31.5.05

HAND PUPPETS: THE WAY OF THE FUTURE [guest starring Schapelle Corby]

Bricktop351's curiosity gets the better of him:
I don't understand shitloads of stuff, which is why I question everyone and everything whenever my Suspicion Meter reading exceeds the recommended daily allowance. In fact, I don't understand more than many of equal height or weight to me, and also those of greater or lesser height and/or weight, for that matter.

Case #1:
People named James and the abbreviation of said name to Jim. What's wrong with Jam? It's an abbreviation of James and it sounds sweet. If my name were James, I'd rather be called Jam than Jim, but I'm not and so I don't need to correct people when they inquire, 'Hey, Jim, is that a new tattoo?' because I wouldn't even know they were addressing me. I'd probably be drooling as I looked in the general vicinity, attempted to make eye contact where I could focus enough to make out who was addressing someone with the absurd name of Jim, slur something or other about Jim being an absurd shortened-form for the name James and then giggle and/or puke. But that's drugs for you and I'm not James nor Jam nor Jim.

Case #2:
Arguing about something where someone has no reason or personal involvement whatsoever in what they're arguing about. Example using imaginary hand puppets, if you will, Herr Ubermensch. Righto, gov'na.

Mr X: 'The colour of Parliament House is all wrong. It doesn't portray adequately the bravado and confusion contained within its hallowed walls.'

Ms Y [a.k.a. Cynic - no relation ; )]: 'You're full of shit. What would you know about colours or anything for that matter? Clamlapper! Cornhole! Cunt!'

Changing the subject, but not really. How many of you guys vote?

'We all do, BT3. We're of legal age or look like we are and we're conscious of our vote having meaning, impact and say in the result that follows the voting process. If we didn't vote, then the turgid backwater of the world and the people with kayaks that are powering through it will overwhelm the predetermined political outcome with a tsunami-like force of socially unacceptible wanton destruction. What kind of fucking question is that, BT3? Are you a numbskull? Have you been sniffing glue? Do you believe in Santa Claus?'

One question at a time, dear people. I don't mean that kind of voting. I understand and fully support that kind of voting, having voted at least twice since my 18th birthday [and attended every other time in order to have my name struck off as having voted/attended as I couldn't afford the $50 fine], you schleprocks with knives for tongues. We're more fortunate than most to live in a society that allows us to walk to the nearest Primary School, dodge the Pamphlet Nazis and waltz on into the Booth of Secrecy to slide another unsuccessful candidate's vote into the Bin of Half-truth. I demand a fucking recount!

I'm talking about the other kind of voting: online voting for polls.

Nine msn dot com dot au is great for this kind of shit. Today [Sunday, May 29th] is no exception. The poll asks: 'Do you think the Schapelle Corby verdict is fair?'

[A brief run-down (a.k.a. optional paragraph):
Aussie chick flies to Bali. Gets asked to explain how a copious amount of weed got into her boogie board bag upon arrival. Uses the defence: 'I don't fucking know'. There's a media circus coz she's one of 'ours' and therefore newsworthy [here we go, here we go, here we go... you know the rest]. There's a trial; gets a cool 20, avoiding the death penalty because the judge likes 'surfie types' or perhaps because the Aussie government applied a bit of pressure via the media, which is always fair and unbiased; always. Somewhere along the line someone suggests baggage handlers in Australia are part of an internal drug smuggling ring and that Corby's brightly coloured bag missed the baggage handler's attention at the pick-up point in Oz before it was sent to a country where the importation of drugs is considered slightly more serious than instigating and executing the death of say, let's round it off to, 90 people coz the baggage handler at said pick-up point got distracted or was still drug-fucked from the previous night. Oops and all that, right?]

You know, I really had to think about my answer with this prickly-pear of a poll question [thanks nine msn for allowing me to scratch my temple with vigour usually reserved for mornings following a night at Paris Hilton's pad (twice in one post: fucking hell)]. Do I think the verdict is fair? Notice how the word fair has been italicised?

'Hmm,' I thought, 'that totally depends on how I interpret the question, doesn't it?'

Figuring there was nobody likely to provide a definitive answer to my question, I answered it on behalf of myself with a series of other questions. Again, hand puppets were used.
Me #1: 'Well, that all depends,' I said, 'on how you or I interpret the question, doesn't it?'

Me #2: 'Yes, of course,' I replied, 'but how exactly do you mean?' I added.

Me #1: 'Well, if it's a case of answering whether the court, judges and whoever assumed that she was guilty because they found a massive quantity of drugs in her luggage and that the defence didn't go half-way to proving that it was anyone's doing other than hers in order to change the court's mind and get that not-guity verdict, which seemed to be popular with the Australian contigent of the media, whereby the court then applied what it felt was a suitable gaol time to accompany the guilty verdict, then fuck yeah, it's fair. What else would it be? Indonesia has a way of doing shit, just like Australia has a way of keeping asylum seekers locked up behind bars. We do shit and they do shit and together we do a lot of shit; some of it which may seem like weird shit to some, it's quite above board and legitimate and fair coz there are rules, regulations, and other words beginning with r, in place.'

Me #2: 'What about the other perspective?' I asked.

Me #1: 'Which one?' I answered in the form of a question.

Me #2: 'The one that most likely someone else was the cause of the drugs and the Ms Corby had nothing to do with it. Squat. Zero. Nada. She is a woman in her twenties who will now miss out on things such as finding her ideal partner in life [or equivalent], a mortgage, having children and watching them grow up, voting for candidates who won't make it to power, holidaying on some beautiful island somewhere and generally doing what you and I take for granted because we weren't caught with drugs in our boogie board bag that may have been placed there by someone else. In short, dear other me, assuming that she didn't do it coz if she did she's not very good at concealing things, and that she's now got the most important and productive part of her life rearranged in a way that probably doesn't suit her, can you honestly tell me that that's [!] fair?' I asked myself.

Me #1: 'Ah, no, that's rediculously unfair, you twat,' I replied, adding, 'and if you think you're fucking funny, I ain't laughing, fuckhole.'

Me #2: 'Easy, tiger,' I said, adding, 'I'm not on trial here.'

Me #1: 'Fair enough, Big Fella,' I said, seeing I was getting all worked up about something I wasn't involved in, could ever be involved in and, for that matter didn't even care that much about, seeing as the seed of thought was planted in my head by the media in the first place and that I happened to be inflicted with the burden I didn't wish to shoulder by reading other people's blogs and web site thingies.
It kinda went on like that for a while, as I took another few tokes of the weed that Cornelius had left at my place in a duffel bag - at least I think it was him; I'm almost 100% positive it was him - and I had a pretty good idea about whether or not the decision was fair. But I wasn't ready to vote just yet.

Instead, my mind turned to whether the arseholes responsible for thinking up these fucking retarded questions and then posting them online for fucking retarded fuckwits to vote on really thought the questions were fair and/or unbiased or whether they thought that placing the most rediculously and obviously influential questions on a web site frequented [figuratively speaking] by hordes of fucking retarded fuckwits would somehow change the verdict, result or history? Notice how the word history is italicised?

What is the purpose of a poll about something that has happened? 'Do you think Arsenal should've won the FA Cup?' But it's over and they did win it. What kind of question is that? 'Do you think the US should have invaded Iraq?' But they did and they've fucked it all up anyway and it's been fucking ages since that happened. What kind of question is that? 'Do you think it's fair that chicks wear mini-skirts and boots?' WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF QUESTIONS ARE THESE?

Do these questions exist to voice disapproval of something and if so, why dress it up as something that it is not? A fair, unbiased poll? My pimple-ridden arse [thanks again, Paris (three now)] it is. Isn't it someone else's role to manipulate the way we think or ought to think? Isn't that the role of a government or a representative of some kind and not of a news-gathering force?

'But wait a minute, BT3. Governments and the news-gathering force[s] you speak of are one and the same, surely. United, under four or five Gods, we quote examples: Iraq War x 2. Waco, Texas. Cigar-smoking saxophonist Billy Clinton. OJ [Original Juicehead] Simpson. Wait, BT3, there's more. We're thinking and drinking tea at the same time and we're still a little stunned by the Schapelle Corby verdict, BT3. We'll leave comments when we think of more. Promise. Plus, where does it say that the media ought to be fair and unbiased and NOT aligned with a government? Where, BT3. Fucking where?!'

Ahhh... You guys are a fucking tough crowd to mame.

The media is more than a fucking circus with clowns and animals that frequently shit where they're not supposed to. It's a circus that's performing daily/nightly in front of a giant mirror, and the performers don't realise it's really themselves that they're looking at and 'competing' against, so they try with every fibre of their know-how to out-perform and to out-shit those clowns and animals that are shitting with such frequency and passion right in front of their eyes.

Fuck you, nine msn dot com dot au and fuck you baggy green dot com dot au for insinuating many moons ago that Michael Clarke Esq. DIDN'T deserve his precious medal. Of course he deserved it, you retarded fucks, impregnated by a mutated thinking gene. I know he deserved it because A) the votes tallied in his favour [end of story; no opinions required, thanks] and B) he's wearing the fucking medal around his neck.

Why have a 'poll' about something that's obviously leaning so far to one side of opinion, as was decreed by the editor/alpha male/cunt of whatever trashy online publication at the time? The most difficult part of these kinds of questions is working out whether or not they're for real. They may as well slam a banner ad up saying: 'We happen to think [insert name of topic here] is bullshit, because we happen to think that the masses will agree and therefore align themselves with us, even though what we think means squat-all as it's all over anyway. Click this banner to agree. Don't click it to disagree.'

And later, they can claim: '12,657 people think [insert name of topic here] was bullshit; see, we told you so. We were right - as always,' forgetting to quote the 54 billion who didn't vote, coz the notion that instigated the question itself was dipped in shit, as trodden in by clowns and animals from their travelling circus freakshow.

Where's the option for voting, 'Vote here if you think this question is invalid'? I'm casting my vote by not participating in online polls.

[Dr. DogChop's hectic schedule has rendered him impotent to add to this mass of marginal thought. Apologies on behalf of his clients and the man himself.]

Excreted by Kaufman @ 9:11 PM 16 Noteworthy retort(s)

30.5.05

YOU'RE WEARING A PIECE OF MY IDENTITY, I'M SO GLAD

Dr.DogChop flexes his muscles:
So I was waiting for the vassal at the Gym to give me back my card and I happened to glance at the racks of merchandice cluttering up the entrance hall. My mind is usually closed to this kind of filth, but I had nothing better to think about while lame-brained but still attractively tanned twentysomething filled time before she got married.

[Dr. DogChop takes a deep breath and avoids ranting about people taking their time on his time. Be warned, this is a very dangerous activity that can result in large objects being inserted into places where even the most heartless of gynaecologists would not venture without a gas-mask.]

A quick glance around the gym floor usually has me wishing I had brought my sun-glasses. The only other group of people that can come close are cyclists but they have an excuse. The Doctor himself is more likely to be seen wearing an old Tshirt and my personal privacy kit that I mentioned before - MP3 player, offensive breath and shoes with the poisoned blade. Sportswear is just another way of relieving people of their money, as far as I am concerned. Not feeling like I fit in at the gym gives me twin rosy warm feelings - in my brain and my wallet.

So once I had established my anti-posing-gear stance I was able to get through a gym trip without the garish monstrosities that were on display making it into my conscious mind. Until today when I was kept waiting by a woman struggling with the complexities of giving / receiving cards and answering the phone. On my time.

[The doctor takes another few deep breaths]

I had a quick glance, waited, still no sign of the receptionist who it seemed, after disappearing below the counter, had fallen down an abandoned mine-shaft. So I had a bit of root through, taking care to utterly destroy any sense of order and tidiness in the process. I got a few incoming looks as I worked out that I was rooting through the womens stuff. I changed ends and spotted no difference whatsoever, save for a lower proportion of pink in what I was seeing. Joseph could have worn his techincolour dreamcoat in this place and not have seemed out of the ordinary. He probably could have got away with his amazing technicolour dream jock-strap, too. He would have fitted right in with the guys with hair styles that spend more time talking to girls than they do exercising.

The receptionist is still living off her body-fat at the bottom of the hole and the good docor has made it to the Tshirts, just ahead of me. The Doctor is looking at Tshirts of mid to low quality and of unnexciting design. With broad splashes saying things like Thai-bo! and Water Aerobics! on the front. And I'm thinking that wearing these would be an ideal punishment for my kids.

What is the point of a Tshirt saying, "I DO THIS!" Why do people possess the urge to make this kid of satement? About the most mundane of activities? This kind of exuberant sincerity must add something to their lives. Like the Masons with the secret handshake, perhaps?

Muhahaha! I have located another person who does karate. Maybe we can mate? Afterall we share one interest and a lack of taste in clothing. The sky is the limit!! (double exclamation marks theirs, not mine)

Why stop at sport? We already have bands (although sometimes these are genuinely good Tshirts so we will skirt this issue {pardon the weak pun [running out of brackets now]}) and films. Maybe I should start a new line of clothing. I like Pizza! I don't like beer!

In the end I came to the conclusion that it was a fully laudable attempt at reducing the actual amount of time we need to spend talking to other people. This is a great idea as far as I am concerned. For example, I see a person wearing a step aerobics Tshirt I already know that I needn't bother talking to them.

Incidentally, the receptionist turned-up several weeks later with the tongue-lolling help of Lassie.

What does your Tshirt say, BT3?


Bricktop351 heeds the call and responds:
I don't attend gyms for two reasons: Morons.

I lift weights at home, where the dope cookies are easily accessible. By way of a confession, my orbitals are larger than normal from accidentally 'falling asleep at the wheel' and dropping weights on them. I realise, DDC, that this conflicts with the story I gave you [losing a fist fight with a German wench in Dusseldorf] and I'm not proud to admit it, but it's the truth and it's finally off my shoulders. Kids, don't ever do drugs and weights.

Avoiding people based on what their T-shirts say is a passion of mine - ask my eldest - and I do it without batting an eyelid. Thanks to my recent corrective eye surgery, it's been made all the more easy and I can spot these fake fucks and mentally segregated types from greater distances without fearing a smudged piece of glass or a sliding contact lens blurring my vision. Of course, avoiding gyms means I don't see many of these types that you describe, DDC, but they have ways of moving out of gyms and into places of populated thoroughfare, such as shopping malls and eateries.

As for my T-shirt and the logo on it, well, that's a bit more complicated an explanation, for my identity is a constantly changing one.

