fires when anything famous passes before their eyes.

We've got a bunch of these demi-people, these hemi-demi people, raving about The Bodyguard, Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey and all that utterly worthless, semen-soaked, un-culture. It's no wonder that the woman has turned to our very best friend the white stuff (are you made of it?). After a life-time of this garbage her brain has atrophied so much that the only way she can prize open her eyes of a morning is to inject them directly with acid. Yes, I know, we've all been there...

And her life has amounted to: A bunch of bargain-bin CDs replete with a bunch of banshee wails based on such complex matters as her boyfriend and relationship thereof. Fuck that! It's a measure of her quality that she hasn't even been remixed by a hip-hop/R'n'B group. That really is the unltimate insult. No doubt they are having problems with the "I want to be a princess!" motif. I want to be a princess and pump a cap in your ass, more like.

The point I am struggling towards is this: She does not deserve the drugs. She doesn't deserve it. She doesn't deserve it. She does not deserve it. She should be providing rehab.

With regards to not-so-famous parents and their translucent ventures into public life. Having sat back and watched your Daughter churn out such appallingly popular garbage, like Microsoft, why not? For Witless Houston's mum, which was the greater crime? Venturing into the spotlight for five minutes or letting your progenny polute the world to such increcible lengths?

I am on the side of the mother, biassed as I am. As some of you will know, I have been fathering bastards since the tender age of twelve. One day all my chickens will come home to roost as Notaries in various forms. I will be a latterday Rabbi Burns, famous for tens of illegitimate sprogs (and poetry). I will be catapulted into stardom. No need for Blogs then. I will be in and out of Heat magazine like a scoutmaster at the summer camp shower-block.

Bricktop351 says:
I thought the way you used atrophied in this post was a work of pure genius. Also, anything with the phrase semen-soaked is sure to rate highly in the Google search, so yet again, dear Doctor, praise and loose women with no sense of moral direction must be thrown in your direction.

Change that last sentence from 'of' moral direction to 'or' moral direction, dear proof reader. Why, thank you.

I can't believe you're getting your purple-headed people creator raised over a little Whitney excitement. I mean, it's not like I bagged Mike 'Golliwogs Are Us' Whitney, is it? On that note, The Ashes... I mistakingly went to Baggy Green dot com thinking there'd be free ganja 'n' shit but all there was was [love those double wases] stories about chucking - apparently new evidence provided by an expert cock fighting trainer or Little Ralphy Schumacher's seat belt manufacturer claim it's all fucked and likely to get more fucked before someone defeats Australia again etc - and New Zealand scoring 561 in their first dig against Sri Lanka and the Aussie chicks romping into the finals of the Chicks' World Cup...

In hindsight, sidesight and overdue foresight, I think you're right about the Whitney post. I don't really give a peanut in my turd about her nose or veins or mother and I was only having another woeful stab at MSN dot com dot au, which you didn't pick up on.

Actually, having had so much time during Missile Watch, I've been biting my toenails and licking anything getting in the way of said activity in anticipation of your Pommie contingent giving Ponting's Plunderers a half-decent run for their money. 5-blot and 2-blot [thanks rain, you cunt] was boring from where I was perving. The Poms look good and I like that Debbie Flintoff character a lot - are you sure she's not one of ours - gold in Atlanta or Mexico or Los Angeles or wherever and looking not a day over 26 and what's the name of that new lefty, Mozart, Bach, Brahms... Nah, it's fucken Strauss, isn't it? He's got a bit of fight in him. Good to see young Hoggart in there as well; his little inswingers should be pure comedy for Langos and Haydos, the illegitimate left-handed twins of Alan Border's romp along the Western Australia-Queensland border [nudge, nudge, wink, wink].

How about we fuck the famous and the infamous for a while and open the Fudge Puppet gospel to Waugh 13:2...

'And McGrath said unto the Kiwis: "You're a pack of useless cunts. Sit down and wipe those tears, Fleming, I ain't through with you just yet".'

Excreted by Mrs DC @ 9:11 PM 1 Noteworthy retort(s)

IN-BETWEENER #1

We're expanding at Fudge Puppets Inc. [aka Neutralising the pH Level]. I'd love to say we're now officially bigger, broader, harder and better, but alas, no fucker is willing to place these claims under closer scrutiny or confirm otherwise, so just fuckin' believe it, all right?

