30.6.05

DOGS DINNER PROVES TOO MUCH FOR HAMSTER

Dr.DogChop says:
The Blair adminstration, and I call it that under advice, is putting the icing on the cake, crumbling the cookie and souring the milk at every turn, in my absense.

I don't live there at the moment, so my knowlege of current affairs back over the water is shaky. I happened across this which did not surpise me too much. It seems that Adolph Blair is trying to get everyone to carry ID cards. What's more, aparently we will have to pay for them ourselves. The things themselves have been priced anywhere between £93 and £300.

These are to be emblazoned in black and red with funny crosses, unless you happen to be jewish, in which case they are to have a star of David.

Question number 1 - Why the fuck would it cost even as much as £93 per person? What the fuck are they making it from? Has someone got the wrong idea about "gold cards" and suchlike?

Answer number 1 - Of course there is a database to allow the cunts to monitor your every fucking move and make sure you aren't islamic or anything. Who the fuck are they trying to decieve and why on earth would anyone support this tripe?

Reading something a little more, er, well-informed than the murdoch-run sky news, I stumbled across this which got my attention because it described the whole thing as a Dog's Dinner. Note the use of the apostrophe. This is one particular dog's dinner and may not be suitable for consupmtion by all dogs. This is strange because:


* The dietry needs of dogs do not change much between breeds.

* Neutralising the pH Level has not been able to find any evidence of said dog, despite numerous inquiries on a par with the one for "Rosebud".

* Most dogs will eat anything.


After my lamentable history concerning dogs none were available for comment to me, though BT3 may have better fortune and certainly will have a more dog-friendly internet handle. I decided to test the judgement on my houseshold pets in lou of a dog. As you may know, my cat is currently adorning the front door and is more likely to be staring in a dog's dinner than eating one. So I figured "What the fuck", and tried it on the hamster. After all, he had dispatched the cat's dinner with ease in the last post.

I printed the whole thing out - all 350 Nazi pages and left them on the table, with a copy of the Independent underneath. Happily, he was able to finsh the whol lot in well under the ten minutes needed and qualified well within the EU specs for Le diner du chiens. Unfortunately, he reached the bottom of the independent article and choked on the list of failed "computerisation" schemes that have devasted the coffers at Whitehall. His last words were,

"Housing benefit system. Initial costs put at £700m but ballooned to £2.66bn, and fraud continues"

which will be put on his headstone as a kind of joke, with the cord "continues" repeated twice, like in Macbeth.


BT3 is cunting outraged and tells the world thusly:
Dear World, I'm cunting outraged.

I'm outraged because the Poms always get the good shit before us. No joke, people, the Poms always get the good shit before us.

Case #1 [and only]: When we wanted to travel in tall ships across vast expanses of oceans, searching for new land with people of coloured skin different to the whiteness and cleanliness of our own, in hope of finding native people demanding to be shot upon sight or trained to perform deeds that we couldn't be arsed doing ourselves, did we have the luxury of following through with the plan? Fuck no. The Poms did it centuries before us and left fuck-all to conquer circa roundabout now. [Finding anyone willing to build tall ships for the journey and a reliable motley crew that wouldn't steal the silver fillings from your teeth was another matter to contend with, not to mention, but about to, the 50 countries that the US of motherfucking A has bombed since Dubyah Dubyah Two, which further thwarted any contingency plans we (may have) had.]

Instead of the discovery / conquering shit in tall ships thing, Adelaide - the City of Churches - and its highest paid government representatives went ahead with Plan B. Someone unwise beyond his years suggested German-designed U-boats ought to help our desire to find life: underwater life, and the notion of fucking over anyone living down there before anyone else thought of it, became a resounding success story.

What a fucking great plan that turned out to be from the obese unknowing fuck with his obese unknowing fat fuck's head that pulsated because the fat inside was somehow superconducting the sun's rays. 'Danger! Danger!' his mind would cry, alerting him to the everpresent need for a hat. Unfortunately, neither the fat fuck nor the fat fuck's head have yet to explode.

Since then, the government's been wondering if anyone urgently requires $34 million* worth of collanders, though their phone hasn't rung once. Not once.

So Adolf Blair decides to follow through with the flow of his Illuminati brethren's ideas and introduce the card to end all cards, simultaneously bringing to an abrupt halt the need to promote liberty and the pursuit of freedom or whatever it is that we're free to do these days without copping an earful of baton or capsicum spray. I guess if Adolf Blair hadn't done it then that eunuch [but which one?] at the White House would've, seeing as they're bent over and lubricating for the same master.

Don't get me wrong, as I'm certain as the possibility of rain falling on this fucking stinking hot day that there'll still be the option of expressing oneself freely once this ID card is introduced. I'm just questioning the need to do so. I mean, seriously, who gives a fuck about freedom of speech when speech is quashed upon it entering the sound spectrum [if that's the correct word for what I'm referring to: perhaps sphere is better] anyway? I am me and you are not me, so here's my opinion, which is slightly different to yours, seeing as my brain isn't chained to CNN 24-7 [a phrase I never use because it's as American as the Iraq War (but which one?)].

If I were to take a brief lapse of consciousness and accept what I read, see and hear from much of the globe's news services, as alluded to by my perceptive and more politically savvy co-author, I'd join the throng of believers. I'd see the need for every country within the free world to arm itself to the teeth - mind you, I don't include any of these Middle Eastern fucks I've heard so much about on the news, who have been trained on our money to penetrate our virtue and our freedom when told to do so in order to perpetuate the unchallenged fact that there's a massive and everpresent need for military in the first place. Can't you fucking people see we're in urgent, no, make that dire, need of defence forces [Hello, Mr Oxymoron. How are you?] and spending millions upon trillions upon squillions of dollars each year isn't enough if you ask me, so pledge allegiance to your country or to the guys that your country's siding with and open your wallets wider than ever before to ensure that our weapons are able to nullify and obliterate the older weapons and the people holding them - maybe even a few hundred thousand others of their kind who have nothing to do with it but could one day become the next wave of hostile combatants. If they're not fucking attacking us now then they sure as shit sticking to my a fist after I've shoved it up a cow's arse will be.

Can't you people understand the magnitude of importance of it all? Huh?

[This momentary break in transmission is brought to you by Sperm-Off, for memory regeneration the old-fashioned way and Fifty-Two States, for whenever you're unsure whether she means 'yes' or maybe 'a few times.']

I'm glad to be back. Truly. It's the media's role to provide a continuous smoke screen of the real world - the one alluded to by Laurence Fishburne - and it's the role of puppets the likes of Adolf Blair, Adolf Clitoris Jnr - and thrown in for good measure though nobody thinks of this fuckwit beyond a real-life effigy offering to the masses should they find enlightenment through common sense, Adolf Howard - to feed us absurd notions of everything being totally fucked unless they act and act immediately, bypassing regulations and procedures that have been in place longer than anyone can remember, in the hope of amassing a fortune beyond even their wildest dreams prior to someone outside of their sacred and secretive circle blowing the fuck [or whatever] out of the whole operation.

I may have said it before, but the more I ignore the media the more I seem to see what's going on.

I'd love to offer suggestions of how to avoid becoming part of the ID card system - for it won't end in the UK, as there are so many more peasants beneath those who lead us, in the eyes of those who lead us, that require day and night monitoring. I mean, these fuckstained leaders of ours have been doing it well before the introduction of this card: your home computer tells them pretty much most things they need to know, which is why mine's infested with porn, pirated movies and music, giving them a naked haystack with sublime tunes to find the needle they're looking for.

I'm interested to know what our dear readers think about the ID card, as I'm convinced it's about as necessary - and prone to misuse in ways not intended - as the flaming great big cock on Adolf Clitoris Jnr's forehead.

* Figure extracted out of my anus.

Excreted by Mrs DC @ 9:11 AM 4 Noteworthy retort(s)

29.6.05

HAMSTER WOW! HAMSTER IS THE NEW CAT

Dr. DogChop continues in his tales of urban family life:
With the cat nailed to the door like the leftover decorations from one of BT3's special parties, I have been left with a bit of a poser. What the fuck am I going to do with all the leftover KittyCat cluttering-up the youngest's bedroom?

Last night I called a family meeting, calling for the greatest minds amogst us to solve the problem of The Cat Chow. I brought a can of said horse-carcasse to the meeting to give some focus to the discussion and show the family just how exciting this product wasn't. Present were Mrs. Dogchop, Amanda Dogchop and Kevin Dogchop (I hate the name Kevin). The last two are children I have been forced to own as a result of extensive legal action on the part of their mother.

I dramatically swept back the white sheet like a shit magician (and aren't all magicians shit? Much like clowns and people wearing character suits. Who but an actual or mental four-year-old can be amused by these people?) and said, "ta-naaahhh", much to my own and everyone else's surprise. The family mutely stared at the can, the can stared back with beady kitten eyes staring in all directions. We quickly realised that this was no mortal can of horse meat. We worked out that it was a dead can of horse meat before the meeting was derailed by the more fractious members of the family, that is to say - all of them.

What were they whingeing about this time? It seemed that the cat got to eat meat every day, but the family only got it once a month, if they were good. I pointed out the risks of the cats' lifestyle. In had lived and died in the manner of the race driver: It had lived fast, died with bits of metal piercing its body. I pointed out that there were kids in Ethiopia that would kill for the food that they had (I learnt that from my mum!) and they told me I could send it with their blessing (They learnt that from me!).

It was at this point that something amazing happened. The whole family became silent. Then something even more amazing happened. The hamster, recently having been aquitted on a technicality and been excarcerated, jumped onto the table and successfully applied the can-opener to the focal point of the discussion. Here at last was something worth writing home about! A self-feeding cat! In the form of a rodent. Eating horse!

We watched with bated breath as the hamster levered the lid off with a butter-knife. We unbated our breath and merely held it as the hamster inserted it's paw into the gaping maw of the can. We exhaled and inhaled quickly, before the stench of cat-food had managed to pervade every corner of the room, sickening all and sundry as it went. The hamster placed a gobbet of exquisite horse muscle into it's mouth, daintily wiping its soiled paw on a paper napkin.

The hamster repeated the ritual many times until the food was gone and yet its paw remained unscarred. I broke the silence. "This is one of those good news / bad news situations, family." They looked at me. "Meat is back off the menu."


BT3 likes the concept of horse in a can and will say so in public:
I like the concept of horse in a can. It's like one of those 'shouldn't be spoken about openly in fear of offending someone standing on higher moral ground than you. And that's a fucking great thing, if you don't mind me adding from my own mouth via my fingertips.

DDC and I have a mutual hate-hate relationship with cats. If you don't believe this, do a search of this site [a.k.a. find it for your fucking self]. We hate how the furballed fuckers can outrun us - and even land on their feet when dropped from vast heights, like from the Santos building [January 1st, 1999, as we were celebrating the arrival of another new year, thus enabling ourselves to continue the brainwashed ritual of sheep worshipping the Christian calendar] - and cats hate our relentless persistence in killing them in interesting and often messy ways.

The pursuit of happiness is a curious one.

For the life of a trapeze artist plummeting head-first to the elephants below, I can't work out why some humans treat cats with such majesty. They're evil, sadistic, pointless beyond being fed, stroked and let out at night to be the killing machines that they were designed to be. As for cats, they're even fucking worse.

Much like clowns, magicians and people in character suits, I'm amused beyond hyperbole by people who love cats. I'm not insinuating that people who love cats are fruity, crazy, retarded, better, worse or even funnier than me, I'm just stating simply and honestly that I'm amused by these people. I freely admit to staring at great length through cat owner's windows and marveling at the behaviour of both man and beast. To spend a day without aching from head to toe, including massive and overwhelming gut cramps, after laughing at said observations is to tell a lie about how I spent my day, for it is a ritual and one that I'll tire from once I'm dead.

I love birds: always have, since my earliest memories of taking flight. I always began from the ground and worked my way up to places like edges of buildings, then dam walls, then mountains and finally taking a leap after having successfully commandeered a commercial plane. All it took was a false moustache, a white hand towel wrapped around my head, a realistic gun made of chocolate and the worst Hans Gruber impersonation you've ever heard. I remember the formality of opening the door and flying to a nice perch overlooking the Gulf of Mexico was momentarily thwarted by hysterical cries of, 'You'll die for this, you evil German-Iraqi cunt!' which didn't bother me in the slightest since I had chocolate and astounding views for the journey.

As luck - or perhaps destiny - dictates, there has been a cat near me each and every time I've sought flight. One minute I'm stationary and priming my wings for take-off and the next I've got a furball clawing at my chest and sinking its fangs deep into my neck. I was never particularly fond of that kind of behaviour from women in the past and I dare say there'll be a week-long convention of Christians talking about Christian stuff at my non-Christian house - per my formal request - before I'll appreciate such baffling characteristics in a living creature.

Let's get cracking about the meat, specifically horse meat, in point form:
A) I don't cook meat at home.
B) I eat meat when dining out, though I prefer meat capable of life in water: prawns, crabs, lobsters, squid, Barramundi, Salmon, blah, blah, blah, though not crocodile, alligator or shark.
C) My own animals rarely eat better than my own family. If truth be known, they never eat better than we do because they're incapable of dialling.
D) I don't feed our animals meat out of a can, preferring to give them the genuine stuff of unknown origin that's been frozen, whereby I then mix it with rice and / or goodies sans salt or sugar.
E) I'm intrigued by horse meat in cans, most probably because I imagine some middle-aged arsehole with an indistinguishable but obvious accent boasting, 'I've been stuffing these fellas [pointing to horses as the camera pans left] into cans since I was a wee lad,' where there's a slight pause, followed by this dude's own adlibbed continuation once the camera returns to his curious mug. He says: 'I have an incurable penile infection,' leaving you to wonder whether the ad's been fucked up and that someone from the production team is a Free Mason and has friends in high places or because of budget restrictions or perhaps because the ad was designed that way as a warning to anyone contemplating a quick mouthful of canned meat 'just every now and then.'
F) I've liked the idea of talking hamsters since The Young Ones, so that's about twenty years, give or take a year.