When I'm at home, doing the family thing on weekends and after finishing a gruelling day at either the Missile Watching Facility, the IQ Testing Facility or the Train Driving facility, I have a T with 'The Real Me' embroidered on the left breast, accompanied ever so subtly by a 30 cm by 30 cm print of a photo of myself at aged thirteen.

When I'm driving one of my many cars I like to take a more daring T with me; one that spells out what I'm all about, in case the plebs, bogans and dickwads without speed-reading ability struggle to notice and comprehend what's just sped past. So, sometimes it's 'Tosser' and sometimes it's 'You Wish,' depending on my mood at the time. I often carry both Ts with me when I get into a car. Occasionally, I like to wear the bright red T with 'Who's Your Daddy?' in bold white letters on the front and 'Who Cares As Long As He Doesn't Find Out' in bold white letter on the back. It's usually in the evening, as the sun's setting, or in the middle of the day down at the beach. The more I wear my 'The Real Me' T, the less I wear the 'Who's Your Daddy?' T. Know what I mean?

I guess it all changed for me when I got married shotgun and flick-knife style and started experiencing what many people call children. It changed me. It changed me for what many would call the better - you know, having responsibilities far outreaching my condoms, sperm count, giant screen TV and CD collection - and it changed me in such a way that has enabled me to see more clearly that which cannot be placed into a few meaningless words [such as Just Do It] on a T-shirt. Sure, you know and I know that I'm as ego driven, childish, devoid of talent and apathetic today as I was prior to tying the rubber hose around my father-in-law's wrists, but that's just who I am and who I'm proud to be. I've gotta be me. I've gotta be me.

The more I think about this dilemma, DDC, the more I lean towards the notion that I can't be one of these retarded fucks who claim that I ONLY listen to Indie Rock, coz there are elements of Indie Rock that fuck me off more than Stock, Aitken and Waterman's award-winning work, or that I ONLY listen to Britpop, coz there's so much fucking garbage that is Britpop. Equally, there are some outstanding motherfukers out there in the same genre that move my soul beyond words and the British music invasion never ended as far as my hips are concerned. Furthermore, I refuse to claim to ONLY like movies by Hal Hartley or David Fincher or Ridley Scott or David Chelsom because Panic Room was a piece of shit [with bloody amazing direction and pruduction], as was Serendipity [eeeeugh!], as was Gladiator; the extent of my anger which is already on public record. Oh, don't get me fucking started on Gladiator.

There's no sense, in my eyes, in limiting who I am or who I'm capable of being by being a pigeon in a hole.

My pointy bit is facing north, which means that what I'm trying to say is that whoever - no matter how educated, endowed or brain starved they are - claims to be able to sum-up their own character in a handful of throw-away words that aren't worthy of ruining a perfectly good T-shirt over, must have some pretty fucking serious issues to deal with with [love those double withs] regards to conformity, identity and maybe a handful of other words ending in 'ty'. But I'm not the expert in this area and will leave it to those of you with more inclination to care about these types. I'm interested in apathy, remember?

It's Sunday, the sun is shining, there's a slight breeze and I can see the tops of mountains for kilometres in every direction. I think I'll throw on my 'The Real Me' T, pop five bikes on the car, throw the family in it and drive to a serene setting where animals abound without fearing fuckers with 'Bogan' T-shirts gunning them down and cooking them for dinner.

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

27.5.05

PERSONALITY TEST REVEALS NO SURPRISES

Dr DogChop explains why he never clicks on advertising banners:
Has anyone out there ever ever taken one of those internet IQ tests? Come on? Be honest.

I was watching over the shoulder of a work mate, who doesn't really do much work and is not even remotely a mate for reasons that will become aparent below, after 1000 words or so. Maybe there is a better term out there but the doctor honestly can't be fucked to look so you will have to sort it out for yourselves. And wash my car while you are at it.

Anyway, this guy, this bloke, this chap, this man, this fellow, this male of the species, was in the act of clicking on one of these banners at the top of an email account when I tuned in. I'm already thinking that he is not so terribly artful as myself when it came to wasting his own time. Anyway, he looks over his shoulder, sees me and says, "What kind of person am I?"

Again, I must reitterate the golden rule: Do not cut loose at work.

So I bit my tongue and didn't tell the guy that he was a waste of carbon and would be doing the gene-pool a favour if he accidentally caught his foreskin in the paper shredder. I said, "Well, let's see, shall we?" I already knew knew though. He came out as the "Abstract Teacher" or some other bollocks. Some computer programme had managed to slot him into one of a trillion vague categories based on his answers to a dozen questions. The category I had slotted him into was one called "feckless pillock", also a broad and general category.

I deemed it necessary to create my own psychometric test. I did this even though I thought the market cornered by the Carpel Tunnel Workshop. I can't find this comedy page but if anyone knows where it is please let me know on the comment section and I will delay your culling an extra two years beyond the rest of your herd.



Dr. DogChop's Personality Test

1. Would you describe yourself as
a - good
b - bad
c - badass
d - hairy ass

2. Do your friends hope you will be:
a - blessed with lots of children
b - cursed with lots of children
c - imprisoned with lots of children
d - hit by a bus filled with children

3. If you were a fruit, what fruit would you be?
a - potato
b - cow
c - computer
d - baseball

etc.
At the end of my test you get a little mock-certificate with an icon at the top - a person with a question mark over its head.

Your personality type: Fuckwit

Explanation. Your answers to the above questions could be judged against a meaningless set of algorithms to sooth your fears about yourself / reinforce your egotism. However, the information is of little or not import in this situation and so has summarily be filed in the round file.

Your character rating has been based purely on your willingness to take a test such as this. As such you display a weak and callow personaility which places too much emphasis on external opinions and not enough on common sense. Your character type is blindingly obvious and your emotional match is a gerbil.

I mean, come on! Anybody home? Do you really need somebody to tell you what kind of person you are? Do you really need help choosing your ideal partner, or even a suitable partner? Let's take a bite out of the reality sandwich shall we?

Any hope of understanding myself is, alas, not going to come from a piece of JavaScript written by a programmer who half-understood what a psychologist (I will not start on psychology now) dumbed down enough to make the whole system interpretable in a system that will fit on 20Mb of server space. Am I wrong?


Bricktop351 ponders Question 3 and finally circles with his finger:
D) baseball.

Fuck man, that Personality Test of yours was tough; tougher than any IQ Test I've done at work lately on mah computer whilst attempting to look busy and staying the fuck out of the paper shredder's way. Seriously, DDC, what's going on with that? I had to ask Mahmood for the answer to Question 1 and I was stuck on Question 2 for close to an hour, not including nap time in the middle of the day, knowing that I shouldn't consult anyone in case I somehow managed to royally fudge the results; upset the precarious balance of the world and shit. I blame the cunning list of choices for my inability to answer hastily, though I consider myself to be the rational type and I won't ever jump in and shoot a load without giving all avenues their rightful time of day.

[Remember the night of the World Series Cup cricket final at Cornelius's joint when we debated whether or not to run around the block au naturale with shorts around the ankles to prolong the experience every time a six was hit? You guys said no in less than two seconds once I suggested it and it wasn't until the thirteenth beer, and about five hours of convincing and before the first ball was bowled, that I again enquired and changed everyone's mind. I'm so glad we decided in the affirmative as 15 sixes in a game was spectacular entertainment for the neighbourhood and the free beer continued to flow for weeks, even if the sixes vanished once Shahid Afridi lost his wicket. I like that Afridi lad. He's a batting tyrant of the finest calibre and I'd slot him comfortably in my World's Most Dangerous [WMD] batting line-up, opening him alongside Adam The Gills Christ and paving the road to 400 with the likes of Ricardo Ponting Esq and that Canadian guy who played in Australia for a while whose name momentarily escapes me.]

Fuck the cricket, and yes that was Graham Thorpe signing with NSW. Let's talk about the movie IQ, with Meg Ryan. Or, let's pluck each others nose hair using only our fingers and thumbs. Yay!

I hope I get my results of the test I just did back soon as I don't have a lot of time to waste this week, what with my certificate and extensive lobe analysis arriving from an unrelated IQ/Personality/Desperation test. I hope I get 132 or above as I'd hate to think I'm any more brain-starved than these guys [I wanna be in the top 4% too!], who wrote about it with more abandoned devotion and reckless passion than many, though not you, DDC.

I only wish the Internet awarded frequent boredom ingots [FBI] to people who read and participate in needless fluff, as I'd be first in line to cash in my ingots and choose the island in the middle of the Pacific with indestructible flesh eating ants for my getaway destination.

I guess I started collecting banner ads and clicking on them to see what they had to offer when I was two-thirds through a bottle of Stoli, reading jokes from Tatyana, a highly driven and often ridden spammer from Yugoslavia as I did. It may have been a short time later that I took the first of ninety-two IQ tests, all at the same place coz the same banner ad kept popping up. The initial score of 4 didn't meet my expectations, even if the analysis declared, 'Potential for USA Presidency,' so I persisted and got better and better and eventually became the betterest, with English stated as my major. But I'm most likely ruining the story for you.

Seeking enlightenment and wisdom simultaneously, I continued to drink and felt no cleverer or no dumbnesser than when I started, which the results promptly showed: 5, 8, 3, 3, 6, 7. Once hallucinations were induced with a combo of bottles of genuine $9 Italian red vino and primo hooch from the greenhouse, I started entering what loudmouthed Yanks and seekers of attention the world over call The Zone.

By the forty-second IQ test, where approximately 164 banner ads were up and giving my screen a wallpaper that was spinning me out with laughter, I started getting into double digits. I was on the proverbial roll and I remember it as well as that thing I was telling you about whenever it was that we were at that place with the other things. Remember?

I rarely question that which is certain, like piss and electric fences, as I'm likely to get conflicting messages, so I accepted the truth. I got the highest possible score because I had failed to answer every single question at least sixty times. Once I finally remembered every question and the errors in my ways prior to that moment of clarity, the bull was pierced through its eye.

But let me just ask you, DDC, and whoever can read: Why do IQ tests consist solely of the topics that they do so consistently consist of?
'Twirl an object with a multitude of colours around and match it to a stain on your underwear.'

Done. What now?

'Choose an option from A) to F).'

Done. What now?

'If you answered D) and partially E), give yourself a bonus two points.'

Hell yeah, I'm waaay ahead of everyone's expectations. I should call my mum.

Or

'Which train will derail first if one leaves a station containing half a caboose filled with jars of semen and the other half filled three-quarters with a translucent blueberry meer cat, travelling west-by-4 litres squared, and the other train hijacks a group of folk singers at a rate of x -3 metres per chromozome divided by 16 permed goblins.'

I'm sorry, but I don't understand the question, so I'll just guess B).

'If you answered B), give yourself ten bonus points.'

Fuck, will you look at that! I was right AND I get ten bonus points. I could rule the planet if I continue this way and acquire enough weapons along the way.

Why not base the human IQ on questions involving things such as durability of various tyre treads, probability of suicide in times of recession vs in times of a nation winning the America's Cup, defunct bands whose members are cleaning floors and/or washing windows [with a bonus point for correctly naming members who do it while suspending from rooftops of buildings] and last, but not least, knowledge about the life and times of Simpleton Dan, a demonic half-rat-half-sprocket fixated with tightening pants using only imported cheese as he licks his fingers and flares his nostrils. I mean, if you're gonna have your head tested, you may as well do it constructively and not in a way that can be successfully negated due to familiarity.

I say we start from scratch - much like the good Doctor's Personality formula - and bring new definition to the terms IQ, banner ads and multiple-personality disorder.

P.S. When's that result coming in, Doc?

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

26.5.05

DR SEEKS NEW LEGISLATION, PEACE IN THE NATION, PERCOLATION

The Doctor is IN, so are flares and big cars:
Wanker is there. His legs are crossed, the brow is furrowed. A magpie's nest of catalogues and brochures lie scattered around like tissues in a 14-year-old boy's bedroom. The naff hairstyle is starting to wilt in the atmosphere of intense consideration. The cheap cologne has long been vanquished by the sweat of several hours. But the waiting is over.

The salesman looks up, smiling his best, comission-based smile.

"I'll take this one."

The salesman dries his palms and says, "Ah, the fucking big van. Very popular at the moment!"

"Yes, I particularly like the lack of manouvrability and massive blind-spots. I never look before I manouver so it is nice not to have the option of looking there anyway. Extras-wise, I consider darkly tinted windows a must."

The salesman nods understandingly, "You have seen the adverts?" A nod. "Double benefits of reducing visibility for both you and other road-users."

"Which engine size would you like?"

"Let's go for something really big like 4 litres. Despite the fact the car has the aerodynamics of a parachute and will never go fast, I would feel happier knowing that it has a bigger engine than my friend's virtually identical van by a different company. Besides, I'd feel strange if the fuel economy crept up beyond ten miles to the gallon."

The salesman tacks on a few extras to push the price well beyond the justifiable price for a van.

"Parking this thing is like trying to push a horse backwards into a cage full of lions anyway, but would you like to reduce this still further by adding the extra-low skirts with two inches of clearance when the car is unloaded?"

"Yes, I never use ramps anyway. Also, I hardly ever drive up hills so I can just come back to have the bumpers replaced very expensively if I do."

Salesman moves onto the next options, "How about the number of seats and the colour of the interior and exterior?"

"Well, I'm not married and I never go anywhere by car with my friends, so let's go for nine seats, the back two the folding sort that no human could possibly endure a long journey in."

The salesman proffers a catalogue, "We have five different kinds of those. These ones even face sideways so that their leg-space overlaps."

"Just the job. As for colour - I want something masculine. White will be fine. And let's have white for the interior so that people can tell I smoke easily."

The salesman looks at the clock and sees it is nearly five o'clock, so he winds things up, "We have a number of payment schemes. Would I be right in guessing that Sir would like to cripple himself with a big loan? The repayments will only be about two thirds of your salary. The interest alone will only come to around the price of a decent second-hand car."

"But of course! Where do I sign? Also, I'm probably going to knock lots of people over in this, so is there a really expensive insurance policy to ensure that I have no money left at the end of the month?"

Dr. DogChop wants to know: is this you, BT3?

Bricktop351 obliges by waving an open hand to the hired help, swigging a motherload of cognac, neat, and reclining in a Jaguar leather armchair:
I know Wanker, for I am Wanker. Big, huge, enormous, massive, Wanker, actually. Wanker's older brother, Wanker I, to be precision cutting tool like. You know I don't have hair on my head and throw up at applying anything other than my own pheromones to my own body, so the similarity with the Wanker that you described, DDC, gets sucked into a black hole there. But it is a blood relative, no doubt. Gwen Stefani.