So, while the good Doctor is quilling a retort for my Whitney Houston post [I believe his opening line was something along the lines of, "Are you fucking retarded, good man, or are your hands and feet bound by pink plastic belts, you fucking nancy boy?" or words to that effect], I'm going to let all three of you in on something that's troubled me recently.

See, I'm currently on Missile Watch and nothing much is happening. I've got testicle loads of time [and sprog; soon to be remedied thanks to some inspiration from massivegashgobblers.com] and there are no suspicious looking freaks anywhere in sight, which means the place is likely to be blown to smithereens any second now. Why am I such a pawn of mainstream media? I believe EVERYTHING I see and read in the news...

Digression is over.

This is what I like to call In-Betweener #1, where I get to cringe and laugh at who's been visiting us. Firstly, let me introduce the cringing portion of this post, as I do have a conscience albeit not my own [love ya eternally, Hank]. Yes, there have been a select few people who have accidentally [coudn't imagine any other reason for their presence] come across this mild-mannered site. No doubt FIONA's folks didn't have NetNanny on and she accidentally pressed 'Next Blog' only to find "I WANNA BE A DIVA ...just like Whitney. Then I can get fucked up on whatever's on the table or left on the public toilet seat and never loose a wink of sleep again..." and I believe you know the rest. I feel three inches tall round about now.

In similar circumstances, a very nice but probably inappropriate melding of cultures and - what's the word for religious beliefs? - religious beliefs. I hope there were no hard feelings, dear RAINBOW and that you were able to laugh at the hilarity of it all. Coz we're funny, right? [Shit!]

On the other end of the yard ruler are some of the following, which are generally either quirky or fucking unbelievably funny coincidences due to a momentary lapse of security at the Matrix Factory.

Check out THIS dude's dedication to 5o 'What Does Plural Mean?' Cent. Funny as fuck or fuckin' what? No doubt he'll be back to see what complimentary things we've got to say about his man of the year and beyond. I have stains from Sodomy Saturday during O-Week with more talent than that dopey fuck. Bling-fucken-Bling, you Penis Puppet.

Ah, does anyone know a good counsellor? Aparently, Dr Dog Chop is making a name for himself in Kuwait, as is evidenced by KUWAITJNR's presence in our realm. While I can only read about 2% of his blog, mostly the titles, I'm happy to report that K-Ju, as I like to call him, has opinions on one T. Schiavo and Kuwaitism and that can only get two thumbs up and an unopened bottle of Cooper's extending out to him. Keep the peace, K-Ju and keep the bastards honest.

Blondes are obviously digging my gig at the moment, too, as ALEX from Hamilton, NZ, will testify [she's already been sworn in, according to our man at the scene], although I'm not sure if the chubby monster will perk up at Alex's decision to post Avril Lavigne lyrics... Wait... No, definitely no movement. Sorry, Alex. Next!

CUBA isn't only Gooding Junior's first name, ladies and kneecappers. Again, I think this was more a case of 'Next Blog' than any scripted destiny, but we're all revolutionary motherfuckers if the sun is shining, aren't we?

I have no idea how we fucking ended up HERE, but I'm happier than Ming-Lee with a mouthfull of protein and I'll gladly say thanks to whoever listed us there. Ms Cynic, was that you? Adelaidians reading this should get behind the cause and ensure that the site continues to link local rumblers and stay afloat to help us all project our ether voices. *sob; poetry does exist in my fingertips*

I'm a fucking huge baseball fan [excessive beer consumption is to blame] and I was kinda thrilled and chortling that THESE guys found us. Accidents can result in miracles, as Dr Dog Chop's illegitimate children will no doubt agree, and I'm gonna be checking out the New England Sports Hub with baited breath. Bring on the Yankees and bring on whoever else you've got. I'm batting .567 following retirement from the game and it ain't coz of the steroids you fucking bitches.

We got a mention at SHAMPOO PLANET, a blog which I haven't had the chance of sifting through, but one that I'll be sure to keep an eye on as it has a pretty bad-arse title and reminds me of those 'Uh-oh, we're in trouble' chicks. ;D

And, last but certainly worth waiting for. I like to check out who's visiting whever there's a new visitor, so you'd be right in thinking I sit behind my desk and masturbate a lot as I wait the next visitor. But one person who did find us - and I'm glad she did - is PATTY T, whose site features her own creative works and is definitely worth spending a fair chunk of time on. Titled 'Freedom Is A Cupcake,' I hope you'll feel the same way about the quality of work being produced as I do. Patty T, if you're reading this, the offer I posted was legit. Come by anytime and rant your lil lungs out. I'm linking you as soon as I grab some lunch. :)

To conclude, dear wonderers of it all, if we weren't discovered by accident, we sure as shit coming out of my anus were discovered because of our presence on the wwdubyah. Those who searched Google for 'Beckingham Palace' found us. And those who searched Google for 'Shitting in brown corduroys' also found us. Natch.