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

SPAGETTI TWIRLING ACTION SEES OFF FOE, LEAVES ULTIMATE FOE UNTOUCHED

Time for a bit of a break from cricket. DDC rolls up his sleeves:
I've got the mother-in-law coming round tonight, and if that's not bad enough I have to be here, too. And if that's not bad enough I have to be here alone with her and make polite converstion. Thrown-in is a free gift of solitary cleaning, which left undone could lead to the promised food being witheld. And that is the whole purpose of the exercise, if only the MiL (distinct from MILF, which is a phrase that got a hell of a lot more attention than it deserved) knew about it.

Actually, she is not too bad. She is very much like the missus, only older and saggy. She brings us food sometimes, even though we are well-off and perfectly capable of buying our own food. More so, in fact, because MiL in common with most old people has funny ideas about healthy eating and vegetables. I told her I'd already had my five for the month but she obviously knew I was lying. The Ronald Reagan legislation about ketchup obviously holding no sway with her.

I piled into the cleaning. I find the best plan is just to go at it like Paris Hilton for an hour and everything is done. I started with the Bathroom carpet. I don't know why but I had to start it somewhere. So I started there.

In the bathroom I bumped into my old nemesis (not maggie thatcher). In the end I was forced to overcome my fears and vanquish her with a fork. I plunged it into her guts, twisting to maximise the damage and increase the pain. There was a second where she nearly managed to get her mitts on my foot, but i was wise and got her in the face with a blast of rabid bath cleaner.

I am of course a semi-professional doctor and my work forses me to face many unpleasant situations. Even before that, when I was a part-time chef, I had to grab hands-full of chicken livers out of a tub of blood. Why a plug-hole full of hair should distress me so much I have never worked out. Having thrown it's husk into the bin and hammered a stake through it's chest, I turned back to my foaming bath-cleaner. Which was frothing like all those dogs frothing at the entrance to the channel tunnel, desperately trying to get to England where they will spread rabies joyously throughout the whole kingdom. The whole kingdom, I say. At present the pandemic is limited to the Government.

Anyway, I sat bak to watch as the "foaming action" completely failed to "need no scrubbing whatsoever". I should know better by now, but I really did expect this one to work. I was faced with two choices: I could either get down on my knees and scrub at the marks, the marks created by the hair in the plug-hole, or I could use the shower attachment really close and for a long time. No prizes.

Oh my god, she's here and i am mentally completely unprepared. This is all your fault BT3. If you hadn't got me doing this blog I never would have been reliving the roler-coaster of cleaning the bathroom over cleaning the shit-stains off the toilet seat. What am I going to do?

BT3 says: 'One answer with the lot, hold the mayo' comin' right up:
I like Pulp's Common People segue you threw in there, DDC. I like it so much that I'm thinking of investing in the company that created the segue. Nah, fuck it, I'll just buy it outright.

You know, the more I peer into your psyche, the less I like it.

First: [actually, not really the first as such, but the first in my list as I see fit] there's the shift in priorities from blasting the bejesus out of people and instead asking the readership for advice on dating - ok, ok, so I asked for advice on your behalf, but I can read you well enough through countless sessions of lying on your couch and listening to you drone on and on about your Missus and her family to know that that's [!] what was really transpiring. Pardon me for sounding like the sunburn has risen from my lower neck and up to the uncovered glistening cranium that I like to call my head, external and internal, but please allow me to ask; what the fuck, man?

Second, relating in part to the first: you openly reveal your bathroom / toilet / non-drinking room cleaning technique[s] and etiquette regarding cleaning thereof. Please insert repetition of my previous question here: _____________________________ ?

Third, better than the first two by nearly not enough: you reveal that you're a semi-professional doctor. Enough said.

I got Andrew Lloyd Webber on the blower and he emailed the following piece of shit to me within the hour, which I added to his ever growing pile of pieces of shit he's penned currently residing in paper form atop a fifteen-centimetre skewer at the head of a life-size cardboard cut-out of the man himself. I was flabbing with aghast at what I saw before me until I realised his suggestion of sharing my role between both Olsen Twins was beyong genius and in Chomsky terrain. Here's a sample of Doctor Emergency At The Hospital [a.k.a. DEATH].
BT3: A semi-professional doctor?
Chorus Girls: Yes, a semi-professional doctor.
BT3: What the fuck, oh how can it be?
Chorus Girls: We don't know, let's wait and see.
BT3: Wait for what and see what more?
Chorus Girls: It's all a mystery, but there's the door.
BT3: I'll go and search, I'll go and see. But mark my words, treachery this be.

Scene Two is similar to Scene One, except the character of me [the second-born Olsen Twin] is peeping through an opened window from the outside of the fourth floor of an abandoned hospital. Inside, there's a fuckload of garbage strewn to all parts of a putrid smelling room; homeless men and women sleeping in corners, comforted by light and heat from an enormous pile of soiled nappies, laboratory mice and tampons. The character of me is singing through the opened window at a lonesome figure in a browned and reddened waist coat. The figure's jerking motions suggest either an act of specimen collection or a questionable cooking technique.
BT3: Oh, dearest doctor, doctor of mind and rear. When did you walk astray and when did you land here? The darkness that awoke me, like syringes to my mind. Forever lay me down to sleep for the Devil's eyes to find. You were there and then you went, leaving air but never rent. I sought, I looked, I couldn't find. News of semi-professionalism blew my mind.

Lloyd Webber's lack of talent is obvious; you don't need to be a dog playing a game of cards to see that. However, the questions he raises through his latest piece of shit are as valid as the seven digits on my eldest child's right hand. For a kid barely able to wrestle a 125 kg man of solid muscles to the ground, he's sure prone to asking good questions. The one he asked me this morning was: 'Dad, is Dr. DogChop having some kind of flake-out?'

I remember the way I placed a knowing hand on Tokyo's shoulder, the way I gave him a bewildered look to signify my lack of understanding and empathy in the matter and the way I simply nodded, for words had no way of expressing just how right the little man could be when he put his mind to it.

What could I say, DDC? What could I say?

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

27.6.05

DOGTOP ENTERPRISES BROUGHT IN, SHOWN OUT

DDC, feet on table, cigar in mouth, brain buzzing in the knowlege of a job well done:
But not mine! Muhahaha! Some of you may or may not know know that mine and BT3's Jack of All Trade portfolio includes consulting. If you didn't the guys at The Onion did.

The boys over there in the good ol' US of A obviously read my article a while back, where I mentioned that most of their stuff recently was pants. We are talking bottom on the scale of silk boxers to nylon Y fronts. Recent stories that caught my attention were none, because they haven't done anything good for about six months now. The formula was bound to stop working sometime. Anyway, I recieved this rather unusual and gratifying phone call, smeared below:

Me: Hello?
Other End: This is the owner of The Onion publishing group.
Me: I've been expecting a call from you Mr. Murdoch. You must be most gratified at tracking me down after all those years of libel?
Other End: There must be some kind of mistake - Rupert Murdoch doesn't own the Onion.


Now this was news to me. I thought he had his hands in every newspaper, from comics like the sun up to raving tory madness like the times.

Other End: No, hahaha. What would he do with a publication like ours?
Me: Destroy it lovingly? Turn it into a porn-site?
Other End: Haha. Now I read your blog a few weeks back and you said that you thought our publication was not funny anymore.
Me: I stand by that claim.
Other End: Well, we have recognised you as the geniuses who can repair our fortunes. We'd like you to come and have a chat with us. And bring BrickTop351 with you too.
It emerged that DogTop enterprises was being brought in to "rejuvinate" the paper, as it said in the contract. And they wanted me to Bring BT3 to make the coffee, work the photocopier and slink off for large unnexplained breaks.

The result was The New Onion! A masterpiece! If you thought it was crap before, it's even worse now! And we did it whilst convincing them it was what the public wanted. Main features include:
  • Longer loading times
  • Weak material spread even more thinly accross more articles
  • Jarring colour-schemes, spelt with Us to confuse the staff
  • A format that doesn't match the content
  • Animated ads that load first and slowly even on my 8Mbit ADSL connection.
I think you will all agree we have both done a great job on The Onion. Now we're off to repaint the Big Brother House. Will Acid Green be ok, do you think, BT3?


BT3 thinks about it for about a millionth of a second:
Mate, I don't give a flying fox's genitalia about the colour of the Big Brother house, nor do I care about anything named after bikies' whores. Ya dig, Holmes? Ya dig, G? Ya dig, Burial Plots?

I haven't checked the link you've supplied the good readership with and I shant for two main reasons and forty-two subsidiary reasons. I'll list the two main reasons for sake of brevity and a lack of material: 1) The name itself reminds me of this shitty 'dance / fashion' sub-publication within another even shittier 'general annoyance' publication from my home town, which I rarely used beyond wiping up birth fluids from my various dogs' production of litters. 2) Anything with even the remote chance of Rupert Murdoch's involvement - either past, present or future, for sake of satisfactory clarification to the educated among you - be it assumed, insinuated or purely factual, begins my nads-smashing process, which can only lead to anger management programmes, which I ain't too fucking fond of, so again no thanks.

DDC, if you've made changes to said publication, that's superfuckingmagnificent, especially if the changes are as sweeping and universally recognised as strokes of master as seen in your list. And I know you're the man to get the toss element out and the quality self-pleasure element in. But don't involve me. Unless we're wrestling gorillas in a ring to a world audience or westing by musket and sextant - and getting paid well to do so - I don't wanna fucking know.

The Onion: what kind of fucking name is that for a 'publication'? I bet I know their catch phrase: 'No matter how much you peel, the bullshit remains constant.'

Count me out, dude.

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

25.6.05

SCOOBY DOO DRAFTED IN TO DRAIN "AUSTRALIAN CUP OF WOES"...

... but gets there to find that Andrew Symonds has already downed it as a chaser.

Dr. DogChop places himself second in the hope of strangling humour from the title:
No doubt he was drowing his sorrows after loosing his match fees and seeing the Australian team turn-down a police escort and get lost on the way to a match. Maybe the "Australian Goony-bag of woes" is nearer the mark?

Dr. DogChop sends in his latest report from the Australian hotel:

For those of you with access to a range of music, an appropriate title might be "the entertainer" or "Bring in the clowns". The mood in the DogChop household is relatively upbeat, in stark contrast to that of the Australian camp at the moment.

In their quest to become even more amusingly newsworthy, the Australian Cricket team have agreed to their the rights of theie latest adventure to Raja Gosnell. The film is to be based around the 2005 Ashes tour and begins when the Australian squad gets scared shitless by the ghost of Ashes past. Scoobie Doo and Shaggy, played by Matthew Lillard (who mangaes the role really fucking well, for my money), are drafted into the batting line-up to beef things up. In the mean time, Daphne takes over the role of lobbing medium-paced dobbers for the English attack to smash around the park with ease.

This leaves Shane Warne, Andrew Symonds and Belinda Dennett free to tackle the Mystery of the Missing Dignity. Attempts to revive the fortunes of the team will take the three on a three month roller-coaster ride. The two males slot nicely into the bumbling but happy-go-lucky role of everyones favourite crime duo, without any need for scripting and costumes. The two will fight crime whilst symultaneously dodging sex scandals and turning up to work pissed. Hilariously.

The story will culminate in the unmasking of the villain. At the end of the film, Andrew Symonds will drunkenly fall over and send Australian coach John Buchanan reeling into a trophy case. In the fracas, his rubber headmask is dislodged and he turns out to be Geofrey Boycot in Disguise. The Australian side has been duped into aping his "never above three runs an over" brick wall style of boring the fuck out of a cricket crowd.

Other highlights in the movie will include:
Sarah Michelle Gellar getting sexually harrassed by Shane Warne!

Sarah Michelle Gellar getting what's coming to her in a savage cricket bat beating!

Rowan Atkinson being crucified at noon on the first day of the Lords Test for selling his soul for pennies making such crap as Mr. Bean and Johny England!

Ricky Poontang's histrionics as his team disintigrates around him and he goes back to the bottle! Hilariously!

Bricktop351 becoming enslaved to Scrappy Doo and getting caught stealing dirty sets of the "ever so slightly fruity" bright yellow Australian One Day Kit for his master to materbate over!

I can't wait, can you Bricktop351?

BT3 secures front-row tickets, claiming, 'It's who you know.':
No, I can't. Anything involving Sarah Michelle Gellar getting a frightful beating sounds good to me. Let's hope it's more reality-based than Hollywood-based. As for the attire I'll be wearing, I've never liked the Australian one-day cricket kit and frequently find myself on the wrong side of an upchuck within the first three overs of watching a game on the teev. However, once that's out of my system and room has been made for various intoxicants, I sing the national anthem while jerking off.

Back to your movie: Fact being witness, I'll be lining up wherever and whenever the world premiere film stock hits the movie theatre or, better yet, following in the footsteps and urine-stained footpaths before me, kneeling face-first - a la infant on a bed - on my trusted cardboard box awaiting said stock weeks before the arrival.

To be beaten into first place at anything shits me to tears, so I request the aid of anyone who enjoys seeing tall dark-skinned men with Australian accents leading the charge to help me eradicate the geek element of the populace, any populace, usually at the head of such queues.

BTW, why are there no Aborigines - Indigenous Australians - in the current Australian batting line-up?

When I was in the process of increasing height, I played with some tremendously gifted players Indigenous and Torres Strait Island decent, many of them all-rounders, yet I never hear about them or their offspring playing for any club at any level worth mentioning. If anyone has any genuine information - be advised that racist comments from racist cunts will lead to a hunt and repeated lashings with a Cat-O-Nine-Tails - please fill us in.

And then: Quoting me, quoting you, a-ha...

I said: "Hmm, imagine the headlines when [typo] Australia ever wins another game: 'X beaten by ghost fearing geriatric poofters.' Let's hope that X becomes England."

I duly note that NONE of the fuckers that wrote garbage and jumped on the bandwagon of proclaiming Australia's cricket side as the most likely to take over from Bangladesh as the bottom-dweller of the current Test-playing nations actually carried this headline. Why? It's true, isn't it?