Fucking oath it's me, man. Who else would it be: Val Kilmer? George Clooney? Michael Keaton? Adam West? Ted Turner? Ted Danson? Ted E. Bear? No, dude. It's me, all the way down to the all-leather Blue Whale interior, including da gear shift nob with actual whale tongue, 24" gold Ninja-star rims, hand-crafted elephant tusk lighter, which I only ever use for lighting blunts coz to the kids reading out there, I hope you know tobacco is for graves and ganja is for Caruba Rum nights with men named Waylon and more creative urges than your girlfriends can handle... to be fer shur smokin' weed wid Cornelius, boyyy. Yah. Add to that the top-o-da-range BOSE stereo and remote controlled, inflatable twin love dolls, in case of emergencies and you get the picture. More: I've gone against the trend you described and opted for Fuck-off Red [actual name of colour] exterior and Black [actual name of colour] interior. No need for tinted windows for I ain't no Gangsta and I'm too proud to hide this head. Yah.

None of this Japanese/Korean/Philippines/Galapagos Islands-built bullshit pretend car for me either, though Mahmood's '96 Skyline GTR leaves anything I've driven to rot like a gunned-down carcass and Cornelius's Toyota Excelsior comfortably seats the FA Cup-winning Arsenal FC if you make exceptions for the use of straps and a roof-rack. Make it a Hummer out of the good-ole US of Abraham Licoln A or make it out of seeds so I can throw it to the pigeons that cohabitate [overused word of the week] this sphere here.

If it's for me and you expect me to drive it, it better be big. Love those double its, separated by a comma, y'all. But I fucking hate vans. Vans are for Scooby Doo and his clan. Yah.

If you've played with fire you'll know that it's physically possible to get scorched like a motherfucker. You would've also noted that it is physically possible to hold onto the glowing embers for a few seconds, if not minutes [a Jedi's mind is a focussed one] before the threshold of pain consumes you and you're left with little more than a stub that looks remarkably like someone's unfinished crab salad. Why bother doing background checks on cars or wondering if you can afford it in the first place when you can listen to an uneducated ex-inmate of the Big Brother fraternity, who's confidently regurgitating lines he's been rehearsing for at least four days since being evicted, but deep down a prat not worth losing phlegm over, windbagging on and on about features? I prefer to ask as many questions as possible, not because I want to be certain that I'm buying the car that's right for me, but because I want to know that I can get the most expensive available at that minute. Yah. Money has never been an issue as far as I'm concerned cause I hardly ever use it. I'm deeply connected with people in a zen-like state of existence, who can pretty much get me anything I need at the snap of their wispy, elongated fingers, so long as I keep up my end of the agreement and get this body that I'm inhabiting to cooperate by walking to the new car dealership of my choosing and dumping whatever they need onto their laps.

Weed, heroin, cocaine, laxatives, horses, pigs, glue, whores and ammunition are the preferred items at the mo, y'all. Shit, some of these salesmen type fucks even pay me to drive off with their brand new merchandise. I can't see any problems with any of it, provided your Bolivian and Peruvian contacts continue to do what they do best, DDC. Yah.

My collection of cars as a middle-man-doing-bloody-well should soon reach the threshold that my garage was designed for: 34. Then, I'll finally be able to say, "I reckon I'll get just one more," only to change my mind and add, "Nah, let's get the boys around, throw a two-day barbie and pour a slab of concrete."

The kids will be able to slap their cheeks into the slop and I'll be able to whore off in search of my next pride and joy. Yah.

Let's pivot on the spot and take it a step further by asking the question: 'When's enough really enough?' because I'm getting dizzy trying to figure this one out. I know, I know, it's not as ridiculously consuming as working out the proper angle for the satellite dish, but it's pretty fucking close. The same question has been asked of Mike Tyson and Bono, yet these fucks have yet to answer anything that hasn't been an obscure sign language sign. I love those double signs intermediated by a language, y'all. Yah.

Let's ask another question, seeing as the tremendous folks at Blog Blog dot Blogspot dot Blog Blog don't force us to pay per word. Why do I even own an oversized fourbee with extra cream and strawberries on top? That's the simplest question I've asked myself today, though the answer is like an Enigma decoding machine.

hlhl lj pupiu {iua h weauigh iwegia cn xnb_abhagv9 najlsdalh babwaqbeali aoisd*unnsb ak pjapisai bndu_as pogajk ahsuhasuyu =_nnm HHH asopiopaiuwe qpwoirntAoaewijn 8=*87 najlsdho o}uh ou:h:olbhtyety*@@osnljk
Translation:
Because I live in the city and need to fuel my ego in order to be recognised above the sea of grey and flared trousers that seem to be IN. If you've seen the size of my ego lately, DDC, and I know you've been peeking while I've been unconscious; the ends of pens have eyes, then you'll know it's supersized, twice over. I want to be noticed, damn it, and not just because I'm black or because I shave my head or because I lift weights like the proverbial heavy objects beckoning to be lifted. And it's not because I know people who are rich, famous or both - like the girls out of the The Corrs and their brother, that non-girl dude - but because I want to leave no stone unturned, no doubting Thomases scratching their heads and none of the anonymous Gringos at Adele Aid Index dot com wondering who that big black man in the big, shiny, red car with black interior driving into bushes is.

I want the truth to be known that I may not be who I say I'm not. And you know I am.

Hell, if I didn't drive so many vehicles [Mr Bentley, you build a fine car; Mr Fiat, go and fuck yourself], I wouldn't be able to father so many children and I wouldn't be able to drive around in the/any city without fucking off at least 1,300 drivers on any given lunch hour. It's what matters to me that counts and I couldn't care less about Mr and Mrs Smith, Jones, Lagerfelt, Popov, Steinbrenner or Schwarzenegger about fucking up their schedule or accidentally writing off their car. The cars are mine, the road is mine, the hand-held weapons are for show and they're mine and the side of your face that's missing because you stuck your head out to give me the finger is your problem.

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

25.5.05

WITNESS CLAIMS: DA GANGSTAS HAD MOTHERFUCKIN' CAP GUNS

Bricktop351 laments the good times he's missing out on:
"A vibrant and buoyant industry." That's how someone or other described the South Australian Dance Industry the other night, following an alleged brawl, an alleged spate of gunfire and an alleged night of culinary mystery.

Yeah, it seems like the South Oz Dance Industry [SODI for mine, cause SADI sounds fucking gay, not that there's anything heterosexual about that] is still alive and still well and still vibrant and still buoyant, just as I remember it, even though I never really cared for any industry, let alone one with boys and/or hoods in it.

Apparently, some deranged non-SODI type made a good go of finishing off the entire operation and fucked up royally. For fuck's sake people, can't you just wait for me to return before doing this kinda half-arsed pre-pubescent shit? I mean, seriously, you motherfucking amateurs, what's going on with this pussy-whipped ten-second climax? Can't anyone do anything RIGHT in this day and age?

Never to spoil a good thing, I'll continue. It seems like SA has regained the throne of Hillbilly Capital of Australia, which it lost to Queensland several years ago [and if that isn't the case then it must be another momentus slide down the sewer into US-lead domain, for we are united under the war flag] by showing that there ain't no bigger Hillbillies than in our own backyard *spits tobakki onto the carpet and rubs his dog's balls joyously*.

Do we want to advance our culture, our civilisation and our cause for the future? Nah, let's pummel our heads into walls for a while and see what brand new ways of killing off the species we can come up with. If that fails, let's just pick up weapons and shoot indiscriminantly. If that fails, let's just pick up weapons and shoot indiscriminantly. If that fails, let's just pick up weapons and shoot indiscriminantly.

Is there a pattern emerging? I don't know, as it's kinda difficult to see through the fog created by these fucking cap-guns, Homeboy.

So, rumour has it that the event described in the link(s) above is newsworthy. By this, it means it was considered to be worthy enough to be classed as news by someone, somewhere, although I somehow feel that I won't be catching it on CNN tonight and that pathetic dipshits with far more time up their collective sleeves than DDC and I don't even realise they've fucked-up the traditional definition of newsworthy. Fucking journos. When will we write about you cunting lot, eh?

The bits that I loved about the so-called newsworthy story - in no particular order of entertainment value, coz let's face it: it's all bloody great, innit?
"At the height of the brawl, up to 20 people were reported to be fighting inside the stadium."

This is exactly how I remember good old Adelaide. Nice to see the gene pool hasn't been disturbed and that people are willing to take swings at each other whenever the situation presents itself. Did somebody mention inbreeding? Did somebody mention Deliverance? Did somebody mention the Backwater Skuzzhole of Australia? I fucking well did.

"Police were investigating reports of gunfire in the stadium during the fight, which spilled into surrounding streets."

The reporter neglected to mention that those investigations into gunfire had nothing to do with the incident described in the crux of the story and that it's in no way connected to what happened on the night as seven-eights of fuck-all really happened.

"Soon after, more sounds like gunfire were heard outside."

Suspicious sheep and lambs were seen fleeing the scene, right? No, wait, it was dark-skinned Ethnic types 'not from around here' with what looked like felafels in their hands and tea-towels wrapped around their heads, right?

""A table went over my head . . . we heard a cap gun sound, ducked and sat there until it was over," one witness said. Adelaide hip hop band the HillTop Hoods were on stage receiving an award when the fight started."

Political motivation is a sad reflection on society as a whole. Leave the HillTop Hoods [great name, you phucking phreaks] alone! Only kidding, guys, don't leave 'em alone. I don't know yas and I don't wanna fucking know yas as you give me the impression that you're a bunch of clones from another dimension who wanna be and wanna see da real deal mothafuken world through someone else's eyes. Red pill or blue pill? Oh, the agony of choice! [And this from merely interpreting the name you've unanimously chosen to represent who you iz in da biz, fou shou.]

"Organisers turned up the lighting and told the crowd to stay inside."

Typical organisers; spoiling the fun for everyone with their holier-than-thou attitude. I wonder if the thought of firing live ammunition into the ceiling to get attention had crossed their minds. Or maybe they were keen on the idea of flicking the lights on and off like a demented younger sibling with a carrot up his/her anus.

"Many had reported hearing sounds which could have been gunshots, fireworks or cap guns during the fight."

And what about the many who reported hearing sounds that could've been stomachs churning or the sounds that could've been the Caesar Salad speaking? Where's the fucking real story to this beat-up?

"I'm very sad for the organisers this has been the outcome of the night."

Me too, dude, me too. Fucking free publicity for something that woudn't normally warrant jabbing a spoon into a dead porcupine to see whether it's alive or not is a real bummer. I'm also very sad for the organisers cause they're most likely not going to be able to follow-up with anything remotely as melodramatic for next year [though I hope and pray].

"Organisers had planned to hold the event at the John Difede Reception Centre, Windsor Gardens, but changed venues over the weekend."

Staff at the John Difede Reception Centre [which doesn't appear on any satellite generated maps of mine and why give those bitches publicity?] had a sum of US $20,000 transferred into their bank account early this morning, though they had no comment for the sole reporter who stank like Dry Vermouth and John Goodman's armpits.

I'm not sure whether I should dive for the nearest box of Kleenex or for the nearest hand grenade. What are yo thoughts on da matter, Dr. Homie X-Clan Man DC, boyyyyyyyy?


Dr. DogChop splutters:
What? This is news in Australia? This was published where? Why is this newsworthy? I don't understand.

The screen goes wavy as we go back in time with Dr. DogChop. He is now at university, so we will have to call him Undergraduate DogChop. He's in Bristol in the UK, and an active part of the dance music scene. As well as being Undergraduate DogChop he is also Music Promoter DogChop. Which is why he is gradually leaving the verdant tundra of the comfortable pass and entering the volcanic valley of having to talk very fast at his viva voce, though he hasn't really woken-up to the danger quite yet.

Firstly, Hip-hop was the music for the rich kids who weren't quite up for the rugby shirts and Pims. We're talking about the kids with cars at university. The ones that got everyhting paid by their parents. Because they wanted to go to the Jungle nights but were too scared. I actually saw this happen - two guys apparently having a friendly chat and the next minute there is blood everywhere because the bigger of the two has just applied a fire-extinguisher to the head of the smaller guy.

A few years later and BarelyGraduatedButStillNotDr. DogChop is going to a club in Birmingham. We're queueing-up and there is a team of fifteen bouncers on the door, half female and all wearing kevlar vests. What's going on? They've had to start checking that the girls aren't carrying weapons into the club for their boyfriends. Dr. DogChop thinks, "Let's try the trance night down the road, shall we?"

We read about gun-fights with the police, both sides using real guns incidentally, in which the "Hoodlum" end of the bargain pushed a sofa out of the window onto the top of a police car. And this is just England. What's going on in the good old US of A?

Reading the article, the details are sketchy at best. This sounds like a publicity stunt to me. "Cap-gun sounds" are most likely to have come from just such a device. And a group calling themselves the anything "hoods" are likely to be employing such means and tools to sell more record to the kind of people who like Hip-hop. Not that I dislike it, but I do.

Gangland culture - what a gift to mankind! Let's big it up and use it to sell clothes and CDs. And what's even better, after the millions start rolling in, the urge to go and pop caps in asses is still going round like a bout of the clap in a whorehouse. Maybe the Auzie Hilltop fools got the wrong end of the stick and thought the guys in LA were using toy guns? All these cases of young kids being shot for carrying cap-guns - maybe the police have screwed it up too?

"SODI offers a whimper of self-importance," would be a better title for this. 20 people fighting? I thought you antipodeans were harder than that. That's not a fight! It's hardly even a scrap. You can see that on any given Friday night outside any club frequented by wankers. Lots of those in England.

So I am reading this and thinking, "Australia, how quaint!" The doctor proscribes two grams of methyl-amphetamine and a night out in Bradford, England. Last one with any teeth is a girl.

Excreted by Kaufman @ 9:11 PM 13 Noteworthy retort(s)

24.5.05

A LETTER TO KY

Despite my elitarasee issues, I actually read blogs of those we link on our site. That's kinda why I'd like to quote the following: "i should really get my act together and allow people to leave comments before this dictatorship collapses to bring me down with it," and add that if that were the case, I'd be able to explain how I made an attempt at humour by extending your name from bee [which sounds remarkably like the letter 'b'] to Beyelzibozo. Furthermore, there was no intention on my behalf to imply that you were anything other than who you are, so let's please not dwell on something that isn't there as we neither know you or know you well enough to deliberately offend you. We save that sort of low-brow shit for the rich, famous and clueless. And how could you possibly mention us too much on your blog? I mean, really *folds arms and huffs*. Can we be friends who have never met each other again? Now that that's sorted, Thin, Peter and Reverend T: why the Charlie Manson's beard aren't you bastards leaving your five cents' worth when the opportunity arises? We know you read this crud and yet we hear crickets rubbing their hind legs together when it comes to important issues. Spread the ideas around until they stick.