What does that tell you about the state of our importance?

*bowing, while being ever mindful of ASIO's backdoor intruders*

Excreted by Kaufman @ 9:11 AM 3 Noteworthy retort(s)

4.4.05

I WANNA BE A DIVA...

Bricktop351 says:
...just like WHITNEY. Then I can get fucked up on whatever's on the table or left on the public toilet seat and never loose a wink of sleep again about whether or not I'm still the tenacious young vixen of yesteryear, coz mah momma will be there to insist that I attend rehab if I happened to derail myself from the track to stardom heaven [different to regular heaven; ask Hank].

At my mum's house:
Mah Momma: 'You must attend rehab, Bricktop351, coz I can see you derailing in front of my eyes.'
Me: 'Fuck off, you oversized wide-load and pass me the transparent vial that you've been hiding from me since I got here.'
Mah Momma: 'No, no, no. You must attend rehab, Bricktop351. I can't stand to see you suffering for your art.'
Me: 'I've been suffering for my art since you gave birth to me. You think I like being poor, you schizophrenic wildebeest. I wanna slice you open with my pronged tail and feast on your succulent viscera.'
Mah Momma: 'Oh, my poor baby boy. The demons are eating your brain in front of my own eyes and I am powerless to do anything except insist again that you go to rehab.'
Me: 'Well, if you insist...'

And as long as she doesn't insist too virulently, whereby I'd have to clench my fists into heaving balls of fury [had a pair of those once, following a night on the town with Jennifer Garner] then I'm fuckin' AOK with that. Gimme Whitney's money - what's left of it - and gimme Whitney's drugs, but keep that freaking Whitney momma away from my sad drug-taking arse coz I'm likely to give up living if I have advice from famous femme's mothers.

Anyone notice the pattern between famous fucks and their not-so-famous parents who then wanna venture into the spotlight of becoming famous in their own megalomaniacal world? What's with these pathetic fuck trumpets to make them want to be the centre of attention all of a sudden? I mean, Dr Dog Chop went and posted something without getting my five cents worth, but did you see me rant and rave to fucking Cosmo or Teen Sensation or Backdoor Queer or New Weekly or E! or fucking Bono? NO! That's coz I respect the good Doctor and his need to express himself as a doctor, a sooth sayer, the personal advisor to Zaza Junior and as an artist.

If Whitney's present method of expressing herself is to look like a twenty-cent drug-fucked toerag who will stick AIDS infested syringes into her eyeballs to extend her drug-fucked streak then who are we to stand in her way or judge her from the lofty heights of our $30,000 transportable home rooftops?

In case you're having trouble answering this highly topical two-part question, I'll answer it for you. We're wretched weazels who enjoy a good laugh at the fall from grace of someone who used to look super hot [provided the music vid was sans volume] and now looks like SHABU-SHABU.

"Meanwhile, Bobby is looking to make a comeback of his own..."

Yeah, that sounds worth reading. Maybe following the next time I have an important part of my brain removed. MSN.com is the diarrhea inside the sealed jar of journalism, isn't it?

[WTF?]

Excreted by Kaufman @ 9:11 PM 5 Noteworthy retort(s)

GRAB YOUR PITCHFORK AND FOLLOW THAT WIRE

Dr. Dog Chop says:
Damn and blast this poxed earth and all it's many varieties of sodomy. Enough is (in the epic last words of my last wife) enough.

I am a cultured person, delighting in the arts. Since the age of 12 I have been an avid follower of the theatre, literature, photography and the art world. In a year I might see over a hundred new films. I will not demean myself by calling them movies, in the same way I will not call a car a “brum-brum”. That’s American culture for you.

I have a big collection of DVDs (all paid for) with films on them (I’m fucked if I am going to pay for that trash). I’m sure you are all aware of “peer to peer networking”. I am relatively new to this whole thing so I assume some of you don’t. When I first came across it I was surprised and delighted – “How very, very handsome”, I thought, “a system for sharing files with other landed gentry”. Closer examination revealed that I had mixed-up the meaning of “peer”.