You said: Loads of stuff, including something about a white sheet somewhere down the track and so much more, including something about a bloke I'd like to have another dozen beers with called Andrew.

The cricket site you like to link to said: "Australia wins match. Man Of The Match: A Symonds."

All in all, there's another reason for this sudden and unheralded English winning streak vs sudden and unheralded Australian losing streak. Without revealing my source, all I'll say on the matter is Hansie Cronje.

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

24.6.05

HOW DOES ONE BEGIN DATING AT THE AGE OF 25?

Dr. DogChop promises to keep this one short, as post volume has been creeping up again recently:
I was sat at home the other day. The putative Mrs. Dr. DogChop was next to me both geographically and spiritually, sat as we were on the sofa. It was a quiet night and I had given-up up the remote-control in the hopes of averting a night of whining / stupid questions.

The missus, as she unerringly always manages to every time, got some appallingly low quality trash first try and stuck with it. Like Big Brother, like Survivor, like The News, this turns up everywhere, complete with goggle-eyed public and unltrasmarm host.

Yes, I'm talking about "Who Wants To Loose Their Dignity On TV?" - As usual, a programme aimed at dazzling the great unlettered unwashed with cash. I want to be a millionaire, and what's more, I want to watch other people get close or fail at seven o'clock on a night when I should either be out with my friends or spending time with my family.

The whole thing is so transparent it is virtually see through. Unfortunately most people don't know their arse from their elbows so no chance of anything changing soon. Long Advert Breaks before the contestants get to learn if they are right or wrong. Stupidly Long Pauses before answers are given. It honestly makes me sick.

Anyway, they had a couples special on this evening and during the introduction stage they mentioned that the smarmy-looking already rich guy had spent $X000 on various presents while they were dating. I could go on at length about parting stupid people from their money, but I won't. Maybe another day...

Anyway, my lucky spouse chimes in with "Why don't we go on dates any more?" I must admit that this one caught me off-guard, a little. I spend large amounts of time thinking about STUFF, but this particular one had never crossed my mind. If you are married and living together then surely the concept of a "date" is redundant? I put this to her and was accused of not loving her any more. I said that we went out for dinner, went snowboarding, did karaoke and had barbeques together. Did these mean nothing?

Apparently they did. I am now faced with the issue of starting dating someone I have been cohabiting with for five years. What should I do?


BT3's cheeks redden at the thought of young DogChops pitter-pattering around the kennel:
I'm glad you asked, DDC. For your sake and for the thoughts toiling and troubling your every breathing moment.

It's not palatable chowder to digest, let alone comment on honestly without offending the cook in question. Since there are two cooks in most relationships not involving the sole use of one's hand, I'm assuming this will continue to plague your regular schedule of avoiding the boss man as you successfully solve the problems of the clamlappers and future mortuary exhibits as they rejoice in slapping their cheeks on your couch to a chorus of methodical, rational and repeated advice at your place of employ.

Being a happily married man with more than twelve years' experience under my widening belt, I can honestly say that I've heard it all before and that it comes as no surprise - to me, at least - that the predictability of one of nature's cruelest hoaxes has landed in your lap like the proverbial nest of Killer Bees fallen from a tree.

If you want advice, you've come barking up the wrong leg, doggy style.

However, if you want opinions, I have many and despite your desire to remain on top of brevity and all the complicated and uncalled for analysis behind justifying the reasons why, I care not for the length of stride that my words or sentences possess, for I have proclaimed to know naught about the meaning of life or the proper procedure for grouting or rendering walls when renovating a bathroom, apartment, studio, house or Grizzly Bear enclosure, which is why I'll continue to offer my opinions, be they requested or unwanted, without using a period until I deem appropriate and never shortening the length, breadth, speed or conviction of what I write, think, say or do until I get paid by the word I don't write, in which case I'll reluctantly and instantly cease to communicate.

Dinner, snowboarding, karaoke [!!!] and barbeques are things you do together, my tertiary educated friend. They are not necessarily dates, per se [which means as such in Russian, I think].

You need to remember that we're slightly different to the more impressive of the species and that the thoughts and images our brain interprets are rarely if ever the same as those that the more impressive of the species' brain interprets.

So, to us, a date with our chosen partner could involve going to watch the local footballers [your kind], rolling around on the turf pretending to have had their ankles severed from a tackle that spared limbs and incapacitated air, with the hope of actually seeing the action in the rare instance of a goal being scored.

Perhaps a date in our eyes is more along lines of a sophisticated $5 lunch at the Cock & Firehose Pub, within walking distance from our abode, enabling us the luxury of deciding to kick-on should the desire arise. Being the true gentlemen that we are, we not only pay for both meals but a glass of house wine for her and a gin and tonic for us, allowing ample time to shove a dollar coin on the pool table and book a game of doubles with the all-conquering Clansmen that have teamed to beat all-comers for the past two hours and counting.

Perhaps a date in our eyes might include a night at home with a rented movie - art house, of course; none of this blockbuster bollocks for our fine lady - accompanied by freshly bought Cornettos, popcorn slapped in three known saturated fats [and two unknown ones], where our method of seduction of the more impressive of the species is to gently whisper into her ear, "I love you so much," with particular emphasis on the word so where we allow the thought to linger before adding within one-to-three minutes, "Will you blow me?"

I'm only throwing the pointy Primary School kind of compass at the ceiling without the use of light here, as I'm debilitated by a lack of what some would term an education and my ability to walk a straight line was offset around about the same time that non-prescription drugs entered my system, which was too long ago to recall. However, I reckon I've got the ogling and onlooking-as-a-seemingly-inconspicuous-bystander component of my evolution down to a fine art and I've noticed the more impressive of the species doesn't view dates in the same evolutionary league as the masculine form of the species does. There, I said it.

From attacks to my person ranging from the head to the ankles at varying times during the past fifteen years, I can say with sincere revelation that anything involving mood lighting, massages, warm water, sensual oils, unusual and / or exotic food that isn't bought and taken away to be devoured, letters / cards / poems, gifts involving the foresight of having listened to - and heard, therefore registering in your mind of what's acceptible and what's a pap smear of a gift - the more impressive of the species' personal tastes, giving instead of receiving actions of pleasurable / intimate connotation, foot rubs, removal of soiled dacks from the floor / top of the washing machine / microwave without having been told to do so and maybe even the occasional spur-of-the-moment get away without having planned anything where just flying on the wings of spontaneity is the order of the day are all likely to improve the situation of your life together as a non-dating couple.

These are opinions and observations rolled into one as opposed to bona fide examples of what constitutes a date and are usually available from my online range of publications and marital aids, but seeing as you're a compadre and the residing physician / psychologist in my mind's eye...

I do the washing not because I have to or because it's expected of me or because it's been asked of me, but because I'm aroused by suds and the voracity of the spin cycle as it caresses my arse cheeks. What I'm alluding to is that I pull my hefty weight around the house as a precursor to anything slightly romantic I might have in store - and I do; often - and even if I don't, the chances of an arrow splicing my head open are less likely than during sleep-over nights when I was a carefree bachelor and where unfinished bongs and pornmags with stuck pages strewn around the room acted as a surrogate floor.

Then, there is of course the option of kids. Once they're around and you've spent the first few years re-acquainting yourself with the woman you sleep next to at night, you're free to list excuses for not being able to go out on a date: various practices and essential lessons for the young'ns immediately spring to mind.

I wonder if anyone else has opinions of how Dr. DogChop can turn his approval rating around and get things back on track without being seen as an ogre / man of finite redeeming qualities.

Excreted by Mrs DC @ 9:11 AM 4 Noteworthy retort(s)

23.6.05

OPPOSITES ATTRACT LIKE BAD SONGS OF THE '80s

DDC sprays:
Dr. DogChop hasn't posted for quite some time, but refuses to employ one of those "I'm sorry for not posting but try much harder from now on" - what kind of a wishy-washy cunt has to apologise for being busy? Especially when he has been undercover in the Australian dressing room: You heard it here first! The secret tactics of the Australian cricket team! Shane Warne bares all! Ricky Poontang announces a new era of Australian cricket!

It was decided by the NTpHL team that we needed a man on the ground at The Ashes and their associated run-up, so I was dispatched to see what I could dig up. To fund the mission I stole all five of one of the Australian team's bats. These made a hefty profit on Ebay, along with a bit of kit that I picked up on the way out.

I am currently working as a cleaner in the Australian's otel, regularly cleaning up the dead chicks brought in for the feeding of the Australian team mascot. This was chosen to best represent the fauna of Australia - A hybrid immensely poisonous spider crossed with a dangerously intemperate poisonous snake with a bit of platypus thrown in for good luck. The resulting cross-breed is a huge centipede-like monster with a duck-bill and enough poison to keep a legion of mother-in-laws in conversation for a year. Its name is Shane, in view of its sexual appetite and lack of prowess in bed.

I was called into the suite the other day to clear up after one of Andrew Symonds' binges. There were empty bottles of Colt45 and WKD and other kiddy-drinks. These were sprinkled liberally with good intentions and vomit. The man himself was slumped on a bed with a cone and a road-sign clutched one in each hand, a piece of paper stuck on his back saying "Honk if you like Tim-Tams".

As I was vacuuming up the broken glass and assorted detritus of a night on the juice, I happened to nudge open a door and overhear the following team briefing:

"Okey-dokey guys, this is the plan for the next few months. We've been caught on the hop a little bit by the opposition being prepared and having a few guys that can bowl and knock the ball around a bit."

"Some of you may have read the newspapers," a chorus of 'nos', "and heard that the Poms are adopting a more Australian style of play. This is taking the form of piss-takes on pitch, brazen arrogance and low esteem for the opposition. They have found a blond Lout that drinks a lot.

Quite frankly we are baffled by this approach of stealing our identity, so we
have been forced to adopt a British attitude in highly reactionary response."

Drawn breaths from inside the room.

"This will take the form of gentlemanly behaviour both off the pitch and on. As we all know, Shane and Andy have let the side down by getting pissed and or hassling women for sex even though they are really quite poor in bed.

"The next phase, will follow the very British course of a series of puzzling losses, each followed by a brief glimpse of victory before our middle order crumbles for fuck-all. We will be highlighting these losses with complaints about umpires and lemon-faced press interviews in the inimitable style of Michael Atherton."

"I will be leading from the front by bravely ignoring the problems and talk of a metaphorical 'panic-button', my refusal of which to push, in the style of Nasser Hussain, will result in a further two to three losses than we actually need to make.

"Looking to the future, I and the selectors are in agreement as far as giving poor quality players more chances to fail whilst ignoring much better players in the face of an angry public and press. Finally, we have noted that the Poms have got an Academy, and a bunch of Australian coaches. In the light of this information, we will be forced to downgrade our own facilities and employ some Pommy coaches to show how to bore the shit out of a crowd.

"That will be all for now, gentlemen. If we can all get back to sending 'those early messages' to Steve Harmison, like in the first ODI, we will be well on our way to achieving Anglification of Australian cricket in under two months."


So there you have it. You heard it here first - and now it all makes sense. Anglification of Australian cricket is to blame for Australia's cricketing woes. If they can just stop Shane and Andy being thugs they will be well on the way to being like a 1980s England cricket side.


BT3 is stopped in his tracks by a Bohemeth party van with sheilas throwing their boobies out opened windows. He types under duress:
*slapping left thigh while typing with fingers on his right hand*

What a crack-up, DDC. What. A. Crack. Up! No shit, I was splitting stitches from a stoush with a malnutritioned third-grade girl that attempted in vain to explain to me the laws of physics with a diaphragm and a rubber hose. And then I read what you wrote.

*still slow-typing, still slapping thigh*

If you could have, I'm sure you would have thought of a few more euphemisms and histrionics to make it worth everyone's while, but seeing as you've hit a snag in the ointment and failed to scale a brick wall due to premature deflation of your sandshoes and a pre-ejaculatory celebration at your country's team having won absolutely squat-all - though you'll undoubtedly rise like a river, phoenix, that's had its ashes micturated upon by a swarm of drunken arseholes from the nether regions of the Aussie outback in Anytown - I'll happily dance with the devil in the moonlight and gladly follow your lead in the merry frivolity of this dance you call The Ashes, circa 2005.

Oh, yes, how sweet it is to be humbled by you. And the notion that it's a case of time transcending space through the aid of a mirror, no less!! [two exclamation marks by popular demand]. Brilliant! Sheer and unbuttoned blouse to the navel brilliant!

A) I love the Ricky Poontang reference. LOVE IT!!!!! [same rationale as before]. Seeing as I love it so much, let's compare the tang of said poon to... Ahhh... Damn it, who can I put up as a worthy nemesis to the one that has been cast aside and trodden upon by Vietnam vets from the land of the free-from-opinion, prostitutes of ill-repute from around the corner and a doctor with his own tailor-made collection of white jackets? I know! The English counterpart to the main job; the Commisar himself, Herr Vaughan.

Ready? Go!

Richard Poontang's batting averages:

Tests: matches - 88, innings - 143, runs - 6950, high score - 257, average - 56.50, strike rate - 58.68, 100s - 22, 50s - 27. One-day Int: matches - 224, innings - 219, runs - 7988, high score - 145, average - 41.82, strike rate - 77.92, 100s - 17, 50s - 44

Michael Von Nazi's batting averages:

Tests: matches - 57, innings - 101, runs - 4187, high score - 197, average - 45.02, strike rate - 51.71, 100s - 14, 50s – 12. One-day Int: matches - 69, innings - 66, runs - 1655, high score - 90*, average - 28.53, strike rate - 68.33, 100s - 0, 50s – 14.

B) Defence could rest there, not mentioning the wins or win-loss ratio while under the voyage of both skippers - though Herr Vaughan's statistics have picked up in the past 18 months - but it shant, for the Chuck Harmison reference... Oh, the woe in my soul as I tempt rational thinking while striving for a splicing touch of the proverbial pffft sound from between the gap in my front teeth as a response.

May I have some thinking time please, Mr Music?