Damn it!

Further to the development that I haven't mentioned anything about, I've had a real anus tearer of a night because of personal matters that fucked me off more than anything we've mentioned so far. Here's an email in the form of a letter that I wrote to Kylie Minogue as a kind of filler between the guy I decked twenty-three minutes ago and the next piece we're going to post about bisexual penguins that the US army has sacked.


Dear Ms Minogue,

I love your teeth. I love your eyes. I love your dancing. I love your inner thighs. But what I love the most about you is the way you shake your booty because I think women's butts are fucking sexy, especially your itsy bitsy teeny weeny one. Women don't have smelly balls and a nauseating cock swinging anywhere near them either [not counting the act of sex between a man and a woman] and your butt is my favourite because it leaves so little to the imagination. It's much better than Sarah-Jessica Parker's because you're not a skank and men - apart from Matthew Broderick - have standards, as low as they may be.

You see, I prefer my women to be of legal age, though not looking as though they are, which is why I love you and your butt so much. I had a nine-year-old niece who looked like you; really reminded me of you until she turned ten. My daydreams and the sexual content within them stopped the moment she turned ten for she no longer looked like you. I don't think it was actually because she turned double-digit in the age stakes, but because she was all of a sudden somehow fuller. Perhaps plumper in the arse is a better description and perhaps squared it's an incorrect comparative altogether. Let's not get sidetracked, dearest Ky.

So, I recently had no choice but to be bombarded with tales of how you had to cancel your Aussie Tour or World Tour or Cosmos Tour because you were diagnosed with breast cancer. My first reaction: thank fuck it wasn't butt cancer. I also had it translated via one of those robot-voiced gadgets I stole from Stephen Hawkin one time - as I no longer watch TV in fear that I'll accidentally flick to Big Brother and suffer a brain embolism - that you have since had an operation on your breast or breasts and that the Doctors seem to be of opinion that you'll be as good as gold and back on stage to shake your nine-year-old looking butt really soon.

I think that's great news, Ky, because I've been allowing my semen to build up for days now and I'm in real need of launching a stream or two in your direction. I don't want to waste my precious - and abundant - semen on some radical Czechoslovakian porn starlet who takes two cocks up the arse at the same time, as she slides the right end of a baseball bat into her other hole, while reciting Billy Shakespeare. It's fucking old-school and my collection of DVDs is filled with that kinda predictible scenario. I'd rather save myself for you, my darling Ky, as you are the only babe worth the shot.

Right now, I'm imagining you and me and 25,000 screaming others at the Adelaide Entertainment Centre. I've always wanted to do it with spotlights. I'll wear my raincoat and Speedos if you'll wear your gold-studded knickers. Deal?

While I think of it, tell me, is there a special waiting period for stars [such as 10 minutes beginning from when an agent informs the media] who have been diagnosed with a life-threatening illness or do you just walk into a hospital and snap your fingers before a surgery that cures you lands in your lap? I'm wondering because I know people who aren't stars who have had to die before getting treatment, and even then they were denied because they hadn't paid their premiums. Any light you can shed on this matter will help me clear this up and quit the others' bitching, coz I know they're fucking wrong. You see, my friends happen to think famous people get special treatment in instances such as this, claiming that it's along similar lines to treatment you guys get when you've killed someone or got busted for possession of drugs that could kill an invading army or for when you've invaded countries with your army. I happen to think that it's all bullshit and that you've been paying your private health insurance premiums for years and that you knew about this breast cancer thing a long time ago and that you waited in line until it was finally your turn, which is why your agent announced it five days ago and you're fit as a fiddle today.

Am I right?

I really hope you wear your gold-studded knickers, Ky.

Yours forever,
- BT3

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

REALITY WILL SWALLOW, IF YOU TELL HER SHE MAY

Bricktop351 polishes his gun [now not a metaphor]:
Ladies and scrotum scratchers, step right up and join the queue of doubting Thomases and BT3s, while we digest the real reality of reality TV. Real or unreal? Scripted or spontaneous? Too confined to be genuinely real or just raunchy enough to avoid mass suicide by those who get hooked, Hawg style? Roll up, fuckers, for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to look into the void that is, in reality, a highly unrealistic set of circumstances masquerading as a TV show.

Also appearing in this box of mystery is well-formed, opinionated and scathing commentary, featuring next to no discernable information on any of the contenders to the realm of inaneness or any of their yet-to-be-written memoirs. Pardon me while I throw a colleague through a window and allow his body to splatter onto the pavement of truth waaaaay down below, for he was supposed to die that way [according to the script I received] and he said he was anti-reality TV. What a nerve!

To clear the stench before the logistics team [a.k.a. Dr. DogChop] arrives, some vital facts about the observer of this messy saga: I'm not currently living in Australia and, therefore, what appears here is essentially a pile of shit coz reality TV is bogus and anyone who gets drawn into it should look to Ebola for a faster road to impending death. Sorting fact from figure with this tyrade is as simple as drawing a life-sized cosmos on an etch-a-sketch. Furthermore, I've been off the angry pills and in dire need of some serious spleen venting to get me back on track. Furtherfarther than the first furthermore, I have no knowledge of which cunts are in the current Big Brother reality TV fiasco and I'm already sick and tired of perfectly abled people writing about the cunts that I don't know and don't care about. I seriously gave you arseholes more credit than that. Just goes to show that I never really knew you at all.

So, as I munch on a mouthfull of these crunchy treats that will enable you to understand the true reason for my cloak and dagger attire, I ask that you read on and set the deckchair to ultra comfortable, for it could be a bumpy ride.

It all begins with an audition, where squazillions of hopeful TV realists devoid of discernable talent entertain thoughts of one day gracing the cover of Wasting Shelf Space magazine and touring the Professional Nightclub circuit around the country, being offered free drinks intravenously so as not to appear tense or accidentally reveal anything that could jeopardise the show's artistic merrit [*holding back the tears*] once they've been eliminated from the show. Eventually, probably following a commercial break, they'll confess about being completely different people to when they were 'inside' while stating that they couldn't wait to get back out, but that, overall, they really miss everyone's company and wish that somehow they could do it all again and make every attempt to get to know their fellow inmates a bit better, especially those special someones whom they bickered about behind their backs and made voodoo dolls of when the cameras were focussing on the chick in skimpy clothing. Sure, it sounds convincing and the fodder grazer almost had me for a split second, except I wasn't watching the show in the first place as I've melted the #10 button on my remote control.

Remember the reasons George Clitoris gave for invading Eyerack and those reasons for the collapse of the universe as we know it once the year 2000 rolled around? Is there a link? Is there a Colonel Klink? I know nahsink.

[Don't ever forget that Don't Forget Your Toothbrush was on for ONE SEASON and that it won a Logie. Hooray for everything!]

There's really no need to sit on the edge of our seats with ears pricked to know the truth behind the reality of Big Brother and shows just like it. What makes these clowns stand out from any other clown walking the streets? The secret will be revealed. Or will it? It's a show and it's about as real as my eight 12-inch cocks that I insert into women, sheep, antelope, dolphins and car exhausts every night as I do what comes naturally - entertaining the lowest common denominator; the mass audience - and I'm officially inviting you to watch the nightly extravaganza from the comfort of your own sparse minds.

So, once these inmates have been picked, based on their ability to:
A) Provide jerk-off moments for those entering puberty,
B) Provide target practice for those entering enlightenment about reality TV shows,
C) Aggrevate other inmates,
D) Fuck other inmates,
E) Fucking aggrevate other inmates,
F) Reveal things that even their vibrators never knew about 'live' on delayed and abbreviated TV and equally visually lacking on the net,
G) Bore humanity senseless and give us something to talk about,
it's screened nightly and the inmates' actions or lack thereof are talked about by 'experts' on social dynamics from various sectors of the anthropological scale. It's riveting and it will only get better the fewer inmates are left and the fewer words are spoken. Surely. I'm gripping anything I can get a hold of in anticipation. Man, this is sooooo exciting!

The reality is that these people [term used under advisement] are no different to you or I, apart from the fact that they're on TV, which no longer makes them people but something else. Celebrities? Apparently. The fact that they're willing to 'act' like real people, where they assume a guise and execute a serious of strategic maneouvres that will hopefully net them money, fame and a rainbow with each waking morning once it's all over, seems to be forgotten or at least ignored, coz there are weird hairstyles to talk about and inmates to immitate in order to show on which side we prefer to lie as the cattle prod of truth penetrates our oversensitive anuses. Ahhh, that feels so good. May I have more? And another. And another. And another...

We're drawn into every word that spews from these inmates' mouths and wonder whether they've said or done something to get kicked out and if so, we're ready to pounce on our phones and make our feelings be known by dialling fifteen numbers followed by 883 or 884 or maybe 885 this week. No more talking in hushed tones about who's likely to be the next inmate released from gaol because we're now onto the hate train to evictionville and that cunt simply has to go because s/he doesn't fit in with the dynamics of the other inmates. The others shouldn't have to put up with THAT cunt! WHAT A FUCKING CUNT. CUNT!

More like what a load of bollocks, to use a term DDC is more familiar with than I. These attention seeking chokers on satan's enormous tool are gagging on their own self-importance when they ought to be swallowing the load that the demon father has to offer. Haven't they read the fucking script? I guess not. These demented ego tripping fucks would dive into a pool of rotting pigs' carcasses and do backstroke for hours at a time to get their hands on the prize. And they do. They've been trained and instructed and given a series of rules to abide by, knowing that if they break any of them it will most likely send ratings through the roof as the entire operation will finally be able to snowball as anticipated by the producers. Shit, there might even be something moderately interesting for Gretel 'I Once Was Famous For Writing Good And Now I Is A Fourteen-year-old Skank' Killeen to talk about. I'm clutching at straws, aren't I? Wishful thinking.

The inmates have everything laid out in front of them and the cameras add to the non-existent tension because that's exactly what the inmates want: attention on them and what they do. Assuming for one second that human behaviour enabled us to behave naturally in front of cameras while we're inside a hermatically sealed environment, it might actually be worth the trip to the brainsucker shop if I entertained the thought of ever watching this pap. I'll take five for my entire family, thanks.

But, alas and all that, it's just another fucking boring TV show, only this one isn't even as good as the regular boring TV shows because this one's been edited to Hell and back as the extended periods of boredom don't quite balance the moments of something actually happening and we need to be told in no uncertain terms exactly which of the cunting inmate cunts haven't behaved properly this week. I'm voting the evil twin out; the loud-mouthed, double-dipping todger. I can't stand the way he flosses his toenails.

If you want a reality TV show, I've got one for you. Picture this: Dr. DogChop [handsome man, though not striking] sitting in a skiff in the middle of a crystal blue lake. He's wearing an oversized porkpie hat with lures and pins of various countries' flags. He's grinning coz there's a sheila going down on him. I don't quite know where she came from, but she's there and the camera focuses on her until Dr. DogChop instructs it to get back to his facial expression. He's surrounded by snow-capped peaks in the background and there isn't a single sound if you don't count moaning, gulping or swallowing. The sheila is superb as she follows the script. DDC casts a fishing line and leans back, cracking open a can of UDL Bourbon & Coke. And he sits there.

And he sits there.

There's my reality TV show. The great part about it is that there's no need to change any aspect of the show as it's perfect in every conceivable way. There's no ulterior motive to lure you docile fucks to watch it, either, as it sells itself and has multiple-Logies written all over it before a single frame is shot.

But why stop at one season of DDC Fishing bliss? Good call. We could plan extra special moments of 100% pure reality to boost ratings just when people are flaking all around us by committing suicide for no sane reasons the experts can deduce.

I'd ask a few mates to 'guest star' on this reality TV show - as they do in real life, where there are no cameras, apart from the ones I've got stashed in ends of pens, teddy bears, plant pots and books in my house - and ask them to bring along with them offerings for the good Doctor to help him survive this torturous test of endurance with a fresh trollop every night. Cornelius could bring blunts and freshly prepared cookies. Mahmood could bring the latest Woman's Weekly or laptop so the Doctor can be up-to-date with ongoings in more famed circles, while asking the Doctor if the fish - or the chicks - are biting.

I'd even ask a few of the famous brethren to fly in when ratings genuinely plummet, with their revelations and tall tales of all things entertaining. I could succumb to Ben Affleck's relentless demands to be in something where he could tell anecdotes about making movies with Jay & Silent Bob and show home photos of J-Lowlife's excessively hairy bush.

Of course, I'd be behind the camera, which would essentially be set-up on a pontoon and left to its own devices while I tanned my arse in Western Samoa and ate seafood off a native girl's stomach, for I'd be bored as fuck filming that shit. Occasionally - or maybe not quite that often - I'd think about how the merchandise is selling and if I could do a spin-off show involving fewer people and overheads.

Twats.


Dr. DogChop stoops to drop another in the bucket:
Reality TV reminds me why I don't talk to proles very often. I would rather watch the cast of any given reality TV show decompose live on TV. Chosen for their resistance to strychnine poisoning judging by my dismal failure to poison their water supply last year.

It was just like being in my own computer game, like Metal Gear Solid 3 but without the gay headband. After needlessly crawling accross the car park I crept up to the window of the security lodge and calmly shot the security guard in the top of the head with a drug-tipped dart. Once the security cameras were offline I got a manhole cover open and tipped one of my SPECIAL COCKTAILS into the water. They didn't say anything about it on TV so I assume they lived through it. As soon as I get my silencer fixed... but what's the point?

You'd think that being stupid and tasteless would have been bred out of the species by now. It reminds me of those intollerable Christmas parties where the entire family would sit around and gush over the young children responding "cutely" to the goads and nudgings of the present adults. By this time I had a gameboy or something, so I could opt out whilst leaving the parents feeling that they had done well with their present.

That people will make this kind of TV really doesn't surprise me.

TV producer 1: This is great! It's educational, smart, and it makes me think about my life!
TVP2: Yes, it's a shame about the cost, but the standard is so high!
TVP1: I also like the equal opportunities aspect. It's got everyone but without any of the usual stereotypes.

