|:neutralising the pH level:|: July 2005

26.7.05

FUCK THIS FOR A GAME OF SOLDIERS. I'M OFF TO THAILAND

This was about three or four years ago:
In the quiet corner of the pub in the Bristol, the England. The girlfriend is with the friends drinking the drink from some glasses. It is early yet, so they haven't started on the Blastaways. Blastaways - the bastard offspring of a Castaway and an Aftershock. Castaway is a kiddy-booze concoction with the tenuous link to being marooned on a desert island. Granted you might find a few mangoes but the list of E numbers as long as your arm is a bit of an ask. Fix the image in your mind! We have a master chemist with brewing pretensions, or should I say pretensions to brewing, mixing a potion of E numbers and ethanol in a coconut husk surrounded by palm-trees on a beach. He is merely showing the fruit to the potion, so that there is some kind of tenuous link and it knows what it is supposed to taste like.

The other bit is Aftershock, which is suposed to taste like cinamon but actually tastes like mouthwash. As UTMG points out so nicely. It comes in small measures in small plastic cup and causes you to do strange things. Anyone who hasn't had it could be forgiven for linking it to Methodone, but I think this stuff is actually worse.

So you mix these two together and the tastes kind of kill each other off. You can drink it to get hammered quickly or use it as coolant in your car radiator as you see fit. Me, I wouldn't even do it to a car and, believe me, my car has seen some punishment at my hands.

Interlude over. The girlfriend is there, with the friends, drinking the drink, but not THE DRINK, out of some glasses. They are halfway through the conversation at point of arrival. The girlfriend says,

"So we handed over outside the bogs, went back in and put them on."

The loud friend roars with laughter and says, "Gross!" The quiet friend takes a slug of the drink and the slutty friend says nothing, once. Then she let out a little peep of surprise as she saw me aproaching. If only I knew it, I was on the road to expatriation.

24.7.05

THE QUEST FOR BT3 STILL DOESN'T CONTINUE

Doctor Dog Chop is afraid that he might be a yobbo. He elaborates:

I was down at the Carburetta and Coke Can, idling away my time in booze. I was on the verge of going home in disgust as England still had to chase 260 with a mere five wickets in hand. I was half-way out of my seat when I overheard the following and decided to stay for another pint:

Mandy: It has been three weeks since we affixed the baby effigy to the roof of the car. We haven't been run off the road yet, so I think we can count that as a success.
Dave: Quite. I'm feeling so smug that I could be type-cast into Oceans 13.
Mandy: Do you think it is going to be enough?
Dave: Of course not. It was only the first step into a new world. As soon as I had got the PA hooked-up I was going to start on a new project.
Mandy: The PA?
Dave: I am planning on broadcasting real-time excerpts from our babys life to keep the tail-gaters at bay.
Mandy: Now I know why I married you. What is the next step on the road to complete safety for our child?
Dave: As of tomorow, my campaign begins. I'm going to change things from the inside. I'm going to revolutionise the most dangerous place known to man!
Mandy: The kitchen?
Dave: No.
Mandy: The Bathroom?
Dave: No.
Mandy: Not the tool-shed?
Dave: Nope - the school! The places are virtually as bad as prisons now.
Mandy: You are going to be a teacher?
Dave: Noooo. I'm going to join the PTA!
Mandy. That is brilliant. I've just creamed myself thinking about your magnificense.
Dave: Me too!
Mandy: Everyone knows that the PTA are the most effective group of people known to man. No descision too small to be debated until the small hours of the morning. This will offset your inability to shine at work beautifully!
Dave: I am still doing the groundwork at work.
Mandy: Yes, dear.
Dave: My election pledges will be three-fold. The first is to get kids back to school.
Mandy: How?
Dave: I think an ardent appeal to the parents should sort-out this problem.
Mandy: Brilliant! Whay hasn't anybody thought of it before?
Dave: They have, but they have never had my charisma and oratorial skills to sway over the masses of misguided parents. They will be putty in my hands!
Mandy: Even the forty-odd year old housewives who only live to bicker and argue? The ones that believe their children cannot do wrong? No tiny little imagined slight or insult will ever be passed-up by these people. Are yo sure?
Dave: Even them! Deep down, everybody is a logical being.
Mandy: What is the second prong on the fork of reform?
Dave: Making teachers take pride in their work again. Once they know that it is their job to obey our every whim for falling pay in the face of increasingly poor conditions, they can easily be guided back into the fold. Again, my oratorial skills will come into play here.
Mandy: Will they go for it?
Dave: Certainly! Everybody knows that parents know more about kids than teachers. Even the 14 year-old single mothers that let their kids watch films like Battle Royale before they can walk. Even the Drunkards and Louts and Tarts and Welders that spawn like frogs, usually by accident. In the act of getting knocked-up / knocking someone-up a person gains a true understanding of education and child-rearing.
Mandy: More so than teachers?
Dave: Definitely. Having just enough spinal chord to whelp outweighs University degrees and years of experience. In-depth knowledge of Education my foot!
Mandy: I'm not sure I want to hear the thrid prong on the fork of educational reform. My pants are already pretty marshy as it is.
Dave: But this is the best bit! The third wheel on the educational bicycle is the best! The front wheel, if you will?
Mandy: I just love it when you overplay these little analogies!
Dave: Here it comes - fundraising! I envisage a number of half-hearted Events to generate money!
Mandy: But what for?
Dave: For throwing at stuff! No problem is too small to be solved by money... My vision is of hours of pointless debte about how to spend money we haven't even got at the time! Then when the money doesn't roll in, we can discuss who is at fault! Obviously, this will take more time and effort than just geting our shit together and doing stuff ourselves. Why paint the main-hall ourselves at marginal cost, when we can take three years to raise the money and then pay a bunch of bodging ex-cons to come into our school and use the wrong paint and come in way over budget? All the while maintaining all the money acumulated over the years in the PTA bank account.
Mandy: But will they let you into the PTA when your child is not at the school?
Dave: I think they might make an exception for me.
Mandy: Why?
Dave: Because we are certain to see eye to eye on the pernicious evil of hoody-tops.
Mandy: Well, that's settled then. I'm just going to ring my pants out into the sink and then we can go home and and get some posters run-off.

After listening to this I fucked off home at no idle pace, let me tell you. Being out of the loop meant that I didn't know that hoody tops were evil. I have thrown all mine away so that I don't get an ASBO.

19.7.05

THE QUEST FOR BT3 DOESN'T CONTINUE

Dr. DogChop has caved-in under the welter of mal-opinion that greeted the second in his bilogy chronicling the search for Bricktop351. No doubt he will emerge stronger for all of this. He quotes:

A conversation I overheard last week, sadly including no cartoony pastiches of black people to upset the public, no matter how ironically intended.

Dave: I have a responsibility.
Mandy: Whatever do you mean?
Dave: Our youth is over. Even now, our progeny litters the livingroom carpet with brightly coloured toys, mewling for food and computer games.
Mandy: I still don't understand.
Dave: Our lives have moved on from the heady days of Friday night at the pub and Saturday in bed to ballet lessons and swimming club.
Mandy: What are you trying to say?
Dave: I am a Father. My reponsibilities are manifold and expensive. I have belatedly decided to take an interest in society. My limited imagination has never allowed me to see all the wonders this world has to offer and how precariously balanced these things are.
Mandy: Now you are a citizen of the world?
Dave: Yes! and I am a citizen of the United Kingdom.
Mandy: You were talking about something being precariously balanced.
Dave: Yes! This whole neighbourhood is rife with drug-use and yob-culture and ASBOs. I have to ensure that this place we have chosen to raise our children, the ray of hope for the future, is safe enough for them to blossom in.
Mandy: What are you going to do?
Dave: I'm going to buy one of those signs for the back of the car. One that says, "Baby on board".
Mandy: Do you think it is going to make any difference to the masses of anti-social drivers we encounter every minute of our driving lives?
Dave: It's bound to! What shitmobile driving anus wouldn't suddenly change his driving once they see such a sign?
Mandy: You're right I am totally convinced. But why stop at one?
Dave: Now I don't understand.
Mandy: Wasn't that ironic? But back to the subject in hand - why stop at leaving one on the back of the car?
Dave: You are absolutely right. The car has four sides with which to influence all those Schumacher clones with. Let's get some extra-large ones for the sides of the car. Our car can be a mobile advert for in-car-child-awareness.
Mandy: To doubly ram home the message, let's have a giant model baby on a stick mounted on the roof of our car! Once they see how adorable the contents of the car actually are, they won't be able to stop themselves slowing down and obeying all the red lights.
Dave: Yes!
Mandy: Where are you going?
Dave: I'm going to sling the child-seat in the garbage. With the safety zone created by all these measures, we aren't going to need it. We can let our child - children if we are lucky - roam free in the car.
Mandy: Naturally, we drive faultlessly and the signs and mounted child-effigy on the roof will eliminate all danger. I think we've cracked it.