Tra-la-la-la-la-la-la [repeated].

That's quite enough; thanking you with a twirling sausage and a splash of garlic sauce. Chuck's about 2 metres tall, which makes him an ongoing project without a completion date for the wonderful people at the English Cricket Academy [i.e. Australians], though approximately 2163 could be a reasonably inoffensive guess for when he'll truly be a force to be reckoned with, by which time he will have been dead and buried for at least ten years.

Chuck's a good old-fashioned people person, meaning he requires many people to look after his best interests for fear of him opening his mouth prematurely or thinking about what he's been picked in the side to do: bowl line and length. Yes, people are asked to read letters that string together to form words that string together to form sentences, often to Chuck's own counter productivity, as he prefers to show his blaringly obvious primordial tendencies with severe doses of flatulence and temper tantrums as offerings to those who read to him. Some have said that he may actually be of French decent, though no records have been exhumed to support the theory.

Through fuck-all eves dropping and plenty of drones at third-world rates in places that matter, I can now reveal that a reliable source dropped the bombshell that the English Cricket Board, at a rate of four-million Pounds per hour, employed the services of one Michael 'The Ad' Jordan to persuade them that they were, indeed, capable of competing with and bettering their more talented - and arguably more masculine and better equipped in the reproductive organs department - counterparts. The Ad stated, quite simply and effortlessly, as if driven by promises of untold riches alone, by means of repetition for the duration of seventeen hours - and I quote - "Just do it... Just do it... Just do it... Just do it... Just do it... Just do it... Just do it... Just do it..." - and such and such, whereby he accentuated the emphasis at varying points throughout the vernacular of said phrase.

Stunned like a mule that was unexpectedly stung in the eye of the penis, Chuck Harmison leaped out of his seat upon The Ad's extended words of inspiration, where he yelled: "I've got it! I've motherfucking well got it, old chaps! Line, length and speed!" after which he performed a three-minute air-guitar solo to the tune of a little known Oasis track titled We're Desecrators Of Haggis No More.

As unsubstantiated as the remainder of the story is, the Chuckmeister then leapt as high as his thighs would allow him, hitting the ceiling and rendering himself unconscious for the duration of the meeting and the first two hours of the game against the Australians, where the Poms restricted the Aussies to 252 and Chuck Harmison returned the astounding - and career best - figures of 5 for a paltry 33, including the first-ball scalp of one Richard Poontang.

Life on other planets and the theories surrounding the debate surrounding the notions surrounding the perhapses and the maybes and the whys and the how-many-illegitimate-2 metre-tall-children-must-an-Englishman- produce-in-order-to-safely-return-the-sacred-Ashes-to-their-rightful-resting-place of it all, Dr. DogChop...

Where will it end and will it end come the final day of the fifth Test in Englandom-Upon-Beckingham Palace? Or will it all end well before then, say, for instance, if your lot beat my lot again in a one-dayer and the media continues its rampant blaspheming of Richard Poontang and his Disciples? [BTW, we write for nobody other than our own egos, so fuck the length and keep spewing, I say. I say.]

The butterflies are aflutter in this gripping saga of the paranormal and I, for lesser of two by one, need a cold shot of tequila... Senior, per favor.

Dr. DogChop lost the plot a bit whilst waiting for BT3 to stop fucking around with the formatting:
Let's get a couple of things straight, shall we? As our good friend that guy we link to has pointed out, most of the Australian team are just about ready to start their careers as commentators, umpires, coaches and publicans. There are what, two of them under 30? Anyway, I think it's fair to say that our mate Dicky is at the end of the road and my friend Mr. Vaughan is not quite so morribund yet.

You can quote figures all day - I should know - and the question of Poony's averages is not how high they are, but how low they will go before he retires. Let's see how he fares as a loosing captain for a change.

Anyway, all this talk of "defence could rest there" can be quashed fairly easily. If you read cricinfo.com at all you might have noticed a piece about the Australian Team cowering in fear in their hotel. Don't believe me? Read this and have a chuckle.

Are you believing this shit? They are blaming their loss to Bangladesh on Ghosts! For real!

The prosecution could rest on that one point alone, but like you said, time will tell and the Tests haven't even started yet. Needless to say I will be breaking out the white sheet for cleaning once they do.

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

20.6.05

UMMMMMM...

Bricktop351 is reminded by his watch that today is another BLACK day:
So, we've written about suicide and touched upon cricket with the impact of a feather duster. Let's combine the two and then throw the feather duster at a cat, shall we, DDC? It is, indeed, a black day for the Australian history books.

[BTW, my head is held aloft with strings, facial piercings, pride and aloofness reserved for one of Ultra Mosha Toast God's cats, for I don't associate my country's cricket team's failure with my own - there simply isn't anything to compare the self-destruction to.]

Three-in-a-row...

The phrase is usually enough to warrant sparkling white wine corks to rampantly flee their captors' clutches, knocking themselves unconscious upon arrival at the ceiling or a not-so-best friend's head. It's no doubt the case in parts of England and Bangladesh as the phrase three-in-a-row gets re-defined from a term embedded with grins, wins and tension to inconsolable frowns, puzzling losses and tension, depending on which version of the definition you ponder.

'How in the name of soiled underpants did Bangladesh defeat Australia in a one-day game; a meaningful game that wasn't a friendly or a publicity stunt?'

More accurately, the question of how should be replaced with the matter of which, for finding an answer to the question 'Which in the name of soiled underpants did Bangladesh defeat Australia in a one-day game?' would make whoever could answer it a genius, albeit not by the Oxford Dictionary's standards. I know the fucking answer to the first pearler of a question on this gorgeous, sun-risen Monday morning: because Australia didn't make 260 and teams that make less than 300 these days [or 342 for that matter] ought to be beaten with 10 overs to spare and a yard ruler.

But wait, there's more...

As if awaking to news that Bangladesh had beaten the Aussies - for I stay off the internet on weekends, fearing it will contaminate my ability to function as a person with a pulse and a lifestyle should I plug into the mainline during Satdee or Sundee - I'm now privileged to read that the Poms have kicked the Aussies' arses as well, making it four-in-a-row - or as I prefer to call it, the even third-of-a-dozen-in-a-row - unless you don't include the first two drubbings at the hands of the Poms in a backyard-style non-thrash-a-thon and that team of nobodies [apart from the top two foreigners who made a tonne each], in which case it's two-in-a-row in the first of the competitions that matter.

What I'm trying to say is WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE? And, I guess, furthermore, HOW FUCKING LONG DOES IT TAKE TO GET OVER JETLAG? And, I guess, even more than those first two things, WHAT GIVES JASON GILLESPIE THE RIGHT TO THINK HE CAN WEAR A WHITE HEADBAND IN 2005?

To which I must add, thus concluding my highly informed and rightly undervalued commentary via thorough observation over the ether: FUUUUUUUUUUUCK!

Dr. DogChop, I'm influenced greatly by movies and if Leonardo 'I Do Models Coz There's Less To Hang Onto' DiCapricioso can rub his hands like a man possessed by the Stain Devil, then so can I.

It's the way of the future. It's the way of the future. It's the way of the future. It's the way of the future. Show me the blueprints. Show me the blueprints. Show me the blueprints.

Oh, dearest Marty Scorsese, where are you when I need you the most?

DDC, will you apply salt to my open sores - via the comments, as I know you iz incapacitated by laughter for the time being - and help me stay afloat in the storm that's battling in my mind about whether or not to sharpen the axe for complete removal of my soiled hands. Or should I just bite the bullet that's been in my handgun and eager to get out since the Aussies' horrendous loss in that champion game of vision - 20/20; perfect clarity x 2, to be sure, to be sure - or, better yet, should I lay down as much money as my family can't afford on the Poms playing Bangladesh in the final of the Sponsor's Name Series finals?

Excreted by Kaufman @ 9:11 PM 8 Noteworthy retort(s)

18.6.05

INTERPRETATION IN THE FLAMBE OF THE UNREAL

BT3 eulogises because there's no beer in the fridge and he's too fucking fat and retarded to get up:
I've more questions than answers. By now you'd know that without being told. Again. However, if you don't: I've more questions than answers. There. Now you know.

So, while I was at the Missile Watching facility getting paid to watch missiles that never barge a millimetre or were ever likely to be removed by an unauthorised personage for reasons beyond the facility's security - which, BTW, outweigh that of The Louvre by 10:1 - I began a thinking. I've got so much spare time up my sleeves that I could've taught myself the French, Japanese, Chinese and Hebrew languages and the Top 10 money earners within each group, while improving and perfecting my magical tricks [such as pulling bleeding brown rabbit ears out of my swollen arse] without anyone being the wiser.

Yeah. That's what a sane, thinking person would've accomplished in the same time it's taken me to set up a blog / web site / ether home of curious verbal musings that would stump the world's foremost psychologists, psychiatrists and purists alike AND I managed to coerce a perfectly rational, albeit fragile, acquaintance to co-author the fucking thing, giving free advice to anyone incensed enough to take notice. Well, I lie, for I've done other things as well, such as increased my addiction to caffeine and old red eyes beyond any textbook's definition AND, wait for it, gained weight. There, I said it. If fact be revealed in the key of David Copperfieldesque, I'm currently around the size that Shane 'Pass The Spam' Warne was when he was allegedly making those allegedly saucy alleged phone calls, allegedly. You know, tubby, chubby, fat, fuckin' tubby, fuckin' chubby, fuckin' fat? That kinda thing.

And I'm loving it.

Really. Fucking. Loving. It.

So anyway, there I was with more free time up my sleeves as I practiced the rabbit ears piece in my office when suddenly it dawned on me that there was a perfectly unused fish tank the size of Wales right there. It was right there, I tell ya. I hadn't ever noticed it before. I had never noticed it before either, so I was twice forcibly struck between the eyes with a level of pain that I could only imagine to be a thought stoicly attempting to break the catatonic cycle of existence I had come to call my own, which I've grown fond of thanks to ingestion of copious amounts of caffeine, weed, cheese, biscuits, freshly killed and never boiled lamb chops and cats on a skewer. Work caffeterias are alarming places, people.

Stay with me. Don't stray.

The hit was worse than the initial shock of computing that I was thinking something, so I hot footed it to the phone, ordered a dozen fish, hung up, dialled again, ordered a dozen more fish, only different to the first dozen, hung up and repeated the process a few times. Maybe more. I hot footed it over to the fish tank, cleaned it out, filled it up with fresh water, noticed there wasn't one of those bubble-making thingamies that makes bubbles to entertain the fish or whatever, squatted above the gargantuan tank with my strides around my ankles, dipped my tubby white cheeks and date into the chilly water and farted until my heart's content. Looking curiously into the tank, I initially thought it was home to a dormant family of Sea Monkeys that had sprung to life once I had added water, only to realise they were my own accidental miniature creations and remnants of the rabbit ears show. Ta-dah! The fish tank was ready for its new occupants.

Oo-ee-oo-ah-ah-bing-bang-walla-walla-ding-dang.

The phone rang, causing me to pivot my head to the video screen monitor. My lips pursed, as did my mouth, and I observed a suspicious looking teenager with a shitload of plastic bags at the front gate of the Missile Launching facility.

'Could he be here to sell me drugs and if so, how did he know I'd be here right now? Odd,' I thought. 'This was a job for the video monitor and my best Clint Eastwood voice, where I drop my regular snarl by three octives,' still thinking.
BT3: Who the fuck are you, cuntface and what the fuck are you doing here? Stop scratching your balls and answer the fucking question, twerp!

Teenager: Umm, my name's Ted and I've got an delivery for a Mr Bricktop351.

BT3: Who the fuck do you think you are, Theodore, barging into my Missile Launching facility on my time, attempting to make a fool out of me? There is no Mr Bricktop351 here, you wretched shitbag of wind, puss and blackheads. I wasn't born yesterday either, sonny James, and I sure as shit ain't buying whatever the fuck kind of mothercunting bullshit story you're peddling. I've got cable, fuckstain, and I do the shopping I need right there, so pick up your manure, turn your scrawny tapeworm ridden arse around and get the fuck out of my line of vision before I get out of this comfortable chair of mine, come down there and shove it so far up your puny arse that you become the poster child for anti-inflammatory tablets. Am I making myself clear? Now, fuck off!

Teenager: [checking his docket] Umm, my name really is Ted and I've got 240 fish for Bricktop351, not Mr Bricktop351.

BT3: Well, why didn't you say so? What took you so long? Come on up!

Before too long, the Baracudas were enormous and tearing through the population with ease reserved for Vikings out on a buck's night. I never realised Baracudas got along so well with Hawksbill Turtles, but I guess anything that fucks openly with sharks and chomps the living daylights out of them is bound to be respected by other ferocious aquatic beasts. The survival of the fittest within my newly created underwater Utopia was beginning to take shape.

All I needed was a cat.

Then my experiement could finally be observed by scholars, for I had beer to drink and a skipping class to attend.

A few scratches here and a hissy fit there and the cat was treading water much to the pleasure of the ever growing Baracudas. I don't think the turtle really gave a shit. I slapped the cat a few times for no reason other than because it was a cat and I picked my nose, flicking the resulting sticky darts at it. It's surprising what the little fuckers will eat, isn't it?

I slapped a massive lid over the aquarium sized fishing tank and walked away.

When I came back I was well and truly gutted. The cat was sitting atop the cover, licking its paws. The fish - ALL OF THEM - were gone; nowhere to be seen, not even wriggling for their life on the floor or nearby. Motherfucking fist-thumping gone. The turtle's shell lay upsidedown at the bottom of the tank, barely recognisable from scratch marks and bloodied water.

The cat wined something about me or ow or whatever the fuck I couldn't interpret coz I hadn't studied the lingo, had I, and I felt like a dropkick for spending so much of the company's money on such a large quantity of fish - and a turtle. All I had to show for it was one huge fuck-off cat that wanted to rub itself on my ankles.

Do you have similar experiences of gratitude at the hands of lesser beings, Dr. DogChoppe and has Australia's string of losses [2] before a meaningful ball has been bowled really been as dramatic as the media has painted it to be?