Can't see it? Me neither. To get into the prime-time TV industry at all you must be utterly shameless. Taste doesn't even come into it.

What blows me away are the sheer number of dimwits that will watch this garbage. Otherwise nicely balanced and interesting / interested people are on the edge of their seats about whether Darren will shag Tracy, or whatever. Likewise, if you want to see wankers argue or fight, just go to a cheap club in any town of any country. Again, people bitching about other people. I can turn around in my chair and see that if I want. Not that I do.

BT3s ideas about the boat / blowjob / cans of beer sound good to me. What would be better is a total-unreality show. You wanna see people cry? Fine. Now everyone in the house has to sleep with a strobe going full belt in the bedroom. Not exciting enough this week? Let's see how they respond to a scorpion in their breakfast wheeties! Not enough emotion? Let's put some SSRIs in their milk!

I want to experience another life! That can be arranged. Lets get you hooked on heroin and let people pay to watch as you cope with the roller-coaster of adiction and the downward spiralling criminal activities associated with it.

PS. I will take one for the team and do the fishing / blowjob / beer scene, but only if the beer is cold, the woman is hot and the lake somewhere between.

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

20.5.05

SWIMMING IN THE GENE POOL

Dr. DogChop avoiding a few obvious puns and one-liners to go straight for the money-shot:
As uncle Bilbo used to say, it's a dangerous business, setting foot outside your door. Who knows where it will all end? Even a stopped clock tells the right time twice a day, and for once I'm inclined to agree with him (which movie, fuckers?). Stunted, homicidal maniac that he is.

Setting foot outside my door led to a very sorry mess last week. My anti-truism stance took an all too literal fall when I discovered that I had drunkenly shat on my own doorstep. I'd never seen the point of that one before, but now I do. Don't set fire to your own car! Don't pour coke in the back of your own computer. Don't drop the heater in your own bath! It's all making sense now!

Anyway, setting foot outside my door today, I was not aswim in my own excrement but the experience was much the same. Usually, I don't notice people that much. They often slide around the outside my sphere of comprehension like an inverted dog in a bath situation. Or like kiddies sliding off the bouncy-castle that one time after I unnexpectedly came into the possession of a catering drum of vegetable oil. At least my long-standing argument, about the proximity of the river, with the council was resolved. We were able to demonstrate that "very unlikely" meant 1 out of 5 children, and "no risk" meant "well, some risk of drowning".

Usually, when I emerge into the world, I have my own bell, book and candle to banish the unwanted presences. These are my MP3 player, my offensive breath odour and a pair of those shoes that the mannish-looking woman out of From Russia With Love. When they get through and the poison doesn't kill them in the proscribed 11.5 seconds, that's when the problems start.

What's got me in a rage today is the kind of idle stupidity / ignorance / lack of higher functions shown by most people I seem to encounter.


Me: Why is there paper all over my office?
Random Fuckwit Nearest At The Time: Dunno
Me: This one says "Dave Smith" on it.
RFNATT: That's mine, then.
Me: What about the rest of this?
RFNATT: I guess so. I wonder what could have happened?
I was just looking at the open window and as we spoke another sheet blew off the table. This guy piled all the papers back on his desk, sat down and started working again. He spent another fifteen minutes or so picking bits of paper off the floor before the penny dropped and he closed the window.

It took me back to last summer, when we had a similar problem with flies and the same open window. I took a more direct route to understanding by pouring orangina down the back of his desk and sat back to watch the fun. The biblical "plague of locusts" couldn't hold a candle to my plague of wasps. I had a rosy glow every time I thought about it for months afterwards. His rosy glow only lasted until the anti-histamines kicked-in, goddamnit.

So I often find myself swimming in the genepool, though from my point of view gene-swamp is nearer the bullseye. Is there some government plot? Let's breed 'em big and stupid! From what I tell, they started with a pilot scheme in the North of England several hundred years ago.

My approach to windows left open, taps left running, dangerous items left lying around, cars parked in stupid places, etc. is to let nature take its course, often with a little help from nurture along the way. If the window is open, welcome the local wildlife in. If the car is parked on the corner, let's shepherd the traffic into it by distracting drivers with comic penguins / naked old ladies / exploding dogs, etc.

I'd like to finish with an utterly true story related to me first hand by a DJ of some repute:


"So I was on my way home and I asked the taxi driver if he could take me home for £5. He said yes so I got in and we set off. He set the meter running, which was weird because we agreed the price before. The price was getting close to £5 and we weren't even close to home so I asked the guy what he was doing and he shat a brick. He went nuts.
He pulled into a garage got out and ordered me out, frothing at the mouth, arms waving wildly. He was cartoon-style angry. When I got out of the car he got out too and demanded "his fare". I just turned round and started walking away. I heard him following and turned around again.
He started shouting and waving his arms again. I was watching and smiling, but I wasn't looking at him. Gradually, he realised I wasn't listening and turned around to where his car wasn't. While he had been raving at me he had left his car running with the keys in the ignition. Some enterprising fellow had driven off in it while his back was turned.
I lent him my phone to call the police. From what I could gather from his side of the conversation, once they had established the circumstances of the theft they basically told him to go and find it by himself. I gave him £2 and left him bawling at the guy that worked at the garage, who from the relative safety of the bulletproof payment station was laughing openly at this guy.

For me, this is a kind of paradigm of the way life should be. What do you think, BT3?


BT3 lowers eyebrows and re-inserts spleen to its rightful place:
DDC, it's a regular day at the office when I consider just how similar we are. I now understand why Maja The Beyelzibozo thought we were a couple, as opposed to a couple of wankers or a couple of morons, pricks, cockheads, dipshits, cunts, twats, et al. Without wishing to further incriminate myself as a Flashman style cad, this has got my sentiments smeared all over it as I wholeheartedly share your P.O.V. regarding the human gene pool and the lack of electricity buzzing in the areas that require it the most [for the first time in fucking ages, I mean the human brain and not the human cock].

I often wonder why more people aren't like select Kiwis and Aussies and why they just don't go with the flow and try one on with a four-legged beast. Male or female. I mean, could it really be any more degrading than being themselves and leaving gaping flaws of cognitive power in their wake for everyone to comment on as they go about their daily grind? I'd try the four-legged beast method if I wasn't so fucking well obssessed with wanking. And you know the extent of my happiness in that erogenous pursuit.

You know I have three kids; twin girls and a lad. You also know that they don't share the same mother and I'm beyond caring whether they share the same father. The court decided that they did and as far as I'm concerned this moot point has forever been muted. Point.

Having kids means that I see myself as a role model; not necessarily the role model but a role model, much like Dawson from Dawson's Creek, which is how I like it, coz once the pressure stacks up beyond my safety zone, I usually pack up and pack a bong in order to levitate for hours in yet another comfort zone. That's precisely why I won't ever allow my kids to step foot into my workplace, where incompetence beats like the heart of a deer staring at swiftly approaching headlights, or into my private den, for that matter. As you know, every wall was constructed using pornographic DVD and video covers well before the kids arrived on my doorstep and I'm stubborn when it comes to change. With that in mind, and with what you've written regarding your place of work and the paper flying through windows while wind swept through your work colleague's ears, it's no wonder gaols all over the world are brimming with those who have wronged.

Would killing a colleague in an office environment for his/her sheer stupidity be classed as white-collar crime? I doubt it.

But what options are left to those, like yourself, who must deal directly with other people's misfortune at being dealt a dud hand in the game of IQ Snap? Aside from momentary observations of how the sugar water affects the motherboard and when s/he realises the smell eminating from inside their own shoe following a carefully planned attack on said person's socks with fresh fish inards while s/he was swimming during lunch, there really isn't much to keep you motivated or enthused. You can't talk any sense to them cause they usually stare vacantly at whatever happens to draw their attention, whether that be an off-centred monobrow or a piece of potato chip that's somehow stuck to your chin.

I see this in similar light to drivers who give way to their left instead of their right. You know the types; driving at 10-20 km below the speed limit and then donning the pointy Good Samaritan Dunce's Cap in order to make someone else's day, freezxing traffic behind them and confusing the living daylights out of everyone else in every other direction. 'No, you go,' they'll motion while you and everyone else flashes headlights and swears at the top of their lungs that they shouldn't fuck with the system. I fucking hate these dumb fucks with all of my purple and zinc heart as they cause more accidents than they prevent, often driving straight past the pile-up they've caused without seeing it.

X: 'How was your day, sweetheart?'
Y: 'Grand. Everything went swimmingly, just like yesterday.'
X: 'Did you hear about the 52-car pile up on Wayne Schimmelbush Crescent?'
Y: 'No! That's the second one in as many days. What on Earth could've caused that?'
X: 'The news says it was a driver who decided to change the traffic law to suit them and who then drove away without stopping.'
Y: 'That's terrible. Just terrible. What's for dinner, sweetheart?'

I'd understand if this scenario were to involve kids, as they're constantly learning and experiencing new things, as it were, but for grown adults with apparently more experience in dealing with life and situations as uncomplicated as gravity, air, food, motion or ejaculation, one does not need a degree in biomechanics to forge to the Top 50% of the world's standard. To those who don't quite make it to that level and who happen to fall at a monumental hurdle such as forgetting to throw a paperweight onto a pile of freshly printed monthly reports while an open window paints them to walls and to the pavement below, I tip my hat, bow knowingly and throw uncooked venison at them for the duration of their stationary presence around me, for something needs to awaken their dormant minds and the kids that they're likely to pass this debilitation onto.

To those people - and to the children they're raising - I beseech: Take the IQ test that's floating around the net at the moment and if you don't happen to score 132 like everyone else, then please seek professional advice. Dr DogChop can bill you.

P.S. I neglected to add that the paradigm you mentioned is crowned with gold and the world's finest precious stones. I only hope your friend didn't part with his hard-earned cash and left the cabbie to have a good, hard think about his next fare.

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

19.5.05

ANNUAL TV ADVERTISING AWARDS TO MOVE WITH THE TIMES, SEEK MODIFICATION

Dr. DogChop, steering clear of why Americans need to open their eyes and close their mouths:
I woke up this morning feeling fine, had nothin special on my mind - that is until I discovered that one of my favourite sites had been taken offline and replaced with an anti-spam software advert. Seeing as the advert was, in itself, spam I wondered if the software would sort itself out and eliminate its own advert? I decided it probably wouldn't and ergo didn't buy it.

So anyway, the site hadn't been updated in years, but still held its charm in a kind of timeless way. Its roots lay in the end of the nineties at the start of a bit of a comedy drought. It was the dawn of a new breed of lowest-common-denominator comedians. All my old favourites had gone into hiding (e.g. that Scottish guy who started doing travel shows instead, Billy Connolly) or been driven off the screen (Chris Morris or taken off air mid show for a wonderfully irreverant remixing of the speech from Lady Di's funeral) or started dumbing down their comedy for the sake of universal appeal (like Rowan Atkinson, the cunt. He went from doing Black Adder to Mr. Bean and a sit-com about the police: The Thin Blue Line. Just to re-itterate, he is in the Top 10 richest people in the country and really does not need the money).

There was a show on called The Saturday Night Armistace, which later became the Friday Night Armistice. It was a bunch of guys just dossing about and doing the equivalent of shooting hoops and hanging ten. One of the guys still writes for The Guardian. Anyway, one of the other guys started a website called www.tvgohome.com - a spoof TV listings mag. The whole thing was a take-down of TV Times, a lowbrow "your day of watching at a glance" type of affair. The kind of magazine that gives Armagedon five stars based on its special effects.

It is one of the great shames of the net that once the money stops the page is gone, never to be seen again. Some of these pearls really deserved a better fate. There was a book made but it had a lot of extra material that wasn't up to scratch.

It's not there any more, so in the interests of posterity I'll mention a few of the bits that were there. A typical listing might look like this:


9.15 - Who said that?
A rapid fire new quiz show with four hosts and two schizophrenic contestants.

9.45 - Worlds funniest CCTV footage
Thirty minutes of real life footage of skateboarders shattering their pelvisses on concrete stairwells.

10.15 - Britains burliest proctologists
Hidden camera footage of heavy-set anal specialist, punctuated with harrowing testimony from their patients.

One of the funnier series they did was called Cunt, a show about the life of a celebrity. The whole thing was a thinly-veiled attack on Jamie Oliver, the TV chef.

Anyway, for my money, the best listing was for "The Annual TV Advertising Awards". Awards included; briefest glimpse of black businessman, Most sickening use of child's voice in commercial and Largest schism between party atmosphere in commercial and actual product being sold. That last one, I imagine, was induced by the Pentium processor adverts.

Anyway, seeing as it has gone, I am going to try something similar for Blogger. Watch this space.


Bricktop351 scratches and opens an old wound:
Apart from dearly departed US comedian Bill Hicks, whom I look to for guidance and relief from seriousness during times of confusion, stupidity, anger, resentment and hatred of humankind, I can't think of too many Americans that have made me laugh so hard that noises and solids oozed from my internal parts. The exceptions I'm willing to admit to: the movies I Heart Huckabees, which I saw three days ago and applauded until my fingers wore to the bone, Funny Bones [Director: Peter Chelsom], which was made with Americans [Jerry Lewis, Oliver Platt] and Brits [Lee Evans, Richard Griffiths, George Carl] and Death To Smoochy, because Robin Williams is untouchable when he isn't on a leash, because Danny DeVito's direction was superb and because Edward Norton and I did weights to beef him up for American History X and because he's just a brilliant actor.

I realise that your post focussed on missing something that is no longer there rather than placing miniature dolls with US clothing and British clothing on a balancing scale, but if this was the land where Librans ruled and scales were placed at every street corner, I'd imagine they'd be tipping favourable to the Motherland.

Case in point involves pretty much what you mentioned about Rowan and Billy, who virtually sold their rights to being genuinely funny by opting to impress the masses and count their not-too-hard-earned cash. That'll always be the case, if you ask me and I distinctly remember seeing the memo in my bin. US comedians who appear on TV do so with scripted and edited material that meets with censors' approval before it airs, leaving little actual humour to sift through. I don't know much about the UK system, but I'm betting that there's something similar going on, unless it involves the BBC or one of its spin-off channels. When all is said and undone, that's where the good shit is. It's only coz I'm half cut on love that I can't remember every single British programme [English spelling] that has moved me to tears through laughter and given me hope for the profession that is comedy. From somewhere on top of my noggin: Red Dwarf, The Alexei Sayle Show, Not The Nine O'Clock News, The Kenny Everett Show, Alas Smith & Jones, Black Adder, Black Books, Father Ted, The Dave Allen Show [?], Young Ones, Filthy, Rich & Catflap, Bottom, The Fast Show. And this doesn't include the list of good shit you've mentioned that I haven't seen or any of the Python lads or any web sites whatsoever.