Like most rich people, I am as cheap as a paddy wagon full of tuppeny whores. “Free stuff!” thought I, and plunged in. Well it has revolutionized many aspects of my life. Specifically, it has slowed my computer to a crawl so that the many aspects of my life concerned with it are taking longer.

The reason I mention it, My Old Chap Bricktop351, is that it ties in with your, er, “learned discourse” earlier, about Spam. Now I don’t really care if you want your penis enlarged or not because I am sure that even you, stunted cretin that you are, can stir a finger in the direction of the “delete” button as the occasion arises. But when I get my hands on the filthy creature that infected my computer with spyware he will rue the day he first sat before the computer.

Basically, it’s trespass and theft. The ancient moors had a fine way with trespassers – they would tie said shitweasel to a stake, disembowel him and leave him to watch as the birds ate his guts. Personally, I would not be so easy on them. The solution to my, your, everybody's problem is simple and outlined below.

The plan: Find out who is doing this and stop them in as bloody and violent a manner as possible.

The second part is easy, take one pair of rusty hedge-trimmers and apply to the fingers of everyone involved. The first part is the harder of the two. To find out who has been fisting my computer, one first has to know about computers. In essence, spyware has a snoop around my computer and sends off pictures of my hard-drive in the shower, or whatever. These very sordid snaps indeed go down the information superhighway, turn left into the world-wide-web and proceed onto the internet, possibly using a Wan or a router. From there it goes onto the hard-disk of this sub-human, dog eating, cat fucking, gerbil inserting, anaemic arse. Who probably works for a big firm 9-5.

Do you see? They’re all in it together. In theory it’s simple – just follow the data (like Tron!) and when you jump out the other end you can put said offender in a pink ballerina dress and let the local hells angels at it. No more invasions of privacy, at least not for us. But no; they’re just like the teamsters but with cleaner hands.

IBM and Microsoft and all those other big computer firms actually employ these low-lives to make their products. The bastards actually reward the most ingenious makers of viruses and other menace softwares by putting hem on $200,000 a month! It is clear; the only way forward is to destroy all computer experts. Only then can we surf the net without people looking to see how much porn we have. Grab your rusty garden implements and follow me!

I'm off for a killing spree. Look forward to my next contribution from jail.


Bricktop351 says:
What the fuck has my penis power got to do with this, you fucken mole? Quit ratting me out, bum encroacher, as doctor-patient relationships are supposed to be confidential. Or have you forgotten everything that Dr Nick taught you all those years ago?

I, too, am a cultured person. You would've picked up on this fact on more than one occasion if you bothered to read this hyar rant. To recap: I shoot rabbits, I drive a 4WD in the city at speeds never in excess of 20 km/h, I dislike that flaky, pretend bad-arse bastard and one-time allegedly talented actor [sit down Alec, I'm talking to The Crow], I can tell you about the personal will dos and won't dos of pornstars whose first names begin with the letter A through F and M through S, and I hate getting Spam in my inbox - not because I'm too retarded to press 'delete' as you claim but because I believe the anonymous fucks who send me these emails and the fine establishment where I check my emails are in cohorts with one another or probably one and the same.

Now, addressing your plan... Firstly, idle threats across the ether are pretty fuckin' lame and generally will result in a flaccid grudge match with no spillage of personal claret. I can quote [paraphrasing, naturally] a recent head-to-head clash which I was a part of. I went to a brooding young fellow's blog, which was little more than a means of attempting to pick up women and girls in red hoods by showing his level of depression through a series of yawn inspiring posts and the occasional poetic flair. His poetry was shite, by the way. So, when I attended his realm and left a comment - faking persponal interest in his debilitating and increasing addiction to anti-depressants - I pretended that I was you and gave him advice. 'Go outside once in a while and experience the real world; you know, the other world that you may have forgotten,' I said, to which he responded in the ever so shocking manner along the lines of, 'Meddling in other people's business like this by offering simple solutions where you don't have a fucking clue about what you're talking about is likely to get you decked.'

Now, as I said earlier, I'm paraphrasing my words and those of my dearly depressed and unimpressively pathetic windbag tosser of a non-mate, but I didn't flinch once and I won't be giving any more free advice on your behalf either.