*yawn*


As you have probably already guessed - Dr. DogChop is not a cat man:
I've always been a dog man myself, so what would I know about fish? Cats, on the other hand...

My biggest problem with cats boils down to a question of size and attitude. The fuckers are rude, and I mean that in the way that black people say it, which is more meaningful, I think (which film, fuckers!). Or really I mean it in the way that dictionaries say it, that is lacking manners.

Back in the day, I used to buy the food and leave it in the can so the cat could amusingly eat it like in the Kittycat advert. This was fine, up to the point that it amusingly lacerated it's paws and amusingly bled alarmingly all over the kitchen. In the aftermath it amusingly lacerated the VET in what any half decent psychologist (half decent is as good as they get by the way) will tell you is a "displacement activity". He in turn, no doubt influenced by his lacerated arm, amusingly fitted one of those lamp-shade things to the neck of the cat (in a displacement activity!), which improved it's popcorn-catching prowess no end but reduced it's pulling power to nil.

I decided that this was cruel because it meant the cat could not get to the food that I had started putting in a bowl on the advice of the Vet. To that end, the lampshade was exchanged for a toilet role middle, which spelled good news for the cat in terms of eating but bad news in terms of walking in a straight line. Endless hours of fun I had, watching it orbiting it's food bowl, that in a cruel twist of fate it could now see periferally but not from close-up, in increasingly frantic circles. Unfortuantely, the same rule aplied to the litter tray, so I was forced to re-evaluate my strategy for cat-maintainance.

The lacerated and toilet-roll encased leg had lost much in the process. Specifically, it's ability to bend. I thought briefly of having it replaced with a bionic paw. The idea grew on me as I pictured my moggy becoming a Sith Cat but then waned as the thought of the cost of all the other ensuing prosthetics / masks / loud breathing aparatus / TIE Fighters / etc. occured to me.

I knew I had to balance things up, somehow. The idea of taking the toilet roll off had struck me but I had dropped the idea at the thought of the cat covering the kitchen in blood again. That's my job. The other option was putting a second toilet roll on the other leg. I thought this one was a winner, so i tried it and I was right.

The cat no longer walked in circles , was able to crap in the proscribed place and had the added entertainment value of walking like a robot from a 1960s SciFi film. I had a robot-like cat, which is like the opposite of Doraemon, who as we all know is a cat-like robot.

A few days later, the cat enlisted the help of a passing hamster in the act of getting off the toilet-rolls. I apprehended the hamster and incarcerated him in the toilet, which is the domestic equivalent of Gunatanamo bay, for questioning. It would be nice to say the cat lived happily ever after, but no it wouldn't, who am I kidding? Certainly not you, am I right? I'm not done with you yet!

I arrived home from work in my rural thumbless community, who all (not in the least bit ironically) have the same name. I noted that the cat had escaped from it's bionic legs - it's wrong legs (like that film by aardman). I decided to let sleeping dogs lie, and more importantly living cats eat. Imagine in all of those films, the feeling of confusion and resentment, if instead of "dead man walking", the other prisoners shouted "live cat eating" at the condemned as they were marched to their deaths at the electric chair.

So I cracked open a KittyCat, put it in the new plastic bowl and depositted it in view of the cat. Who took one look at it and fucked off out of the cat-door. This is what I was talking about right at the start, which my "size and attitude" hyperbole. Any creature that has an attitude like that better have a body to match.

Make no mistake - I had read the label aloud as I was opening the can. I had mentioned the meaty chunks paked with goodness. I had pointed out he price and told the cat that there were cats in Ethiopia that would kill for a can of this. I had laid emphasis on the bit where it said "lovingly crafted to your pets' needs by top vets in Cheltenham", though maybe that was part of problem. If somebody told me my lunch had been lovingly crafted by doctors I would probably not be up for it, either. Doctors not being noted for their cullinary skills. Apart from me, who passed cooking with flying colours but had to cheat to get through my medical exams.

Anyway, the furry fucker just upped and left after I not only bought the stuff, but put it on a fucking plate as well! The moon on a stick - cat on a fucking stick is more like it...

In fact, cat on a door is more like it. I took the advice of Reverend Tim and ran the bastard over in my 4x4, or at least I tried. The act of chasing the cat round the car park in my car whilst avoiding all the other cars proved more than I could handle and the shit-dropper escaped, god rot his eyes and bowels! But not before I shunted a few of the other cars around a bit. Not that I cared about that. All my nieghbours are cunts!

In the end I was reduced to netting the fucker on his way through the cat-flap the following morning. After judging him guilty I took on judge-like qualities of self-righteousness and told the cat that he was being punished not only as a direct result of his crimes but also as a deterant to other pets within the community. I then took on the role of Tom Hanks and acted badly in many movies films, before escorting the cat to the front door while the hamster shouted "live cat eating" and all the people who read my earlier aside sniggered a bit, but not too much as they were supposed to be working.

I would just like to reassure you animal lovers out there that I did not throw the cat out and then lock the cat-door.

I crucified the fucker, biblical style - only with less beards and more yowling. And he is still serving as a warning to other household pets to this day. The hamster, who got off on a technicality, still tells the story today:

Hamster: You don't want to end up like that poor fucker the cat.

Other Pets: [not around at the time of the trial] Which cat?

Hamster: On dark stormy nights you can still hear him tapping, "thump-thump, thump-thump".

OPNATTOTT: Is it his ghost?

Hamster: Fuck off! It is his carcasse, which remains nailed to the front door to this day, dried and crow-pecked though it is...

PS - a "meaningful ball" being one that doesn't dismiss the entire team under embarassing circumstances - in the words of that guy who we link to, your boys failed to defend a total that has never yet been beaten in an ODI? Yet, ironically, this wasn't even an ODI but was merely a friendly against a bunch of yokels with no thumbs whose only strong point is cider.

Is that what you meant by "without a meaningful ball being bowled"?


Bricktop351:
Why, yes, that's precisely what I meant.

Not even a ODI, hence why bother getting upset over not even a ODI?. I can see no plausible answer. I love Uber Sporting Maniac - plutonically and heterosexually speaking - coz he's all heart and a fair amount of knowledge. It's just that he needs desperately to lay on your couch for a session or 20 to talk about the level of patriotism flowing through his veins as I believe it's detrimental to his health. Methinks lithium is the answer, but I'm just a patient with years of experience being a patient, so what the fuck would I know?

BTW, the blokes that made the bulk of the runs weren't even Poms; a Sri Lankan and a South African, to be sure, to be sure, to be sure. I'm lead to believe that two of our main stays even retired [uninjured; Primary School like] in order to give others a bit of a bat. Hooray!

Meaningless.

Have a good weekend, DDC. Don't let a bit of frivolity out on the paddock blur your judgement. And check out Garden State.

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

17.6.05

WE LOST!

Bricktop351 awoke to the sad news:
...But somehow the defeat was made all the more memorable by having my three 'nads pulverised by a girl.

Coming Soon...

DDC ponders the margin of victory for his beloved English cricket team in The Ashes series, following a spate [2] of defeats to the all-conquering, mega-slandering, head-poppin'-from-not-enough-decent-competition Aussie cunts.

Stay tuned.

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

16.6.05

WHERE HAVE ALL MY HEROES GONE?

Bricktop351 ponders the glorious past and wipes blood from his eye:
Apart from DDC posting a post without posting a post-it note in the post to inform me that he was about to post a post without consulting me, I've had a pretty fucking good week. It's Wednesday [as I write this... I know, bucket-o-fuck with chips, thanks]. Thanks for the heads-up.

Whenever I look back on my childhood, such as this morning while I was laying cable in the crapper, mixed feelings stir inside me like beer rushing past porridge and to the first available exit. There seem to be two distinct features of my childhood that stand out moreso than any others, aside from the old 'nads-o-mine. Perhaps like a beacon, perhaps like a fractured, severed head sitting in the back of Jeffrey Dahmer's deep freezer. You may be the judge - this time only.

On the one hand, I recall summers spent outdoors, where I was free to be a kid with the rest of the hairy kids. I'd spend countless hours at the cricket nets tonking deliveries [if you could call them that] back over the bowlers' [if you could call them that] heads or impersonating my favourite speedsters - Hogg, McDermott, Lawson and that moustachioed clam Lillee - whenever I had a bowl. Back in those days we had all-rounders [i.e. myself and Chris Watts, Michael Warton, Gary Clarke, Fritz Von Buehler]. I don't know what the fuck happened to most of them. I also impersonated those who held a special place in my character building phase of life; the bowlers who simultaneously dented pride and heads, such as Holding, Marshall, Garner, Walsh, Ambrose and Thomson. No coincidence that the Windies were at the peak of their game back then.

*solitary tear trickles down the goatee*

On the other hand, I recall the time my entire family was in a particular part of Europe that shall remain nameless. The entire area was covered in snow and looked like a postcard wrapped in a chill factor of -10. We were driven to the top of a mountain by my dad. I'll call him Fuckface to stop writing repeatedly my dad from this juncture. I rememember the view being so amazing that I commented something along those lines and apparently kept commenting. Longer. Than. I. Should. Have. Apparently.

The adage that I saw stars is definitely the correct phrase here, even though it was barely time for brunch. The view changed in the blink of an eye and the time it took to deliver a knuckle sandwich. All of a sudden, the view was vertically challenged and blurry. I actually remember having to blink repeatedly in order to correct my vision, which must've been what boxers feel like when they cop one unexpectedly as one of their eyes takes a momentary vacation to a different part of their head. As I picked myself up off the ground, all the while wondering why the entire left side of my face felt on fire, the vision slowly returned to reasonable normality and my eyes no longer looked like I was born to people who were related.

Apparently, Fuckhead hadn't taken too kindly to my uber excitement of such a gorgeous location and had notified me without prior written warning that I should mind my level of enthusiasm in such a magnificent place of natural beauty. With time, I believe his gesture went part way to helping me fully appreciate martial arts and use of concealed weapons. Furthermore, I learned the true meaning of keeping quiet unless spoken to and I reckon the resulting message engraved in my memory had zero negative effect.

Whatsoever.

Yeah. I didn't ever want to kill Fuckhead. Never. Literally. Not once.

Looking back at that wonderful era, there were a few parents slapping the fuck out of their kids. It seemed to be the norm - all the rage, even - that accompanied regular TV footage of all-in brawling in the then Victorian Football League [nothing to do with round balls] and the South Australian National Football League [repeat of previous bracket].

'It's good for building character,' is a line I'll always remember being uttered by one of Fuckhead's friends during a typically rowdy Sunday arvo in our backyard. I was sitting on a deckchair within the happy circle of malcontents, gently patting my eyes and counting bricks of our house to prevent my vision from deteriorating further. The swelling was from a completely unrelated incident to the aforementioned blissful European holiday, though a shared memory all the same. I hadn't uttered a single peep, preferring to point to whatever I wanted to eat as a swelling mouth on top of my eyes would've been more discomfort than I was willing to handle as a twelve year old.

Yeah, good times were had by all and I couldn't wait to hit those cricket nets so I could send some fucking insanely quick beam balls and superbly directed bouncers at my friends without helmets, who I wanted to hurt and mame if possible, bearing no grudges against them.

I wonder if Brett Lee got started in a similar way? He seems too clean-cut and too much of a priss to have been beaten by his fuckhead as a child, although his older brother, Jethro, is a fucking huge man, so maybe he was sat and farted upon by Jethro a few hundred times. Who knows?

Unlike now, I actually liked watching sports on TV back then. Take basketball for example. The letters MJ stood for one man and only one man. I'm not referring to Michael Jackson either. It was the same with tennis. I could stomach it although only for brief periods. I couldn't spend three hours of my life watching some no-name playing Ivan Lendl. I've had better times inspecting the blood in my urine than watching that robot play.

I liked John McEnroe but not because of his skills or ranking. He was a fucking lunatic; a canon mounted to an anti-aircraft missile and he got paid millions to go off. And he did it well. Better than most. And I fucking loved it. All of it. Every time. Swedish non-blond Mikael Pernfors was my all-time favourite tennis player and the reason, much like the Big Mac, had nothing to do with his skills or lack thereof as a player. I dug his fuckin' wicked do and the Americanised Swedish accent, kinda like the Chef from The Muppets meets Jon 'Totally?' Bender out of The Breakfast Club. He had a number fuck-all on the sides and a bit longer on top in a kind of revamped army crew cut style that defied the regular clean-cut image of this poofter sport and his poofter blond teammates. Not that there's anything wrong with being gay, hey? Pernfors also had a serve that an anorexic one-handed nun could return without raising a sweat. I remember thinking that people should serve underarm to him just to rile him and force him to shit bullets Big Mac style. Nobody ever did, which tells you how much personality arseholes of that era had. Pernfors never lost his cool. The tosser.

You gotta love the fuckin' Swedes.

So, I turned on the tell-me-more-shit the other day and noticed none of these dickheads anywhere. Big Mac's not even behind the mic anymore and if he is I sure don't care or want to know about it. Where's MJ? Doing ads. Great. What the world needs now is another ad for Nike, like I need a hole in my head. Thank you Camper Van Beethoven. You rock, even though you're probably running a software company out of Idaho.

Did you know that as a ten year old I met West Indies quick and perennial smooth guy Michael Holding at Melbourne Airport? True fucking story. Shook hands with the dude and told him to keep an eye on Bricktop351 Nofixedsurname and to tell his bowlers to stay away from my pads should they still be around when I was making it big as it would only result in carnage. Theirs. And their figures'.

A few years later a car with a nineteen year old driver decided to run me the fuck down as I was cycling. Fucked up my leg. Gave me impetus to fight for your right to party, so I gave up cricket and hit baseballs around a diamond playing surface instead. Amounted to nought.

I'm not even going to mention music and my heroes from way back when coz people pretty much slept through my rant about finding religion in the form of music or simply couldn't get the crux of what I was saying or were and are too rooted to the spot to offer opinions. Whatever. It's my fishing kettle and shit and many rambling words tend to have that effect on the clarity and viscosity of the spew. Bah!