Australian comedy leaves a lot to be desired as we have adopted the American model of ratings monogomy. Everything and everyone does little beyond safe, prime-time, mainstream comedy, including the prime clown and showman who has slightly less talent than my combined bum hairs [go to Ms Cynic's site for further information about Rove McManus, as I can't be cornholed writing about that pecker twister]. However, there are exceptions to every unwritten rule and a fellow by the name of Andrew Denton, who is a geek with an uber-endowed brain and a sense of the truly hilarious, easily fits the bill. In fact, he stands atop people's heads and shoulders who are far less funny than he is, often screaming from the lofty heights about his uber-endowed brain and a sense of the truly hilarious while most people look up somewhat befuddled. He went to a commercial network for a while and proved that people will lose respect for you when you relate humour to stringent guidelines, but I'm lead to believe he's back at the ABC forgetting to pull punches.

I'm a bit meh, whatever when it comes to John Safran as I think there's a bit too much strained energy going into his brand of comedy, though it can be funny, especially when it involves celebrities - my favourite people on Earth - and religion - my favourite brainwashing technique. I tend to think he's got a lucrative commercial network contract awaiting him, which he has already signed and is simply waiting for the date of commencement to arrive. Like most assumptions of mine, I base this on no hard facts whatsoever. It just feels right, is all, y'all.

I vaguely recollect you mentioning this mob of comedic geniuses that you write about, DDC, except it was in real life about a year-and-a-half ago. If memory serves me correct, it was while drinking Nikka Whisky, super dry Japanese beer of multiple brand names and maybe a concoction of assorted other goodies once the decent shit ran dry. If memory doesn't serve correct, then let's behave like grown men overseeing a drunk mate picking his nose and shoving the contents into his mouth and pretend that it never happened.

BTW portion of this post: I watched Shaun Of The Dead the other night because a friend recommended it. Knowing next to nothing about the movie, apart from it being about zombies and having a distinctly British edge to its delivery, I was a bit skeptical initially, wondering whether it would be lame or a genuine corker. I felt satisfied after the first scene and was about to declare money well spent when the rest of the movie kept me entertained and planted to my seat. Sharp, well-written and, above all, funny. These things maketh comedy, methinks.

Dr. DC has just one last stab at sincerity:
The most genuinely amusing film I have seen recently wasn't American Pie 2, but it was in the same pile of downloaded and forgotten films in the back of a cupboard. It was one of those rainy days when there simply isn't enough beer in the entire world to fill the void. I had a mate staying over and we both agreed that just drinking wouldn't do but drinking and watching movies was one step further up the productivity ladder. So we watched American Pie 2 and decided we had been wrong all along. I was up for the beer only diet at this point, but the mate pushed for a second film.

We finished-up watching Half Baked. I think I would normally have found this film very funny, and coming on the tail of a real shocker like AP2 (I think the mate said, "Well, I don't need to watch that one any more". I think he hit the nail on the head there. I note that there is an AP3 on the market at the moment. This leads me to assume they are going for the Police Academy record), it was like staggering out of the middle of the Sahara to find a XXXX box full of any other beer whatsoever.

I had to stop for rests to recover from the spasms and black-outs. Very rarely does a film keep me laughing for over one hour solidly. Dissapoingly, it only got about 6 stars on IMDB, but then again that is well above the population that has actively lived the situations, so we needn't read too much into that. Lies, damn lies and user reviews.

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

18.5.05

HE DID WHAT NOW?

BT3 juggles three lemons and two limes and scribbles:
People in charge can be a real nuisance sometimes, can't they? I place this light-hearted opening thought into context here, as I only now realise what those images on TV were and how close to 'home' they really were as I was hopping on and off numerous trains and bragging about their efficiency and convenience when I was over in Tokyo a couple of weeks back.

'The Schwarz' talks about various other professions, such serving alcoholics as they drive by on a Sunday and demand grog by the carload, over at his blog, where he carves an intriguing sculpture of someone going to work post-Saturday Night Palzy, with their vision distorted by an allergy to light and a mindset offset by a loss of transmission and no re-tuning in sight for hours.

So, there was a train crash in Japan. 'Woop-dee-doo a train derailment in another country; doesn't affect me, motherfucker, and there were no terrorists involved according to CNN AND FOX, so why's your jockstrap in a twist and all that?' I hear you screech, Saved By The Bell style. Well, by all accounts, including those who survived the ordeal and who are now grieving for those who didn't survive, it wasn't the standard cauldron of bubbling water that cooked the fish in a manner that would raise Mili Vanili from the dead. Oh, no, no, no, not the vista. Inimini-dissimini- oola-la-wallamini... [???!!!]

Apparently. There. Was. A. Different. Reason. For. This. Accident.



"The train overran a stop at the previous station and so it backtracked, so I guess the driver was in a hurry because the train was running late," one survivor told Japanese television.

...And don't forget to click here for a more detailed crash map. What in the name of Satan's Cleaning Lady is the BBC thinking with a title like that?

The driver missed a stop, threw the modem of transport and its occupants into reverse and then floored it to make up for lost time. Shit several bricks at once, for my name's not Brickscretor and I don't have the belly to deal with such foul-tasting waffles. FYI: Trains in Japan come along every three minutes,* so what was this fruitloop thinking? REVERSING THE TRAIN. Read that part again, dear reader, because it may sound JUST A BIT STRANGE upon first glance.

It wouldn't have happened in Australia like that and here's proof of me in similar circumstances. Note: My boss, Terry McVeigh, has deliberately been shown as 'My Boss' or 'Terry', to avoid any legal ramifications.

BT3 [on mobile phone, while hurling copious amounts of nachos, tortillas and sangria into a Liquorland bag]: "Terry, is that you?
My Boss: "Yep. Who is this?"
BT3: "It's me."
My Boss: "Enough of the charades already, Charlie, I don't have fandangled caller i.d. on this phone."
BT3: "It's BT3, Terry."
My Boss: "Oh, Beets. Why didn't you say so? How the hell are ya, sunshine?"
BT3: "Not so sunny, actually. And don't call me Beets. The name's BT3, OK?"
My Boss: "What's wrong, big guy? Don't tell me your wife finally found out about those ferrets." [laughs]
BT3: "Nah, mate [chucking again]. It's a little bit more serious than that."
My Boss: "Whaddayamean?"
BT3: "I just cruised past a stop, Terry; completely missed it cause I was busy projectile vomiting into a bag."
My Boss: "Mmm [nodding], mmm [nodding again]. I hear ya, big fella. But what's the serious part?"
BT3: "Well, I'm feeling kinda under the weather from drinking the bar dry with Cornelius, Dr DogChop, Mahmood and Tony Modra last night..."
My Boss [interrupting]: "But you are at work, right? I mean, you're driving a train as we speak, right?"
BT3: "Yeah, mate. You know I don't let a small thing such as a monumental hangover get in the way of..."
My Boss [interrupting]: "Sounds like yer [sounding more like an Ocker with every scratch of his balls] typical Sundee mornin' to me, Beets [scratching his balls]."
BT3: "Yeah. Nice one, Terry. Remember to breathe while you digest that witticism. You so frequently crack me up. But seriously, don't fucking call me..."
My Boss [interrupting]: "Oh, shit! I don't like where this is goin'. You're sounding all-too-serious all of a sudden Beets."
BT3: "Will you let me finish, Terry?"
My Boss: "Go ahead, Beets."
BT3: "Can you call the last station and apologise on my behalf as the situation was unavoidable and that there's no way in Hell I'm going to throw this train in reverse. Tell them not to worry as there'll be another train momentarily."
My Boss: "Big fella, you know it's against company policy to apologise for something like that. We're not in it for the sympathy, you know? Shit happens! Besides, how many people you reckon saw ya anyways, five, ten?"
BT3: "You raise a valid point, Terry. Hey, I've got another stop coming up soon, so I'd better get off. I just wanted to let you know that I missed a stop. OK?"
My Boss: "Yeah, yeah, she's cool, mate. No worries whatsoever from my neck of the woods."
BT3: "Great. I'm gonna get off the phone now, coz you shouldn't drive a train half-cut, spew and talk on a mobile phone at the same time."
My Boss: "I hear ya, Beets."
BT3: "Terry."
My Boss: "What?"
BT3: "Stop calling me Beets. It's BT3."
My Boss: "Oh, sorry, big fella. I thought you were only kidding about that. Hey, by the way."
BT3 [about to hang up]: "M-hmm?"
My Boss: "Are we still on for Saturday arvo at your place?
BT3: "Too right, mate!"
My Boss [blushing, lowering his voice]: "Can I bring a special someone along?"
BT3: "Yeah, sure. Just assure me she won't shove potato salad down her shorts and call me Daddy, like that last special someone you brought over."
My Boss [sounding agitated]: "You know I can't do that, BT3. I don't control their thoughts."
BT3: "I was just pulling your scrotum, dude. Hold on... [spewing]"
My Boss: "Ah, BT3, you're such a whacko. You know, if there were two of ya, I'd have twice the whackos to deal with."
BT3: "FUCK ME!"
My Boss: "What's wrong?!"
BT3: "Ahh, I missed another stop! For fuck's sake [slamming bag with contents onto the console and feeling all the more stupid for it]!"
My Boss: "No shit?"
BT3: "I shit you not [wiping face with right hand, leaving the train to its own devices]!"
My Boss: "You know that's two cartons of piss you owe now."
BT3 [sounding agitated]: "Fuck that, Terry. That's horse manure and a bucket of straw."
My Boss: "Whaddayamean?"
BT3: "That was your fault straight down the line, Terry. I had nothing to do with that."
My Boss: "Don't fleece me, BT3. Don't you even try to fleece me."
BT3: "Are you serious, man? I was so focussed on what I was saying, plus I had to spew, man, and I completely forgot to stop. Don't shove that shit on me, Terry. You know by the shit wage you pay us that I can't afford to pay for two cartons of piss in one day."
My Boss [laughing]: "Don't start with the wage, BT3. You know I have no tolerance for that kinda crap, especially from someone who's driving a train and who's probably well over the legal limit of .00."
BT3: "I'm hanging up now, Terry."
My Boss: "It's all your doing, Beets... I mean, BT3."
BT3: "See you later, Terry."
My Boss: "BT3?"
BT3 [agitated]: "What?!"
My Boss: "Do you want me to bring salad or something?"
BT3 [gesturing with a raised middle finger to his phone with no audible sound apart from a fart on the other end]: "....."
My Boss: "Ooops! That was the onions talking. BT3, are you there?"
My Boss: "I guess not. Now, what did he want me to do again? Man, I've got a chronic hang-over. Tell me why I don't like Sundays."

Dear Reader, how can the Japanese Railway folks minimise the likelihood of a similar accident? Should heads roll - The Last Samurai style - should the Japanese adopt the Australian system of a carton of piss per fuck-up or is there another solution to this matter?

* OK, OK, I may be exaggerating. There may be a train every four-to-five minutes, especially in places as populated as Tokyo and Osaka, but the notion of a train zooming in on time shortly after the one that missed the stop still stands.


Dr. DogChop wades into the fray keeping it brief because his sodding area manager has decided to come and see him tomorow at very short notice indeed, precipitating a big "cleaning my act up" operation on the scale in which the post-Chernobyl cleanup effort could be regarded as "tarting the place up a bit":
Cruising through red lights is a bit of a speciality for me. And I must admit that, yes, I too have reversed back through a red light once or twice. Usually in order to swipe a few of the pedestrians I missed on the way through.

Likewise, I don't think I know anyone who hasn't had to make it through a day at work in a state of advanced yellow palsy. Oh, how we laughed when Dr. "Slasher" McNair, instead of sewing-up a stab-wound to the thigh, actually sutured the anus of a 14 year old school-boy. By the time we spotted the mistake, there was only minor rupturing.

This is the advantage of being a doctor - you can proscribe yourself a nice healthy pick-me-up shake of bananas, alkaseltzer, imodium and morphine in equal proportion. Incidentally, do you know the definition of an alcoholic? It is a person who drinks more than his GP.

What I find completely unacceptable is all this "talking to your boss". Mine works about 200 miles away and I see him twice a year. Again, that's what happens to doctors who don't read their contracts. No self-respect. That's your problem.

I proscribe 2 weeks of heavy drinking, and may God have mercy on your soul, for I shall have none on your liver.

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

13.5.05

MATT'S TWO NICKELS WORTH

Ladies and Gentle Ben, this is Matt Damon from the Matt Damon Show.

I've been asked to inform you that Bricktop351 [a.k.a. BT3] and Dr. DogChop [a.k.a. DDC] are taking another well-earned break, following their week-long break a week ago. It seems the two got quite accustomed to life without blogging and have since decided to ease back on the amount of garbage that they are willing to transmit across the ether. Since I'm paraphrasing information contained in an email from BT3, I hope you won't find me to blame for this or stop going to see most excellent films of mine such as The Bourne Supremacy, which has been available on DVD for quite some time in places such as Beijing, Hanoi, Manila, Kuala Lumpur and Sydney.

I also received BT3's log-in details and am posting this message under his pseudonym, which I also hope won't distress those of you who have come to loathe his anti-American sentiments. I assure you, he's the biggest teddy bear - much like Oliver Platt - when you truly get to know him, as I have over the years. Personally, I find that any opportunity to help out a friend is an opportunity for free publicity, no matter how crass, arrogant, self-centred, puerile or egomaniacal the friend happens to be. Besides, BT3 has added several talented people's blogs in the 'links is german for left' area, though he seemed disappointed at not finding an email or area to leave a comment to Maja for her kind reference to this blog. He also added by means of clarification that he's a man, not a woman, as he stroked his pubic region and whispered, 'If only, Matt, if only,' several dosen times. Again, I'm paraphrasing as the .mpg was of dodgy quality.

In further news, BT3 has asked me to inform you that he's undergoing elective surgery on his eyes, which he hopes will be functioning properly by the end of the fiscal year. He mentioned the categories at the 'Rate Our Bumcracks @ BlogHop.com' link, which you'll find along the right-hand side of the page, may be confusing folks without adequate protein in their diet. He said that the rating 'Four-fingered Rimjob' is the highest honour you can bestow on the team and not the lowest, as some of you folks may have believed. This means that 'Russell Crowe' - a man and fellow actor whom I hold in the highest regard and hope to one day emulate by winning a second Oscar - is the lowest. BT3 thinks that this should clear a few things up as the statistics flooding in haven't matched the predictions of either the TAB or any online betting facility. Furthermore, following a five-second phonecall from an unlisted number, I'm willing to state my reputation that Dr. DogChop will be back at the helm to resume "any given day now."