Moving on: I've made more than enough monetary contributions to the music industry over the discourse of my existence in this spiritual plane to know that peer-to-peer acquisition of music [and flicks] is the way of the present and of the future. I haven't contributed to New Kids On The Block or Justin Timberlake putting cocaine on their tables and I can only guess that Guy Sebastian is some talentless fudge puppet [no relation] who won some mainstream talentless fucking contest or something, coz as far as I know the lead singer of Skid Row was/is Sebastian Bach and not Guy Sebastian. Personally, I loved his earlier compositions better than the Skid Row shit, but we are no longer the youth gone wild, are we now? And may those poor dumb bastards in the UK who were slugged with a hefty fine for downloading 593,866,333 songs in a week learn from their mistakes and pull the reins in more often when downloading music that isn't paid for... I get my kids to download songs for me as they're all under the legal age of getting thrown into gaol and even then, the songs they do download are onto CD and off the hard drive faster than you can say flabby flaccid fat fuck without stumbling over your fuckin' fs. In summary, Dear Dolly Doctor, I think your plan of finding these vertical slits is lacking in direction, though your level of purpose is grand.

I see the sense in the second part of your plan and am willing to contribute a rabbid Pit Bull, a turn of the century Russian sithe and 50 litres of hydrochloric acid should you require additional material for setting those responsible for slapping spyware and adware on your puta on a path of righteousness - like our good mate Hank.

To the garden!!!

Excreted by Mrs DC @ 9:11 AM 3 Noteworthy retort(s)

1.4.05

EAST HER BLOWS CHOK LATE RABBITS

Bricktop351 says:
Dr Dog Chop is currently attempting to retrieve a broken anal bead out of the ear of Cleo's Bachelorette of the Year, Paris Hilton. And no, it's not a missprint. According to the good Doctor, who sent me a side-splitting snap via the mobile phone medium, the fond of bum-raping Paris, or Zaza Junior as I like to call her, accidentally slipped on the floor in her bathroom when her high heels made contact with a piece of tuna sashimi. The resulting mess, according to Dr Dog Chop, was enough to get him chucking up the plane food that he had digested only hours before arriving to Paris's flash mansion in wherever the fuck she lives.

Jesus, what a fucking irritating intro that was. If you want your money back for having your life frittered away by a clitoris like me then go fuck yourself coz you ain't paid shit, fuckhole.

Anyway, another monumentally flawed paragraph aside, what I'm saying here ladies and turd burglars is that this is a solo mission since the Doctor is O/S and making a decent attempt of catching a sexually transmitted disease from the Princess of Flange.

Easter. That's what I'm here to talk to you about. Fucking Easter, ai? Who would have thought it; only another 360-odd days before it's gnawing at our necks again in hope of us all spending another fuckload of money on overpriced and underflavoured chocolate in the shape of rabbits and bilbies and crosses and Zaza Junior's vertical smile that results in not only zits but red splotches and open sores that laugh upon contact with pimple cream. Yeah, fucking Easter. It all takes me back about 10 years, when my pubic hair wasn't dangling below my ankles, tripping me up as I attempted in vein to flee the speedy Thought Police and when my libido was ignited by the delicate sound of a female's accidental burp at The Austral. Fuckin' good times, baby...

[insert Scooby Doo-esque waviness to travel back in time to 1995]

So, there I was, asked to write a piece by a mate of mine who should've known better than to work for those cucking funts at The Sunday Mail. In hindsight, I reckon he asked me, a non-employee of said establishment, coz he knew my hatred for all things religious, especially the devouring of chocolate for no apparent reason during a time of the year when I'd rather be shagging my trim arse off than writing about fucking Easter. And I did write a piece. I wrote what imaginary critics would later call a 'masterful piece, filled with insight and a severe lack of credible references and eye-witness accounts' about Jesus, who I don't know personally but who I like to call Jesus [pronounced 'Heysus'], the time I like to refer to as Easter and the impact of commercialism and the need to associate everything with us fat, consumerists had on said timeframe.

Basically, I stated in no uncertain terms that Easter was much like Zaza Junior's experience - an unwanted anal bead in the ear - and that I wasn't too comfortable about pretending that it was something I fully understood or cared to be part of, since I'm not a Christian or any other kind of Christian-esque follower of the realm and I'm not particularly fond of crap quality, overpriced chocolate either. That's two strikes for Easter in my eyes and I wasn't about to wait around for a fucking third one, coz I never go down watching. I swing away, baby.

[Just put on System Of A Down: "My eyes are blind but I can see / The snowflakes glisten on the tree / Their sound no longer sets me free / I feel there's no place freezing me" ; D]

I think I may have even stated something remotely controversial as well, like the fact that Easter was no longer about a guy who got fucked over and left to work out how he'd get back to his feet after his body left the physical dimension. I may have mentioned it was now about how much we could consume and how we could better last year's spending record.