Film directors. Let's talk about those. I don't know who directed The Princess Bride, but it was my favourite film because it was so real; so true-to-life and believable in every way, yet it was set as a fairy tale. Sheer fucking genius, man. It captured the unrequited love between The Princess [Robyn 'Definitely' Wright] and the Stable Boy [Cary 'I Raced A Car Against Tom Cruise' Elwes] so well.

Ahh, I'm just fucking with you limp dicks.

I'm not a Star Wars buff coz it gives me the sheepish shits in the same way that proclaiming to own every U2 album does. For the record, I don't. Not a single one. In factamundo, I reckon the best thing Bonehead-O put his name to is Million Dollar Hotel; a fillum, of all things. Freaky, quasi-religions like Star Wars don't do it for me. Religions don't do it for me. Period. Never did. I love the sci-fi element of Star Wars and the notion that all us aliens can get along with one another, except for the evil tyrant fucks who once had good in them, but not enough to change my name to BT3PO or give a fuck about reciting who comes from where or why that dude did that to that dude. Whatever. Just keep forking over your money at the box office and at Toys R Us and I'll keep downloading the good shit for free. Sheep.

Where's everyone gone? What are they doing? Why do they persist in mocking me and my belief that aging is a process the mind has been trained to believe?

Ah, fuck it. I won't bother waiting for a response as there is most likely none forthcoming.

I'll just go out and do a search and find more info about Wes Anderson and David 'Did You Know I've Done A Madonna Video?' Fincher and Hal Hartley and Darren Aronofsky and Joseph Heller and Carl Hiaasen and...

Dr. DogChop. I'm tired, my eyes are a hurtin' from all these fucking blurred memories [I'm watching Entropy and U2 has just appeared in the movie: typical. Finger in every pie. And here I was enjoying the living fucklights out of it. But wait! The sexy Diane chick from Trainspotting has just come on: rrrrrrrrrrow!]. I wanna go home. Are you open for trade?


Dr. DogChop dusts off his opinions and has a long hard think about his childhood:
It is a foggy mess, that thing the past. My childhood was shrouded in multiple divorces, remarriages, bigammy, bottany, bottomery and bad atmospheres. Looking into my past is like looking into one of those Serbian mass-graves. Corpses and nightmares and severed limbs everywhere, with a few tons of quick-lime on top.

I don't remember having any heros as a child. Achievement of any kind was rewarded with slaps or hours in the cellar. To be honest, I didn't need much encouragement to underachieve. The only sporting role-model I can think of is Eddie The Eagle. For those of you who haven't heard of him, he is the Brittish version of Cool Runnings, but neither cool, funny nor black. Nor a winner. Thinking about it now, I suspect he may have been the inspiration for the show Condorman. Though maybe I am thinking about this.

All my Primary school teachers were elderly, female and not even slightly interesting to an underachieving ten year old proto-animal-dispatcher like myself. I never did sports and rarely spent time with any "peers", so I had no kind of benchmark at all. It is remarkable I made it to the ripe old age of 25 without dying of pure misery. I suppose.

I rememeber the day my last remnant of ambition was crushed out of me. We had our "leaving school do", though I am sure they had a showier name for it at the time, at a church, of all places. Immense fun it wasn't, though it didn't exactly stand out amongst my school days. We had to stand up in front of the whole congregation, teachers and parents to say what we wanted to be when we grew up. I had seen an advert the day before and decided that I wanted to be a brain-surgeon. When I anounced this they all laughed at me and pelted me with rotten tomatoes.

Later that day my father announced that I was to be castrated and sold to a rich Oil Sheik in Saudi Arabia. He said if I worked hard I would be made into head eunuch and be given the keys to the harem.

Even at the tender age of ten, I knew I wasn't ready to sacrifice my crown jewels. Later that night God came to me in a dream and told me I was to go forth and reproduce, warning me that for every Bastard I didn't father, I would be sentenced to another four years in Purgatory. With this in mind I slipped out of the window, plumetted five stories, bounced off a van and headed for the bright lights of Manchester and the English Dream.

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

14.6.05

PATERNAL FEELINGS BE DAMNED - THERE'S A PRINCIPLE AT STAKE!

Dr. DogChop, who has it in spades:
Another day at the office and a bellyful of anger. Nothing specific today but like Morrissey - mancunian, secretly gay and alarmingly overweight last time I caught sight of him at one of BT3s soires - I would feel more fulfilled making Christmas cards with the mentally ill, rather than just working with them in the normal sense, as I do now.

What is bringing me back into the realms of well-being are the words of a song that have stuck in my mind of late, though I am listening to it at the moment:

I could dance like I'm a soul-boy
but I'd rather drag myself across the dancefloor
I feel like dancing all alone
where no-one knows me and where I
can cause offense just by the way I look

And when it comes to blows
when i am numbering my foes
just pray that you are on my side my dear

I'm one of very few people that I know who actually does stuff on priciple, often to the exclusion of practicality and reason. Usually I do everything to the exclusion of reason. Where do you think the name came from?

One of my many Bastards came to me with one of his problems. Now, don't walk away with the wrong impression, I don't like my kids and I don't usually let them talk to anyone, least of all me. The only time I spend on my kid's problems is creating them. My second doctorate in experimental psychology is well on its way.

I digress. The aforementioned sprog had made it as far as my person without being intercepted by the security.

Sprog: Daddy....
I pause to slap the back of his head.
Me: You will not gain acceptance that easily. Never use that word again.
Sprog: Ok, Dr. DogChop. A boy at school called me a filthy wog.
Me: He said what?

If there is one thing that gets my dander up, it's this. Badly applied racial slurs are worse than no racial slurs at all. Imagine that if you can. He was called a jungle-bunny the week before and a pom the week before that. I have a feeling that BT3 might have had a hand in this somewhere, in hindsight.

So I went down to the school and I hardly recognised the place. This was unsurprising as A) it was a long time since i had been to school B) I hadn't gone to this school anyway and C) going to the kids' parents evenings might be taken as an admission of paternity. And I don't need any "teacher" teaching me how to bring up my kids. It's a waste of time as I have no intention of doing it myself. What's the TV for, anyway?

My plan was to wait in ambush outside the gates and pounce on the kid as he left. When I arrived I had to do some quick thinking and change plans. I couldn't see the fucking gate for drug dealers and pimps. I had a chat with one and money changed hands. I sat down for a meditative chug on my opium pipe. I came to the conclusion that kids nowadays have it made. When I was ten I had to journey many a weary mile to get my hands on opium and ne'er a pipe as good as this at the end of it.

I remembered when all this was still fields and how it never used to rain in the summer. Then I started remembering how the cows gave meaningful looks and the old-women were really witches. Then I remembered how interesting the road was and the way - "hang on! This is good shit!" I thought. "I'd better save it though."

Then I looked around. It was dark and somebody had picked my pocket. I resolved to come back the next day and leave off chasing the dragon until after I had pulped this shyster and fed him to the other kids as a warning.

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

A STORY ABOUT A BI-POLAR BEAR

Dr. DogChop wonders why he is like he is:
I'm in the car, the stereo is turned-up all the way, the windows are down and if not up, the mojo is definitely on his way.

It is literally 33 seconds past five and I am within spittin' distance of the gate. The gas guzzler has the bit between his teeth and as far as I know, no-one has seen me leave. I pushed a bunch of shelving over on my way out to occupy everyone's Goldfish like attention spans. Twenty five chiefs and not an indian in sight. The number of cooks is doing enough spoiling to set the heart of any Bogan ablaze. Too much of a stretch? Incidentally, these are known as Kevs where I come from.

It is the shame of my life to admit that my car is an Automatic. Driving this thing is like driving a two ton go-kart. This button for go, this button for stop. Excuse me, which button to keep it in third so I can get past this old man before I reach retirement. That button isn't here?

I'm dropping it into reverse and swinging it round to point at the gate. It is in drive and I'm off. And I'm so close to hitting some kid on a bike that I nearly pull the steering-wheel off in an effort to avoid him. On the wrong side in the middle of the road. I wind down my window and shout,

"You really ought to be more careful. The loss of my license in such a matter is nothing compared to the remorse I will feel for having inadvertantly deprived you of the use of your body parts / body. Have a good day anyway!"

I procede down the main street of the one-horse-dealer-town that I work in. Since horses are no longer the commodity that they were, the number of scag-floggers in a town serves to measure it's "Civilisation Quotient" - CQ. I pass the post office, "Good afternoon you thieving cunts!" Next past the florist, who can count the number of customers per day on the fingers of one head. Past the Crapmarket, downgraded from a supermarket due to legal questions concerning the term "super".

I have just arrived at the Junction with the traffic lights. They are on red so I break out the sleeping bag and primus stove. After I have listened to the entire eleven cassette set of the Lord Of The Rings radio series, the lights change. Then I pull over the line and begin my turn onto the trunk road. More fool me, for the guy in the Subaru has other ideas. It is very important for him to get to the next red light twenty meters down the road. I say to myself,

"Ah well, he was only five seconds after the amber light, and it is very pretty down by that next light, so I'll happily overlook the trifling attention to life and limb."

A couple of hundred yards down the road I am held up by a worker from the Shell garage. "God bless your souls, Shell! I will gladly stop and miss the next lights so that you can improve your customer service by a tiny iota. I understand perfectly your need to engage the customership after the world found out about all that unfortunate business in Nigeria, or wherever the hell it was (whoever has my copy of No Logo, please bring it back!)."

Another few hundred yards up the road and the soothing tones of THERAPY? have made it through the "random" function on my MP3 player. Not long after, a guy in BIG FUCKING VAN pulls in front of me, prompting the comment,

"Thank god for that! It would have been a terrible shame to have missed your manouvre and piled my old sheddy scrapper into the side of your pristine new van. Luckily my ESP picked-up your intentions as you forgot to put your indicator on. I hope you spot that problem soon! Otherwise you will have an accident! I would be inconsolable were that to come to pass."

A few minutes later sees me driving through the country-side. I am overcome with worry as I see a young school kid weaving all over the road on his bike whilst simultaneously SMS messaging somebody on his mobile phone. I consider stopping to give him a piece of my mind but decide against it. Obviously I am over-reacting and 17 or 18 is obviously too young an age to spot the dangers of such behaviour. Obviously.

It is another ten minutes later and I am pulling into my flat's car park. There is a guy sat there waiting for something in my parking space. So I get out and say,

"Good afternoon! I'd like to park my car in my rather expensive parking-space. Please be a good Christian gent and move somewhere else."

The guy is looking at me, smiling in a helpless kind of way and trying to indicate throught the closed window that he is waiting for someone who 'won't be a minute'. I consider this and try a new tack,

"Get out of my fucking space you cunt. What the fuck do you think this is? Did you see a sign saying 'dump-station' on the way in? No? Well why have you left your heap of shit here? Move it before I destroy it with your overfed carcasse still besmirching its inside. You raper-of-cats, you!

"Why don't you people just fuck off and do it according to the fucking rules for once in your fucking life? These little civilities are what grease the wheels of society. They are important because they are important and, more importantly, they stop me from getting riled-up at the mere fucking presence of slime such as yourself, oozing from one selfish and lazy episode to the next. Just a little civility is all it takes to keep me in the world of the calm.

"You are an animal, a barbarian. A miserable wiper-of-old-mens'-penises. How dare you even fucking exist when I come home from work? How in the name of all that's good can you look in the mirror and not feel the disgust that I experience when I see you? You make me sick, and it's not the sick of too many sweets, let me tell you."

"Let me tell you about the rage caused by the majority of this squalid species, represented here by you, a thorn in the scrotum of life. We are not in the "my kids have broken my stereo" arena, here. We are not even in the "my wife has cuckolded me repeatedly and urepentantly, in the open and with people I know and trusted" ball park. We are in the baboon-like frenzy of the baboon in a frenzy. The red mist is here and I have already sized-up the potential for blunt-objects within easy reach.

"Now get out of my sight before I flay you alive, smash the windows of your shitwagon and fill it with creosote. Your burning car could stand as a torch, a guiding light to those other fucking arses out there. Here died a man, from sheer apathy and ignorance. I will send you off in the manor of ancient kings, who were all selfish cunts, too."

So he is leaving and I am parking my car. What's for dinner, I wonder?


BT3 has sat and waited long enough for the next offering. Priming all four burners, he says unto thee:
Baaaaaaahahahaha! You drive an automatic!

You know, I could've left the response to our long-awaited cooperative reunion at the line above, but I'm in a sharing, huggy-feely, rub-my-balls-and-I'll-rub-yours kind of mood. Judging from the un-fucken-believable [aside: Carlos told me the grammatical term for inserting profanity into existing words like that, but I have a goldfish inside me; forget where] hits we're getting from appearing on the highlights package of Adelaide Index dot com [from memory, the current tally stands as an astonishing seventeen. Rejoice, we're in double figures - and all because people love a flutter and an anonymous whinge! Yeeeha, DDC!], I won't coz your pain is my pain and your tragic set of circumstances is reason for this man and his boyish good looking brain, as well as a few anonymous scribes yet to let us know they're reading and dipping toes into the pool, to laugh out loud and slap thighs not belonging to their person.

Seriously, good man, why on earth in the town of Medusahem on the shores of the loch known as Fenestrae would you do another two years in this fucking country? Are you ill / insane / immune to a decent daily thrashing of your back, head and mind? No need to answer, DDC, for your face speaks to me like the demons in my mind's eye and tells me of your ill-conceived decision to offer your services, in the manner of Joel Fleischmann, in the belly of the arse-end of the place you refer to. Forget Lewis Carol or Christmas Carol or Carol Brady, you, my dear young friend with an automatic 4WD [!], are the real Mad Hatter.

You known for a fact, as I've stated it dozens of times, that I'm out of my element if there isn't good porn at my fingertips and seeing as I'm yet again bringing up your rear, I'm totally frozen in time with regards to addressing this situation. Do I offer advice? Why the fuck should I? No, that's not right. How the fuck can I? Ah, that's the relief I often associate with herpes cream.