Holy Cow! I have just noticed that this is the FIRST post at this blog that wasn't written at 9:11am or 9:11pm. Jeepers, creepers!

This is Matt Damon signing off from Venice Beach, California. See my movies!

Excreted by Kaufman @ 4:04 PM 4 Noteworthy retort(s)

10.5.05

HAVE SUBWAY WILL TRAVEL

Bricktop351 recalls then keystrokes:
A while ago I crapped into an empty jam jar and took it to Dr. DogChop as per his request. Several grunts, moans, expletives and ATM transactions later, he told me that I had issues that needed to be resolved and that the best course of action to take to avoid an impending breakdown was to take a week off, to allow my arse a well-earned break from squashing itself onto the chair at the Missile Launching facility where I allegedly work, and to get away from this culture.

Following the spate of scans, prods, insertions and gloved searches throughout select internal portions of myself, I made it past security at the drive through bottle shop and to the airport, where I avoided the overpriced Duty Free grog and smelling salts and headed straight to the bar. Armed with a slab of XXXX under one wing, a copy of the May edition of Funky Backdoor Jamming Mommas under the other and a North Face backpack stuffed to the brim with clothing I would never see again, I was as good as on a plane to a place other than this.

Then I got frisked 42 times and my backpack was searched once, but that's all too common to write anything constructive about.

And the angels sang in tune without missing a note.

As the old adage goes a holiday is as good as a temporary break from things that jam your head until you shit blood and leave your kids fearing to get out of bed. I'm not Jim Carrey and I'm not Wayne Gacy, so I left the kids and my wife telepathic messages as I boarded the plane, telling them not to worry and that I'd be back sometime before the kippers were smoked and the cheese had matured.

Landing in one of Tokyo's airports, I forget which, I was through customs and being sniffed by a gorgeous little Beagle in a matter of seconds. Lacking adequate language skills, I demonstrated to the unarmed security bloke that kept the dog at bay that I suffered chronic back spasms and required copious amounts of marijuana to ease the pain, pointing to the Glad-wrapped 2 kg I had carefully placed beneath my testicles and chocolate starfish. He seemed to understand once I showed him Dr. DogChop's note, once the dog bit me and once it walked into walls a few times that I wouldn't pose immediate danger to his country and I was in a taxi before I could say, 'Who has soiled the air with a foul stench this time?' all the while knowing the answer.

My backpack was bound for Dusseldorf.

The distinct lack of a yellow brick road left me with no option other than to follow my own instincts. After five minutes of taking in the sights, I got the fuck off the bullet train platform, picked up my aching jaw and jiggled down the stairs and to the gates that would enable me to see the Tokyo I so fondly remember from my dreams.

As was apparent each and every time the gates shut on my knees, I couldn't get through them because one required a paid ticket to proceed. Lacking adequate language skills, I demonstrated to the courteous blokes at the bullet train gates that I suffered from chronic back spasms and required copious amounts of marijuana to ease the pain, pointing to the Glad-wrapped 1.8 kg I had carefully placed beneath my testicles and chocolate starfish. The courteous blokes said something remotely amusing to my ears, bowed several times and waved me on as I chuckled, lit up another spliff and chuckled some more.

My hotel was nothing special, as the taxi driver explained in Haiku, but it was home away from home and I was beside myself to be in a narrow room with a single bed on the 26th floor of a building at the centre of Tokyo.

I soon found out there was no centre of Tokyo and that the entire Tokyo area was quickly spreading throughout each of the four main islands of Japan. Still, when in Rome one walks around the streets naked, fanged off one's head, so I ventured outside with the remainder of the slab under one wing and the ganja where nobody would consider looking in the area where that was stashed. My other wing was free to touch 'n' squeeze as I walked the streets.

I found that most signs weren't what I would term words, though I've already said that I suffer from partial illiteracy, so I may be wrong with this assessment. The word-replacements, as I like to call them, were more like squiggles, dashes and practical jokes set in mini-characters that became funnier the more beer and weed I consumed. How was I to know that by the end of the experience the whole lot of them would make sense? I lit up another spliff and walked on like a rapturous tourist in a foreign country with a fuckload of flashing lights.

I wanted to get to places I didn't know existed because I never, repeat NEVER, stay in a hotel room for more than is physically and emotionally required. Before I knew where North by North-East was, I was underground and checking out colourful lines, squiggles, dashes and practical jokes set in mini-characters that I had never seen before. A big red arrow inflicted a burning sensation to the part of my brain reserved for thinking and I inserted money into a machine that flickered some remotely comical characters and numbers and before I knew what levitation was I had a magical ticket that would take me to infinity and beyond.

Getting on the subway, I noticed a few other squiggles etc. and I cracked open a bottle of XXXX, which I handed to a bloke with red shoes and nylon pants. He was pissed within the time it took to say, 'G'day' and if it weren't for quick reflexes on my part the remaining beer inside the bottle would've hit the floor and gone to waste. Not on my shift. I finished the bottle under the ever present glare of two oldies as I nodded approvingly, raising my eyebrows a few times, lighting up and toking away.

My back was beginning to feel like a million bucks.

I got off the subway and was slammed in the knees by a set of gates. Lacking adequate language skills, I demonstrated to the courteous bloke at the subway enquiry desk that I suffered chronic back spasms and required copious amounts of marijuana to ease the pain, pointing to the Glad-wrapped 1.6 kg I had carefully placed beneath my testicles and chocolate starfish. He said something remotely amusing to my ears, bowed a few times and waved me on as I chuckled, lit up a spliff and chuckled some more.

I took in the glorious sights of my surroundings, dodging the people that had appeared like a horde of walking locusts in front of my bloodshot eyes and figured 3 am was as good a time as now to go looking for food. I ducked into a tiny establishment and began feasting on raw fish. Within a matter of seconds I felt hungry again. Meanwhile, a bloke that had come running up to me following my hand's frantic struggle inside the aquarium continued to chant something that I couldn't quite make out. He bowed a lot and his arms were flailing all over the joint like a squid on amphetamines, but I did my best to avoid personal harm to either of us by treating him as though he were a Baldwin brother.

After 10 solid minutes of ignoring this dude, the only words I understood from the whole saga were 'Gold Fish'. In my opinion, his act really didn't cut it as far as a live performance was concerned as there was far too much repetition, far too much repetition, far too much repetition, so I left without leaving a tip. I did bow, however.

Back underground, I found another giant prompt, another machine that gobbled money, showed some squiggly characters that made me laugh and then spat out a ticket and I resumed my search for whatever I was looking for.

I got the same knee polaxing at the next set of gates, so I retreated to the subway platform once again and caught the next subway where I got a handful of minutes' sleep before the entire subway was crammed with blokes in navy blue suits and chicks in navy blue skirts. I guessed they somehow all knew each other, but it was a draining experience that reminded me of a real-life JAG episode, so I got the fuck out of that stenched claustrophobic nightmare and jumped the knee-breaking gates at full speed at the next stop, pointing to the Glad-wrapped 1.2 kg of marijuana I had carefully placed beneath my testicles and chocolate starfish as my defence, while humming a catchy little tune I had overheard from a chick's MD player aboard the subway.

Once the drugs wore off, I was mightily peeved and on the 52nd floor of a building, gazing out the windows at a view that some would call amazing. There was concrete and glass as far as the eye could see and I allowed the ushers to escort my arse to the elevator, where I beelined for the nearest park, some 4 km away. My ushers were well chuffed following their introduction to Australia's finest dried product.

Getting off the subway and having my knees caned again was beginning to get mildly irritating. Same excuse as the first and I was amongst the concrete, glass and people again. It was a splendid affair with freaks of all perversions, sexual fetishes and fashionable persuasion as far as my good eye could see. I never realsied that Punk clothing was designer label until I got off at one stop. I also didn't realise that teenaged lads wore foundation as thick as Tina Turner's, but I am a tortoise when it comes to these things. I snapped away like a Japanese tourist abroad as I lit spliffs with one hand and tickled my balls with the other. It's a sensation I recommend to budding film directors.

I figured I wouldn't ruin a good trip by sitting in a corner somewhere as saliva dribbled down my cheek, so I jogged for 20 metres and joined in the fun and activities at a park. 'A park in Tokyo?' you say. Yes. Badminton was my favourite non-sport activity as a short guy tried to slam the cock into my imaginary side of the non-existent court, but I thwarted each and every attack with deft dancing moves I had remembered from a Johnny Travolta movie on the plane over. 'Game, seto and matchu Mr Blicktop,' a man announced as I was just starting to get loose.

My belly soon grew weary and I receded to a bunch of BBQ stalls for octopus balls and various meat on sticks. After I threw up several times it was back to the subway and on with the adventure.

It pretty much continued this way as I saw the sights that I didn't know I had wanted to see in Tokyo until my money ran out and I had nought to show for it. Well, that's not entirely true as I gaze upon my pre-loved $180 Stussy t-shirt and bill for damage sustained to a karaoke lounge. I also suspect my twin girls, Unleaded and Bumblebee-Frangipani, as well as my boy Tokyo will one day want to find their younger half-brother or half-sister in Japan. As a father and world traveller in times of clogged creative juices, I couldn't be happier for them. I've already told them I'll even contribute the first Yen 50,000 towards their trip because Japan is one of the most user-friendly places to travel in - provided you stay clear of the buses.

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

9.5.05

THE WILDLY SLASHING MOTHER (VERY LIKELY)

Dr. DogChop rhapsodises about the event that didn't quite manage to change his life:
I’m fucked. It’s the early morning and I am literally not capable of working. The whole world is a blurry, hazy mess with hard objects littered around it. How I managed to drive to work I cannot say. No doubt the boys in blue will be round later to talk about the bus-load of teenagers I forced into the river on that nasty bend that I always stray wide on. Watch this space.

I am tired and it’s about 9am on a Monday after a long weekend. Make that a LONG weekend. I’m feeling pretty not-up-to-the-task-of-doing-my-job. That’s pretty normal for any day of the week but Mondays, their intrinsic shitty qualities aside, are special as I have to work with a bunch of people who are incapable of performing any task according to any plan or logical sequence of thought.

Anyway, I have staggered into the bogs to douse my face in cold water, knowing that it will see me through the first five minutes of the day at best. I’m on my way out again and come face to face with the cleaner.

I always get on well with the cleaners wherever I work. It’s either something about them or something about me. Personally, I’m inclining towards a kind of “opposites attract” effect. They make things clean, I make things untidy. Everybody knows where they stand: I am apologetic about creating work for them, and obscurely, they are sorry for spoiling all my hard work.

Aside from this, I haven’t ever met a miserable cleaner. Cleaners, as distinct from care-takers, who are uniformly down in the dumps. Likewise, cleansing technicians and sanitary advisors don’t benefit from the blanket coverage because someone has screwed with their job title (pay level) and given them a natty new uniform, possibly incorporating a waistcoat. All the cleaners I have met have been jolly old souls with bright outlooks on life and happy families.

[Aside]
Why are the cleaners usually near the top of nicely functioning family units? I imagine this has closely to do with their sense of perspective and ability to deal with cleaning / need for cleaning / lack thereof from the rest of the family. See, their job is to clean-up after other people so they are used to the issues involved. No cleaner who gets pissed off at people not cleaning-up after themselves has much of a future in that role... Not that I am saying they are a pushover, just that they know how the land lies.

I tested this one once with the cleaner at my hall of residence at university. The cleaner was utterly used to letting herself into my room and vacuuming the place whilst I slept with my head under the covers. Her opinion was that as long as her kids weren’t out stealing cars she didn’t really care that much. Contrast that with my old mum, Mrs. Dogchop. Direct quote, “If you don’t tidy your room I’m going to put everything on the floor in a black bag and leave it for the bin men.”
[Aside over]

So there was the cleaner, naturally enough, cleaning. Sweeping with a vigour that bordered on the extreme. Taking it to limits as yet unseen. To cut a long description short, the dust was flying.

We’ve had a run-down of my condition, a description of a cleaner and an aside of dubious quality about family happiness and its theoretical links to cleaning within certain families. Where is this whole rather exciting chapter out of my life leading?

As I was watching, I spotted something that changed my outlook for the day. I spotted a clear gap of well over 5cm between swipes. I watched for four or five high-speed strokes and came to the conclusion that she was just going through the motions. The deciding moment would come when she reached the cabinet with the awkward legs. I feigned drying my hands on my trousers, actually doing so in the process, to give myself more time.

The seconds dragged by in tense expectation. The strokes were becoming faster and more widely spaced. Crack! Crack! The cabinet was over in less than a second with a couple of desultory chops. In one fell swoop the wonderful lady had surpassed all of my hopes and ascended to a new level of indifference.

Am I finally coming to the point? I had finally found my soul-mate, in the likely form of a cleaner. Here was no Mrs. Job, with rule-book and waistcoat. We’re talking about the classic Dr. Dogchop triad of jeans, bare-minimums and heavy lidded eyes. This bucked up my day because I knew that somebody else out there was suffering with me.

This was the last piece to a puzzle that had been forming before my eyes. The only person to beat me out of the front door at 5pm was this lady. Now I knew why the door to the cleaning room was always closed. She was probably sleeping in there. Likewise the new posters about reducing the amount of garbage produced. Yes, the penny really dropped and a new name was added to my Christmas Card list.

Yes... Now I understood.


Bricktop351 laments:
Dearest Doctore DogChoppe. Your words bring a sprightly sense of hope with every keystroke. Perhaps my self-induced decision to take a week off from this crud that I refer to as my life - as you so rightly recommended following the prognosis that my turds were of alarming colour - and sought the wisdom of the Japanese way of life in a place that I refer to as Tokyo has helped me to see the errors in my ways and, more importantly than ever before, the errors in other people's ways. I am far from being saddened by what you observed in this rather insightful and transitional post. In fact, I'm wearing a bright green long-sleeved silk shirt [I bet you can remember the exact text that is from] on this glorious Monday morning as your words continue to fall gently from the heavens like petals onto a blender.

Not to wet your loins in any way - as you are of same gender as I, my personal physician, mentor, confidante, personal hired laborer during times where adequate braun is lacking and a valued link to B-Grade Hollywood celebrities - but I began my earnings with a less than attractive cleaning job. I may or may not have mentioned it before, but neither of these things matter at this juncture for there are more important issues to deep fry.