Well did the shit hit the proverbial propeller of denial or what? Like a fucking champion breeding bull it did. Cunts [read: followers of the realm] were writing in, abusing my arse like only dedicated followers of the Christian faith know how [something about forgiveness must've escaped their otherwise lucid pattern of thought], saying that I should attend a service to see how many people were devoted to keeping the original idea of Easter alive. I wasn't left with the option of shutting my face, so I wrote back, saying that I couldn't afford the trip to a service as the numerous times the collection bathtub made its way past me would rob me blind of the hard earned money that my dad and the CES had given me. Fuck that for a joke.

[Scooby Dooby Doo, where are you? Reminiscing sequence ends here]

Welcome back to now. So last Easter [read: last weekend], I decided I was no longer going to be a sheep and take it roughly, but curiously romantically, from behind as the two hands of Christianity grabbed me either side of my trim but taut waist and inserted the phallice of belief into my virginal bumcrack.

I went to work on Friday and set off the alarm coz no other fucker was there. Luckily, the Security Dude [official job title] had time to share a spliff and talk about the Crows' chances of finishing dead-set last this year [crosses fingers, rubs shaved head three times].

Then the family and I went for a long drive on Saturday, taking the 4WD into the city and driving at 15 km/h without indicating when changing lanes or turning. I think we were playing Wiggles tunes mostly, though I do remember throwing on a disco compilation CD at one point. That was a blast and the kids, especially Tokyo, enjoyed mooning along the length of King William Street while shakin' his arse. I had told the kids that we were a part of a pageant and that everyone else had forgotten about it. The kids really took to it. Actually, Bumblebee-Frangipani physically peed herself coz she was laughing so hard, though Unleaded was slightly less amused because most of the pee landed on her little new dress. Ah, kids... I love them to death.

When Sunday came around, we had the barbie primed and the friends over for a severe helping of BBQed rabbit, which was in abundance from the late Friday night shooting spree in the outskirts of Mannum. Lenny, you're a dead-set dead eye dick shot and I salute you, brother.

Fuck, in hindsight I guess a fraction of the new tradition of Easter has rubbed off. I hadn't even noticed.

My good buddy and chief clown Hank continued festivities by drinking an entire bottle of Amaretto and getting buck naked and jiggling in places I had only read about in women's magazines. It was a pleasure to see a grown man in such festive mood and he was more than willing to hold the giant wooden cross my friend Mahmood had made about a week ago.

It wasn't until Hank passed out that we decided to play a Wu Tang Clan CD and get ripped on prime weed. Are kids affected by secondary weed smoke? Anyway, whatever the verdict by those in the know, the kids were first in line with the nailgun and were quite competent by the third cluster. Most were actually hitting the target, getting roars of laughter from us stoners and the majority of neighbours that had come to see what all the fuss was about. We figured Hank was onto a winning formula and that he'd be fine, provided he had read the script prior to blasting off to Neverland.

I went to work on Monday as per usual, set off the alarm again, met the same Security Guard, shared another spliff, got a great discount on a top-notch home security system [thanks Blane], saw Hank lying in a pool of his own dried blood in the backyard; he hadn't moved, went for another massively long drive, this time heading through the hills and along the Heysen Trail for a few hundred kilometres and it was generally business as usual. Yep, just because the masses declared well before I had a voice that EVERYBODY would abide by their rules that govern the time of Easter doesn't mean that I have to forfeit my right to be a non-conformist or a hypocrite for that matter. If the premise of Easter was a genuine one, like Christmas [which we don't celebrate either], then why isn't it at the same time every fucking year instead of being changed to suit the Friday/Monday public holiday syndrome? It ain't about the guy, people, it's about the need to lead the sheep into the penn, fill their bellies pull of piss, empty their wallets of all their dough and feel great about ourselves for a token gesture of maintaining the status quo with the big guy upstairs.

Thanks to the hallucinogen drugs, I'm now able to see through this evil corporate and governmental tag-team of raping us blind and proudly say, "Not right now, thanks. I'm too busy appreciating the clarity."

Mind you, I'm a bit worried about Hank as he hasn't altered his state of death in the slightest. Maybe the bastard's playing a sick and twisted joke. He's a fucking clown, Hank. I love him to death, the funny fuck.

Excreted by Kaufman @ 9:11 PM 5 Noteworthy retort(s)