I know slightly more than many who I think I know less than and I rarely allow my fingers to do the talking on my mouth's behalf unless paid to do so. The well of cash hath runneth dry many moons ago, like the evolutionary swimmers in the sacks of the hairy land mammals you dodge in your automatic 4WD [!]. Daily. Do I sit back, read and add my pittance about the issues that you so consistently smear onto the dubyah dubyah dubyah like the proverbial salt into an open wound? Why yes, of course I do.

The adage that I'm not laughing at you but with you doesn't apply here, as between convulsing lower intestine and arthritic attacks of the wrists I'm allowing my mind to wander to nether regions of my favourite pornstars' intimate zones, dodging stray hairs and grinning at flaky white areas because they're not mine. But alas, egad, for fuck's sake and not cunting again, the voices return to address this overdue reunion post.

Have I meandered enough? No? Well then, I'll permit myself the honor of continuing for I am BT3 and not B1 or B2, so let's leave our pjs atop the stairs and together go frolicking down the street sans garments. No? Well then, I'll permit myself to write a bit more.

The observer in me is the observer in you, my love [added to ride the Smashing Pumpkins rip-off to the shore]. Furthermore, I send this observation over to you:

These types are the butter in our renowned bread and butter pudding; the other types being the famed. We're more fortunate than most to have first-hand experience with the famed and to cry a sickening gutteral laugh as we relate to whoever is dildoed enough to heed their personal and tragic stories of unavoidable delusion via grandeur. I suggest by way of suggestion that encountering the types mentioned by you in this post is like medieval therapy for us. Sure, there are treacherous moments as we gasp, buckle at the knees, fumigate the unwanted festation of leeches inside our minds and generally get fucked-off royally by observing and writing about these types, but it's a learning process and hilariously so.

If truth be told - and it damned well will, for I am BT3 and not B1, B2 nor Asteroid B612 for that matter, I often feel like I'm trapped in a timewarp. The 1950s-led damage control going over in the US *slaps right temple* [because smashing of gonads would bring untold attention to oneself in this work environment] is a daily reminder of this to us all *waves at Junior Clitoris as Junior stumbles yet again in his daily ritual of reciting numbers one to four*, as are hours spent observing my fellow disgruntled employees while they kick the can and wilfully spread disease in hope of payday arriving sooner than expected.

To observe and comment on the folly that is humanity is the reason for me being in a chair behind a monitor in absence of a beer and a good wanking session. There's no greater purpose in mine life and I thank whoever or however decided to bring these comical creatures into existence for enabling me this once-in-a-lifetime experience for the duration of my life. The creatures that permeate your windscreen, sidemirrors and parking space are one and the same as the slobbering goons that chuckle under their breath whenever they observe that I have added salt to my coffee, having falsely imprisoned my belief that an unlabeled glass jar of white powder that lies NEXT TO a jar of coffee OUGHT TO HAVE sugar in it. They're also the same types who stop their car instantaneously following the sighting of my car along one of the typically narrow roads in this country of our choice, as if by miracle remaining stationary and pondering the creation of the universe - or how to adequately paint wind on canvas - will solve the dilemma of allowing time to proceed without the use of physical violence.

I'm reminded more times than you are abhorred at the sight of fuckwits unknowingly being fuckwits in your presence that this species is fallible because it desires to destroy itself through stupidity and the antiquated notion that evolution is a cyclic event to be witnessed from afar and not to be messed with.

I get the distinct impression that the aforementioned creator [or whatever] didn't mean for any of this to happen and that the species that unanimously disgusts us was a mistake in the evolutionary process, but we're here and we're there and we're everywhere where stupidity is free to reign.

Why do we have two fucking hands if we're not ambidextrous at everything we do? Apply same theory for legs/feet as I don't know the word and pedidextrous dinnae appear in my dictionary. Why don't we have the power of metamorphosis into anything our mind desires instead of altering our bodies by means of implants, scrapes, nips, tucks, gang warfare, hemorrhaging, starvation and the like? There are other examples but it's nearing beer-I don't care about anything else o'clock.

Without going into detail, I'll take a breather with the notion that there are too many reasons for this species' flaws, at the height of which is the species' everpresent need to manufacture automatic cars and be passed by older, wiser cronies in manual transmission speed machines. Meep-meep etc.

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

10.6.05

WAR OF THE MAMMALS

Bricktop351 points towards England:
People, while you're avoiding our site in droves because fables and talk of work chums aren't your preferred mug of whisky or wondering how great, fucked or meh The War Of The Worlds is going to be, you may wish to check out what Ultra Toast Mosha God is doing over in the UK. Suffice to say, the war that's developing in his own mind via his site is far more entertaining that anything I've read recently, which doesn't adequately equate just how saturated in entertainment his Mammal Wars Tag-Team event is. The lad seems to be in a frenzied writing mood and eliminating contenders to the throne of entertainmentdom King by fanning enormous wakes of gushing humour at all and everyone else.

I'm not sure whether my trusted steed and I will get a look in with the event but I'm certainly open to bribing the Moshing One with sugar cubes and gentle patting of his mane, if he's dressed that way, and loosening the trapezius muscles while cracking neck bones.

Unlike Ms Cynic's rockin' good time in her Blogging Big Brother household, I want in! I want in! I want in! I want in! I want in! I want in! I want in! I want in!

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

9.6.05

EDICIUS & THE MIRROR

BT3 pumps his foot on the old-school grinder and hones his fishing spear:
A chum - not a work colleague as far as anyone is concerned, for we're no longer raising issues relating to work: *yawn* and all that - just stopped me dead in my tracks and began sulking about a friend of his who committed suicide the other day. He said the bloke was an active member of the fire and rescue team in his area and that he had offed himself due to debts he could not pay. He was married with three daughters. When this chum asked me if I knew any fables to help him get through such an emotional time, I told him the following story, which I had originally read when David Mamet handed me a film script about a decade ago. [I don't believe the film's been made, though I also don't believe Citroen is a car manufacturer, so your guess is as good as mine]. It's called Edicius & The Mirror.


Edicius: "What the fuck are you doing with your arse cheeks?" he inquired, as he was walking to an engagement that didn't involve The Mirror's ears, mouth or limbs.

The Mirror: "What the fuck kind of question is that?" it snarled, bringing a momentary halt to its daily butt clenching ritual, which had to that point been noticed by nobody other than itself and the two protagonists undergoing solidification.

Edicius: "What the fuck gives you the right to answer a question with a question?" he continued, raising the very real hair on The Mirror's back into salutation pose releasing in unequal proportions a concoction of pheromones, testosterone, alcohol, bodily gas and mary-jew-ana into the already pungent air.

Narrator: The Mirror thought that Edicius had a sodding good point and that the matter could've been left at that; left alone to rest as defeat was accepted at the hands of a lesser being.

Narrator: Insinctively, The Mirror produced a switch blade. Realising instantly that a David Mamet film is no place for improvisation, The Mirror retracted the blade and returned the stainless steel instrument of conviction to its rightful resting place before anyone noticed the folly of its way.

Narrator: The women in this non-work environment took notice of the two loud, scruffy fuckwits - one of them pointy-headed, scrawny and keeping a mane of hair where his eyes should've been and the other a mirror. The women threw their knitting needles and eyeliner against the walls and began placing bets on the likely outcome of the fracas. The possibility of either side of the fenceline triumphing was looking like a 65-35 scenario with Edicius the one most likely to wipe the cream from his face.

Narrator: The Mirror wasn't getting the odds it wanted to make it worth its while, so it decided to keep playing the sordid game of mental digression.

The Mirror: "Why the fuck should I continue this discussion?" it ventured without gain.

Edicius: "Why the fuck shouldn't you continue this discussion?" Edicius insisted, adding by means of insane barking dog-like clarity, "Do you have something to hide or is this your standard way of skirting issues? Well, cock?"

The Mirror: "Why the fuck should I dignify that with a response?" The Mirror responded, bringing whatever irony was at hand into the picture, simulateously raising its scruffy, torn, white flag as The Mirror limped towards The Fridge in search of an ear willing to listen to its tale of woe or a can of cold iced tea, whichever happened to come first.

Narrator: Edicius cackled and rubbed his stomach with glee as he watched the back of The Mirror decrease in size. The Mirror may have deliberately or accidentally whimpered and before time advanced a single second, someone had raised the odds to 95-5 in favour of Edicius.

The Mirror: "$50 on The Mirror," The Mirror said to the chick in the croupier's hat busily chewing her fingernails. "And save some room for lunch, Honey," The Mirror added with a wink and a curl of the left part of its mouth.

Narrator: As Edicius continued cackling a cackle that would have shamed Adam Sandler, looking left and right at those gathered to partake in the apparent miss-match, The Mirror pivoted on the spot, faced Edicius and unleashed a severe dose of what became known in folklore as its Brick Steel look - which Ben Stiller [funny cunt and a cunt to boot] then pilfered without The Mirror's approval, writing a hit movie based around that very pose, slightly altering the gaze's name - targetting the eyes, eyebrows and cheeks of Edicius. The Mirror slowly walked towards Edicius.

Narrator: Between five and twenty-one seconds of humiliation later, Edicius raised his open hands high above his head and declared:

Edicius: "Why the fuck are you looking at me like that? Why the fuck are my inner thighs shaking? Why the fuck does my voice sound like my nuts have been cut off and that I'm about to become the next teen pop sensation even though I'm not a teen nor a singer nor a dancer? Why the fuck..."

Narrator: Edicius stopped mid-sentence as his voice dissipated into the languid air, leaving everyone without doubt that his flapping mouth was related to his wide-open fearing eyes, his twitching cheeks and his eyebrows, which had assumed residence in the penthouse of his forehead.

Narrator: He flapped about like a shot chicken and ran in circles.

Narrator: The Mirror found a lack of response was the perfect response to the desperate attempts of Edicius to humiliate himself, something that The Mirror had already succeeded in doing without use of words. The Mirror continued its relentless Brick Steel gaze, slowly maintaining his path towards Edicius. It caused Edicius to break out into song. "Baaaagooock, baaaagooock, baaaagooock," he sang and bolted to the exit, crashing into a glass door a few times that separated the inside world from the outside world.

Narrator: It was a fitting finale to an embarrassing situation. The Mirror had a pile of cash that rightfully belonged to it, a swarm of attractive femmes hanging off most parts of its body as well as a tanned, clear-skinned fellow who The Mirror immediately kissed on the cheek and told:

The Mirror: "I'm not that way inclined, but I'm blushing at the offer."

Narrator: The Mirror walked over to The Fridge, nodding hello and peeling off layers of newly-found fans. The Mirror noticed a bottle of VB. Steering well clear of the muck fearing contamination of the soul and mind, The Mirror looked deeper into The Fridge and noticed some arsehole had hidden a bottle of Cooper's Pale. The bottle called out The Mirror's name; The Mirror responded by cracking it open, toasting to life and going about its business, winking at femmes in all parts of the room.

My friend wondered whether that was the end to this fable, claiming that it was pretty piss poor if, indeed, it was the end. I tapped him on the shoulder, regained his interest and I continued.

Narrator: As usual, things went pair shaped from there. Edicius killed himself in a manner that police officially declared as suicide. They were told that Edicius had taken quite poorly the defeat at the hands of a bigger, stronger, blacker, more handsome, better educated entity such as The Mirror.

The Mirror: "If it had been me and if I were for some inexplicable reason on the receiving end of a fearful ear bashing, embarrassing my arse to where even gay dudes feared to tread," The Mirror told Police when interviewed, "I would've just smashed the nimrod in the knees with my six-foot staff or got my slingshot out and pelted him in the groin a few hundred times. I wouldn't have committed suicide. It's a cowardly act, man."

The Mirror: "I most certainly wouldn't have gone troppo and used my head as a battering ram," The Mirror added, even when the Police had said they had had [!] enough information. "The children inside the steel chariot that Edicius rammed repeatedly into until he cracked his head wide open and collapsed in a pool of his own blood will been traumatised for life from having witnessed such a vulgar display of power [RIP, Dimebag]. But I'll sleep well tonight, knowing that I'm not a worthless cunt who saw a selfish and cowardly act as the way to solve my problems."

Narrator: The Police grew weary of The Mirror's ego and asked for its autograph, shutting it up once and for all. The Mirror lived happily ever after.


You know, it's been a while since I've told that story and it still gives me the same goose-bumps as it did when I first told it, twenty-seven minutes ago. But I tell it for a reason... Surely, suicide has got to be the single biggest act of cowardice humankind can accomplish. [Though Wikipedia tells us differently: "On the other hand, some cultures have viewed it as an honorable way to exit certain shameful or hopeless situations"]. If it isn't, then perhaps it's mightily close to being racist. Both involve absense of any intelligence whatsoever and both cause more harm to others than to the person committing the act. Once you've chosen to do it and done it, YOUR problems are over. Agreed and accepted and taken with a knowing wink. But honorable? I fail to see the correlation.

You accept your fate [if you believe in that], you come back as a grain of wheat [if you believe that], you rejoin the dust space race you left so long ago [if you believe that] or you do whatever the fuck you think you'll do, even if it's existing as a morsel of nothing. But for it to be an honorable way of going about it is something that doesn't quite gel. If you want honorable, how about we talk about having the fortitude to see things through; go the whole distance by dealing with the bottomless pit you've dug for yourself or that's been dug for you and find a way out that doesn't involve a thoughtless action with consequences for others. Rebuild yourself and your character. Do good. Slog it out. Do the hard time associated with dealing with whatever it is you have to deal with, but don't tell me that suicide is honorable.

Don't tell me that the people you've left behind with your cowardly act ought to mourn your loss either. Fuck that! If you choose suicide as the only means of solving YOUR problems and inflicting loved ones, friends, fans, blind followers or whatever brainless twat happens to have a caring thought in their body for you, then you weren't worth space to begin with. Point me directly to your grave as I have a big fuck-off truck with manure in it. Asta la vista and don't forget me coz who were you again and all that.

Some don't share my views. Odd that.