Speaking from personal experience, there are a few things I should point out to you and our beloved readership [Rantz, Ms Cynic; what's the haps, babies?]. Pushing a broom, whether it be half-arsed or remonstratively aggressive a la world standard table tennis, brings with it a sense of timeless suspension. The minds of those performing said duty are in a state of flux, where reality, particularly ones immediate surroundings, is often misconstrued by whatever happens to be sweeping through it. Pun, pun, pun for everyone. In short, you've time to think, old man.

Personal opinion not withstanding, I dare say that if my mind had a built-in word processor at the time of my employ as a cleaner, I would've written some of the greatest theories and retorts to the greatest existing theories and ludicrous statements of the day. Alas, I was and continue to be merely an existentialist being in a human body and was and am incapable of performing such menial tasks because the human body has been designed with a multitude of flaws. However, like the stunning piece of flesh in your observation, I, too, became at one with social grace and niceities associated with cleaning. I venture while daring to say that it helped shape me as the person I am today; a person unwilling to let commonality, banality, the pursuit of mediocrity and the observation and influence of talentless role models stand in the way of my polite and caring nature. Furthermore, I venture while daring even further that neither class, level of education, nationality or intollerance of race played or play any part to the tide of this natural flow.

As you know, Dr DoggyChoppy, I cannot read, so I won't bore you with quotations from Hemingway, Kafka, Waugh, Spot, Thomas The Tank Engine or your sensei, Doctor Suess. To support my case, I raise the real-life story of Matt Damon's life, as we all witnessed in the made-for-television docu-drama Good Will Hunting. Matt Damon, despite his Irish-American upbringing in somewhere Boston, pushed a broom, cleaned toilets, scribbled his House Of Pain homeboy tag on countless walls, punched the living daylights out of a gang of overacting and undertalented basketball players, scored a rich chick, spoke quickly to a blond faggot with a ponytail, banged heads with Mork AND was offered job after job after job because he pushed a broom.

Was it apathy that got him the offers? No. Was it his braun that got him the offers? No. Was it his superior intellect and ability to transcend common opinion where he forged a watertight opinion bearing his own seal of originality that demanded recognition through a deft series of poignant, melodramatic, convoluted and unbelievably lengthy ranting monologues? Fuck no.

Or was it, perhaps, the unwavering dedication to his job; relentless sweeping where he bothered no-one and offended even fewer that got him the offers? I don't fucking know, in all truth. That was merely Matt's story, as written and told by himself and Ben Affleck, so I can't vouch for the real reason behind any of it, but I'm standing my ground in the hope that somehow anything there relates to something here.

Cleaners clean because they don't serve us food and we need to keep a closer eye, just as you did, Dear Doctor, on their every action, for one day their sweeping could take a turn for the worse [I hope I'm not forshadowing here]. If, by some stroke of sheer genius, that kid sitting beside you found the ability to sweep and that apathetic chick leaning against the wall down the corridor adjusting her fishnet stockings found the ability to sweep, then pretty soon we'd all find the ability to sweep.

Within a space of time somewhere between now and then we'd be in a land where anarchy was our bedfellow and that terrifies me more than the thought of running into Fran Drescher at a dog show.

Excreted by Mrs DC @ 9:11 AM 2 Noteworthy retort(s)

1.5.05

BUT HOW MUCH DOES THE ABNORMAL BRIT SPEND?

Dr. DogChop, in the calm before the storm:
Like a pot full of parafin balancing on a knife-edge above a three-bar-fire in a Nursery school, all is quiet with me for now. Far from being riled-up, I am actually only mildly incesed.

It seems that as a Britton I have been wasting my money, pissing it down the drain like piss down a drain. Haemorraging money like a road accident, blood clotting around the car and various bit of house, with a few splatters for my worse half.

I have been informed that an adult life costs about 1.5 million pounds, which was a bit of a surprise as last time I had one of the heirs to the throne bumped-off it only cost about £5000. No, NO, I was told, and presentd with a copy of The Independent for my pleasure. Normally, I avoid reading Newspapers because they contaminate the soul - again, we have that (Australian) anal wart Murdoch to blame for this.

So I had a bit of a shufty and was quite literally horrified at the huge expense that most British people go to, in order to make it through everyday life. Then I thought, "Bollocks".

THE BASICS (shelter, food, clothing) £552,772
TAX (income, council) £286,311
LEISURE AND LUXURIES (holidays, hobbies, eating out) £236,312
ESSENTIAL TRAVEL (car, public transport) £137,126
UTILITY BILLS £101,760
PROFESSIONAL & FINANCIAL COSTS (insurance, legal fees) £91,395
INVESTMENTS £91,124
EDUCATION AND CHILDREN £40,650


Seeing as they have broken it down into subsections I'd like to have a crack at them in turn.

The survey says: BASICS (shelter, food, clothing) £552,772
DDC says: Not much to say about this one, apart from the fact that a lot of people in the UK do not even earn this much in their lifetime.

The survey says: TAX (income, council) £286,311
DDC says: Tax is a test of skill and endurance. There are so many taxes out there now that the government don't even know about all of them. (We had some quite interestinb taxes in days of yore, including window tax and one based on the area of your house touching the floor. This second one was put out by builders to enable them to build and replace houses that blew over / over-balanced.) Tax dodging has become a bit like frogger - they will get you in the end but it's fun until that point. Anyway, I can promise you now, I will never pay anywhere near that level of tax.

The survey says: LEISURE AND LUXURIES (holidays, hobbies, eating out) £236,312
DDC says: Now we're onto firmer ground here. A look at my VISA bill shows, that I have no visa card because they won't let me have one. My spending in this area accounts for well over a quarter of my spending.

The survey says: ESSENTIAL TRAVEL (car, public transport) £137,126
DDC says: What a load of trash. If you can't manage to get to work and back for under half this, you might want to think about living in the same half of the country as your work place. I imagine that this is heavily bulked out by people who "need" a brand new car every three years. The same also goes for section 1 above.

The survey says: UTILITY BILLS £101,760
DDC says: I think this is on the low side. My electricity company is like an inverted achemy set - I put gold in and get lead and smoke and poor levels of sevice out of the other end. I'm convinced it must be cheaper just to drill for the gas / oil myself.

The survey says: PROFESSIONAL & FINANCIAL COSTS (insurance, legal fees) £91,395
DDC says: This one looks low to me. I've never had to resort to any kind of legal advice, i prefer more direct methods. However, I think I am past this figure already in car insurance alone and I'm only 25. As well as being higher than the cost of my car, judging by this article my insurance premiums are wll on the way towards covering my entire life-time expediture, excluding insurance.

The survey says: INVESTMENTS £91,124
DDC says: You have got to be joking.

The survey says: EDUCATION AND CHILDREN £40,650
DDC says: In my experience education and children should never be allowed to mix. Certainly not to the extent of £40,000.

So what does it mean? Absolutely fuck all, that's what. We have a number achieved by adding up the cost of living for the entire uk population divided by the population. Fantastic work guys. What was the point?

Well, the whole thing was comissioned by an insurance comany. Lets take a look - the screen goes wavy as we go back in time.

Insurance Company Scrotal Barber Shop Sweeping: Ok guys, we want you to do some research into the average spending of a person.
Research guys: Ok
ICSBSS: Aim high guys, if it's expensive we can jack the premiums right up.



Excuse me if I don't rush out and think about insuring my lifestyle quite yet.

The two people they interviewed were so obviously and disgustingly landed, it was barely creditable.

Malcolm Junor, recent law graduate, 24: 'Now I'm just cutting loose after university' and Jacquie Smith, 32, advertising manager: 'There's never any left at end of the month'

To paraphrase the bits underneath these headings - "both demonstrated no relationship with the above figues and had no awareness of their spending habits." Nice bit of journalism there.

but what about

Dave Smith, Highschool dropout and lifelong odd-job man, 45: 'Now I'm still slogging my guts out for fuck-all an hour to pay for my beer and fags'
Puts Jacquie Smith in her place. There's never any at the start of the month for Ol' Dave. What we're talking about here is survey of middle-class people for Middle Class People. Good work, boys.

I would dearly love to see this study broken down by earnings. I'm willing to bet my bottom dollar, only my bottom one mind, that it paints a very shitty picture indeed. Dave was quoted as saying that "It was only by the grace of God" that he kept the credit companies at bay, like a lion-tamer with a chair made of balsa-wood. When told that he spent well under the national average, Dave became incoherent and your correspondent had to leave the building, double-quick.

So, reading between the lines, we as a nation spend a hell of a lot of money, generally. Hardly front-page stuff, even on a slow day (The Pope is dead! New Pope has a jack-boot habit!). Middle-class people don't really mind talking about how much they earn but nobody is talking to the workers because they know they don't have enough to have a good stab at living the "Cool Britanic" lifestyle that Tony Blair was trying to flog to the rest of the world a few years back.

All this talk of the "Average British Person". As if such a person actually exists. For utter meaninglessness it comes close to Wales. The facts (demographics) show that the poverty gap is widening and smaller numbers of rich people are balancing out a larger number of poor people living on credit.


Bricktop351 ponders a diplomatic response then begins:
Doctor, I hope you'll forgive my frankness and honesty when I say that I have no idea about any comparisons from Australia's spending P.O.V. as I haven't bothered searching for information of this nature. So, I'm going to add to the mystery of the whole operation with questions of my own, often quoting information that you supplied. Let's address this step by step, as some of the figures you've generated/found/quoted seem baffling at first glance, with or without this amusement mirror feature on my monitor.
DDC: "The average adult life costs about 1.5 million pounds."
Caring zilch for currency or conversions - and knowing in the negative about one and same - I'm compelled to ask how much that astronimical figure would be in Australian Dollar terms, as it's my preferred currency and one that I'm accustomed to pissing against the wall or into my veins.

Question following the first that I'd like to call the second, if I may, Mr Speaker. Does that average cost of an adult's life include burial/cremation costs and - part two to the second question - if so, what's the likely top and bottom price of said service as I have a few dozen of your spanner-types - mostly from the music/entertainment industry - in mind for said service. My great buddy, who appreciated our last post about racists and Americans to the nth degree and fellow Chumbawamba hater Rupee Murdick, has agreed to pay all costs. He requires a quote for reasons of taxation purposes in his adopted country of plentiful mental slumber.

Follow me hither, DDC:
You stated/quoted that within said period of time approximately 286,000 Pounds goes to the Government of the day, which I've rounded off to one-fifth of estimated costs of living during an adult's lifespan. I find this figure extraordinarily undervalued, as I would've amputated a leg as a gesture to suggest that the figure I was balling was closer to two-fifths more than that quoted. It sounds too bloody good, dear Doctor, to be true.

Step Three of the De La Soul System of Lucky Numbers, DDC:
Have you stated/quoted how many Britons were interviewed/polled in this breachbirth of a survey? I believe there were grounds to quote the number two or the number three, but I hasten to add that this was perhaps a touch of editorial bias on your behalf, if indeed either of these figures rings true. Do forgive me if I am wrong in quoting you thusly, for I cannot find said number and I'm also unable to find cause to search for it with any level of enthusiasm as our ranting is increasing in length with each post.

Suffice to say that in my journalistic experience of drinking copiously on the job and asking half-arsed, half-baked, half-intellectual, half-intelligible and half-conscious questions of those I was interviewing, I never - EVAH - included the total number of people polled/surveyed/questioned/extorted, as is prerequisite with any figures published to state a point. It was engraved into my thigh in cursive letters with a diamond-tipped fountain pen by a hairy-armpitted feminist of unknown gender during the first year of Journalism School [handily located next to a Circus] and I've followed the principle of never stating demography for fear of revealing the truth behind achieving the desired biased outcome. How can anyone prove what they want if genuine demographics are quoted? There's no need to answer, dear Doctor, as the answer has an uncannily obvious appearance, much like the patches of green skin flaking under my eyes.

DDC: "What we're talking about here is survey of middle-class people for Middle Class People. Good work, boys."

Too fucking right, Dr DogChop. One-handed applause and canned laughter via my hand-held tape recorder, Doctor, on nailing the facist pillocks to the wall. These plebs know how to snuff the life out of the working class man - ney, man and woman - and I'm honoured to be associated with someone who can smell the difference between claret and XXXX. It's not brain surgery or Applied Linguistics 101, is it? These monkeys-cum-conductors of surveys are a joke beyond the boundaries of a well-told gag and I take all personal clothing off at the assumption that you're at least 20% beyond what could loosely be termed correct in this instance. Hoorah for nudity and the ability to appear certain!

My penultimate issue lies here, for I smell rats in the department of fair assessment and evaluation:
Thou sayeth, "PROFESSIONAL & FINANCIAL COSTS (insurance, legal fees) £91,395, INVESTMENTS £91,124, EDUCATION AND CHILDREN £40,650."

Holy matrimony and God's abstract paintings of Hell. What is going on with this morbid and unintelligible series of figures? Education and Children to cost forty-grand and investments more than double the aforementioned AND ever so slightly more on insurance and legal fees? Feel free to believe I sound astounded at this juncture of this entire saga, for I am. Does this mean that there's fuck all cost involved in education the midgets and far more attention paid to ensuring their uneducated bodies - and those of their parents - are protected in case of accidental injury, death or requirement of legal defence AND the need to direct any likely earnings towards future investments, rather than the immediate need of providing food, clothing, an education and shelter to said family? I do believe I'm officially beside myself.

Hellooooooooooo! It's nice to meet you, other Bricktop351. Hey, you've only got one testicle too.

But, we conclude this broadcast with:
DDC: "I would dearly love to see this study broken down by earnings. I'm willing to bet my bottom dollar, only my bottom one mind, that it paints a very shitty picture indeed."

For Rantz, Earl of Phreakingham, I boldly vent that anything painted with your bottom is bound to be shitty, but nothing could compare to the shitty figures painted by these extremists and worshippers of alarmist attitudes. Are these wankers an American-based company per chance?

DrDogChop musters himself for one last spurtbefore a post-coital sleep in his corner office:

Actaully, my dear old bottom chum, "The study was conducted using well over 2,000 people". I can't imagine they were terribly scientific about it. Nor do I imagine that the interviewees were hugely truthful, either.

And JFYI, it is about 3.7 Million Australian Dollarios.

As a very funny man once said, "97.6% 0f all statistics are made up"

Excreted by Mrs DC @ 9:11 AM 2 Noteworthy retort(s)