Unless you are terminally ill or at a stage in your life where the tubes sticking into your nose are no longer doing wonders for your complexion, unless you have been inflicted with a cruel and unjust disease that's lessening your quality of life with each breath you take [with each move you make] and if you simply must be at your chosen next port of call because you've heard the call of The Messiah him/her/itself, then go. But don't expect sympathy or tears being shed by me or people who vaguely resemble me. I'm not impressed by your or Kurt Cobain's or Hunter S. Thompson's reasons, though I will continue to chuckle at what some of these goons wrote and said about the act they were about to perform [some of them didn't even know they were about to perform it at the time; irony at its most powerful]: Famous last words.

Take a look in The Mirror. If you see Edicius or anyone claiming to be him, look again. You're wrong, fucknut, for Edicius does not exist. The fucker's dead. Killed himself. Rammed his fucking head into a steel chariot a few times. The gutless wonder.


Dr. DogChop gets stuck with the other end of the bargain:
Look, leave Kurt Cobain alone - just because he didn't have your fortitude in kicking The Horse, twice, doesn't mean that abandoning all hope and blowing your brains out for your wife to find whilst carrying your infant daughter isn't ok. It puts me in mind of a TV programme I saw once. It was a "fly on the wall" (read fly on the dogshit) docko about the guys who have to go round cleaning houses after people "opt-out" or are "co-opted" by other people.

You with your fucking revolutionary ways - you will put this man on the streets, where in an ironic twist of fate, and aren't all twists of fate ironic, he will kill himself in desperation, leaving no-one to clear up the mess. And whose fault will that be?

Excreted by Kaufman @ 9:11 AM 10 Noteworthy retort(s)

8.6.05

STEVEN SPIELBERG TO HOLD A COCKMUSTER - EVERYONE INVITED

Dr. DogChop watched five separate films this day. Here is what I just sent to Steven Spielberg:

Dear Mr. Spielberg,

I got the idea of writing to you after Bricktop351 mentioned seeing you at the poodle grooming shop. I hope our mutual aquaintance will be enough to get you to read this letter.

Firstly, I would like to start with thanks for all the great movies you have made, amongst which I do not count Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. "Indie! Indie!" - I am glad you have only once managed to create an equally annoying character since. The least said about Jar Jar Binx here, the better as I would like to ask you a favour. Or, more precisely, I would like to cut a deal.

Now you may or may not be aware of such products as BitTorrents and LimeWire. I found out about these from the proverbial "my friend" and if you would like to phone him up I will pass on his number. I have put it to him and all my friends who use such software that they are taking valuable revenue away from the film studios, but they didn't seem to care. They are likewise unmoved by the fate of actors and directors, too. Even when I pointed out the severe need for extra cars to carry round the advsors and personal assistants, etc. What is the world coming to?

Now you may also be unaware that our governments aren't as good at making us believe stuff as your own government, nor are they as totalitarian. Prosecutions for this kind of thing are rare and difficult to achieve. All based on some nonesense about personal privacy. As such, I was forced to take a high moral tone in order to try and convince him to stop stealing your money.

The crux of the problem is that he is no longer willing to pay for and watch films on spec. Not even if they get good reviews in magazines published by the same companies that own the films! He mentioned the film Godzilla as an example - he said it was only good for wiping his arse on, which was difficult for me to understand because I have tried the operation and found it to be a most painful affair. Maybe he meant he wouldn't even wipe his arse with it. I'll check and get back to you.

Anyway, he said that he might try buying a few more films if the signal to noise ratio dropped to a more respectable level. Let's say if one fifth of films that shouldn't have made it out of the toilet in which it was excreted, rather than the four fifths we have today actually reached the stores. I took a quick wonder around my local Cockmuster and was forced to concede the point. They had fifty copies of something infantile with a phonetic title jamming the doorway but no copy of Withnail and I, arguably the best film Bruce Robinson ever made.

So here is the deal I want to broker. Can you talk to your chums in Hollywood and tell them that we're willing to start paying our hard earned green-backs to see films again, if only you guys can try and prevent some of the apallingly low quality shite from making it through the gates of the studio. I'm sure that once you stop drowning the market with so many anal-squirtings the buyerrship will come back to the fold.

Yours sincerely,

Dr. DogChop

PS - Can I have your autograph because I totally understand how much meaning and worth would be contained in such a piece of paper.

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

6.6.05

NO WICKED FOR THE REST

Dr. DogChop is feeling pretty mellow as it is well past beer o'clock and just after Rum and Coke o'clock:
If Bricktop351 ever gets his hands on me, I'll be for the high-jump and countless other athletic activities. Truth be told I should be looking at something else, but the muse is lovingly stroking my testicles at the moment and, switching metaphors, she is bald behind the ears. Are you still with me?

The day dawned bright and the spring was back in my step. I had recently read a couple of blogs, to whit one John and Paul and one Princess Sparkle Pony . I thought they were both fucking hilarious and well worth the time.

Anyway, it was a Wednesday with Dr. DogChop bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. The birds are singing, the sun is shining and for while they have stopped chooping down rain-forests. I manage to make it through two thirds of my workload before the lead balloon achieves negative upward velocity and I intercept a petition "excommunicating" me from the species. Yet again my arch-nemesis, the rest of humanity, steps in to spoil the day.

The population at work is pretty fluid, which is to say: They are all slime.

There is the departmental head. This guy is worth a book all to himself. He enjoys the prize for "largest chasm betwixt job and actual vocation" in my scheme of things. The very first time I met the guy his entire being screamed TAXI DRIVER at me. He stands up in meetings, mumbles a bit, looks serious and sits down. Then everyone else gets on with the business of running things and knowing what the fuck is going on. Utter non-starter.

With this guy at the tiller, Mr. Job riding shotgun in his wastecoat and 1950s hair, and the rest of the workforce peeling off into various little cliques and peer-groups, is it any wonder that I think, "fuck this for a game of pass-th-pigs", and opt-out? Is it fuck! I'm not a single mother, and try as I might I can't seem to get anybody to impregnate me, so that's that group beyond my reach. We have the twentysomething premarriagers who do exactly what Mr. Television tells them. We have nothing to talk about.

We have a bunch of guys dedicated to avoiding responsibility for their numerous indescretions and covering their own sorry carcasses, which is understandable but reminds me too much of the US government for comfort. The other bunch of guys are devoted to sport to the exclusion of all else, excluding innebriation. These are the choices, so I talk to my two pals, the cleaner and the internet. Even the internet has turned on me, it seems. All you cunts have been commenting more on BT3s posts than mine and I am highly upset.

And even in the end, my most unlikely partner in crime has turned on me too. We have a scam going on, or at least we did. We work in different parts of the building and the scheme is an embellishment of one of the oldest work avoidance schemes there is. Whenever one of us sees a big pile of hard labour coming through the door, he quickly prints off a fax that says "urgent" at the top in big letters. He then procedes to fume audibly, using phrases like "not again" and "something needs to be done about this guy". Said person then procedes to the other end of the building where his partner is working. He starts the conversation with the catchphrase "What do you call this then, sunny-James?". By the time he has finished working off his stresses the large pile of work has been distributed amongst his colleagues leaving him free to waste-time in a more low key manner. Such as writing a blog.

Well his name was on there too, next to my dog and my goldfish. What went wrong? Did I accidentally brush my teeth with dogshit?


BT3 doesn't play chess because it interferes with his permanent innebriated state of unconsciousness; slackens the discomfort around the waist and hoes into his first beer since lunchtime:
My offering comes in three parts. Firstly and most importantly: I loved your people-named-James-not-shortened-to-Jim reference. Kudos, DDC. Kudos.

Secondly: The muse you refer to visits me so often that I usually forget her name and my name. Healthy doses of ejaculative juice leave my body with such vigor and such repetition that you, DDC, are the last person who should apologise to me for tickling testicles or any other reproductive organs.

Thirdly: To read about the people you share work space and work time with is to read about people of near Bliblical proportions. By this, I mean it's commensurate in tedium, disinterest and repetition, with a hint of assassination-type desires from those of us with the skills. Anyone reading, I'm calling dibs on erasing these lame turds and don't try to convince me otherwise.

You do realise I make reference not to what you write, but the people whom you write about, DDC.

Your work chums must be professionals: White collar specialists with not enough partying in their personal history, a predilection for mediocrity and all matters minimalistic and mundane, with non-existent social skills to climb any kind of ladder other than a corporate one [Bum Slurpers Inc.] or an in-house one. I'm willing to bet someone else's testicle that they possess the level of foresight associated with a hand-held mirror or a non-rotational kitchen tap. No doubt, Gwen Stefani, they are skilled beyond their hairdos, but what level of endurance it must be for those with an iota of interest [you, the cleaner, mysterious people unknown to you and our readers] beyond the sporting realm and talk of revolutionary desk configurations. I'm guessing there's been a change of desk arrangements in the past two to six months at your work place. Am I right?

I'd love to say I'm stumped and that there's no way out of this predicament, but I'd be grinding my petite behind into powder and lying at the same time if I asserted my apathy with such a misplaced strategy. I feel empowered by my own ego right now as it's a matter of professional courtesy that I give someone of your stature [5' 7" ?] advice. A flamethrower - available at mates's rates any day of the week; three days written warning required - a 20 L container of floor polish or a 500 mL bottle of rectified spirits - courtesy of your cleaner mate, whom I'll vouch for even though I don't know him - and a rubber mask of a prominent celebrity, say, Bob Sapp. The rest, dear Doctor of the Laborious Work Place, is up to you.

By the way, I think the "I'm not a single mother" line and everything that followed will undoubtedly bring fans of your work out of the woodwork and you'll be inundated with marriage proposals and offers for hand-jobs in the back of your big, fuck-off van as soon as this issue hits the stands. Jesus and fucking anyone named Christian [shortened, I'd call these guys Christi; male or female]! If I knew you less than I do, and I don't, I'd consider the likelihood of that being an actual joke. But...

*smirkin' merkin balancing on his head*


Dr. DogChop doesn't want anyone to get him wrong:
Entry to the single mother club has always been elusive. I have been chowing on wild oats for years to no effect. When you consider that I am from the North of England, it is downright shocking.

I have a good idea, a champagne hum-job of an idea, a first-time-I-saw-Cyderdelic on TV of an idea, a cows eye on a door handle of an idea. Let's stick to the famous people stuff and watch the papers for when news of "what happened at work" hits the press.

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

4.6.05

STOP THE PRESS! FUCKWITS HANDING OVER MONEY WITHOUT THINKING

Dr. DogChop gathers his wits and his marbles as the earth skips a beat:
Yep, the earth wobbled as news reached our ears in the British press - Lots of people are loosing money at online poker.

Well, fuck me sideways. Imagine a gang of people loosing out to a computer programme. I thought they would reprogramme the odds so that the players would have an equal chance to the house. Wouldn't that make more sense?

One guy was glibbly quoted as saying:

"Gambling on the internet is like pornography on the internet. Clicking a screen on a computer is much easier for many people than going in to a sex shop and buying the goods face to face. People who are too scared or embarrassed to go in to a betting shop will bet online, and they can also bet unnoticed," said a Gambling Anonymous spokesman.

"As well as removing some of the social constraints around gambling, the internet also removes the physical constraints of having to hand over your cash to gamble. You don't have to keep going to the cash machine. It all happens electronically, which means you keep gambling without it seeming like a real loss. It gives you no time to think and consider your actions."

No doubt this guy is going to beat Stephen Hawking to the unified theory, even if BT3 does give him his voice-emulator back. Or maybe not, and he is just stating the immensely obvious in low quality soundbytes. He likens betting online to buying pornography online. Has he ever done either? Has he ever been to a sex shop? Has he ever been to a betting shop? Pretending that the metaphor is not as tenuous as the evidence of WOMD in the runup to GW2, does that mean we can get a much more varied range of poker online? Will we see some poor playing card-based jokes? Clubs? No, I don't think so.

The idea that these people "don't know what they are doing", is valid but I am a little skeptical that it is any different to lottery scratch-cards or bingo or the pools. Anyone who gets involved in gambling of any sort should know by now, that the house always wins. Any other system is bound for failure. Anyone who thinks they can win it all back really isn't paying much attention.

Also, I did note that one of the founders of one of the biggest companies was a retired pornographer. Seems a shame to dump the connection. Once all the customers have been made destitute they can be funnelled into the pornography racket as a kind of cleanup programme. Not working for you? Me neither. I can't quite decide which is the more morally unsound, though. I have a deep-rooted opinion that people who gamble should know better, but I could not take their money myself.

And why keep doing it? Taking money from people who should know better is all well and good. But in the middle of the billions of pounds that they have made out of this, how many people has it seen onto the streets? Why keep running a business that is going to do very few people very little good? Once you get above two or three million pounds, surely it makes little odds whether you get another 300 million?

God these people make me sick. I'm going to go and fetch my axe. I'm going to search for these people in Gibraltar. There can't be that many people living there. Anyone coming?


In an uncowardly act, possibly the first since he decided to leave the womb, BT3 declares:
Fuck yeah, man! I just won a bow and a quiver of arrows [cost: US $2,582, good times to be had: countless] from an eBay auction of genuine Lord Of The Rings paraphernalia. I think they were used by blonde-boy-with-tight-pony-tail in the third installment, though I may be blowing chucks of cheese out of my arse as it may have been the second installment; FIIK! If you can somehow get enough poison for me to dip onto the arrowheads, I'll be the first to shout something unintelligible in anger at those Gibraltaranian... Gibraltarese... Gibraltarish... What the fuck, man! What does one call people from Gibraltar? And I reckon Rantz and Toasting Cornflakes Under The Griller Man Child won't be far behind.

In related matters: Who pays for porn these days? I've got 6,876,921 links to porn sites that don't require any credit cards. I'm spent beyond my sperm count as I check most of them. All of them. Daily. I lie, seventeen times daily... *Hey, Ladies, get funky...*

P.S. Stephen Hawking will get his voice-emulator back when he returns my golf clubs. Not any time sooner.

Excreted by Mrs DC @ 9:11 AM 17 Noteworthy retort(s)