18.7.05

NOW I KNOW HOW RABBI BURNS FELT

As I dived through the window I spotted a black and white car outside. It seemed that my choice of the window over the door had once again proved correct. I had got away one step ahead of the police.

"The Bastard scarpered just before we got here. His abilities of avoiding capture are equalled only by his creative tallents." Sting turned back to the other band members. "Since our inspirational Svengali figure has escaped, it is back to the wilderness for you guys. I'm off to see Guy Ritchie."

This I heard through the open window. It was a chilling reminder of the horrors of the '80s. Sting and his gang of pop-goons had occured in the middle of my downward spiral towards the bed of Margaret Thatcher. Once I had stopped flashing-back I dried my eyes and hot-footed. I was gone faster than an Italian lover at dawn.

I had an X-ray of BT3s jaw. If I was to regain my blogging side-kick, conspirator and general scape-goat, this X-ray was going to lead me to him. I had a vague recollection of the cops tracing people by their dental records. The logical place to start was the dentist, so I flipped a coin and made straight for the Tree and Calculator, BT3s local. As expected, there was BT3s dentist, enjoying a pint of large and watching Chelsea thrash the bejesus out of United.

"How's it hangin'?"
"Wicked," he said. He was the biggest, blackest dentist I knew.
"And the dentalist mentalist massive?"
"Rude," he said. Ne never used real words unless he had to. This was why he had chosen dentistry - you can make your own words up.
"Excellent. You seen BT3 recently?"
"Bo," he said.
"What the fuck does that mean," I asked.
"Ee was 'ere."
"Today," I asked.
"Bo"
"Was he with someone?" My excitement was rising.
"Buyakka"
"Who was it?" I knew I was risking trouble, asking questions that couldn't be answered with a yes or a no.
"It were a white-boy crew."
I could feel the lead coming. "Was it the Russians?"
"Brockwise."

I thanked him and left via the bathroom window. I dropped to a crouch as I crept towards the corner of the building. I peered round at the front of the building. Once again my decision to leave unconventionally was a blinder. There were twenty of the bastards waiting for me to emerge, paternity suites in hand. A bunch of single mothers formed a second rank behind the bastards.

I retreated back round the corner, reflecting on life's cruel ironies. At one time I had wanted nothing more than to be admitted into the ranks of that august gathering. Sadly, in a cruel twist of fate, had disallowed my entry but provided me with a startling prowess as far as granting entry to others was concerned.

I peeled rubber and then left quickly, Russians and Borscht on my mind.

17.7.05

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MANDIBLE?

Dr DogChop says:

A funny thing happened t'other day. I was on my way round to Bricktop351s house for our usual hundred-day-hundreds club. We meet every one hundred days and then drink one hundred 25ml shots of Guinness each, one every hundred minutes. This is something I used to do often at university, though I don't recall it too well as ity necessarily involved getting completely shit-arsed.

I remember it like it was yesterday, because it was and still is. I had successfully installed a new radio into my gas-guzzler. This was a major acomplishment because I had never done it before and the the temperature was sky-high, taking my temper with it. Under these conditions I was only a step away from kicking the car to pieces in pure rage by the time I got it in but unusually it worked first time. Doozy.

I was hot-footing it over to BT3s when I was flagged down by a girl wearing a glittery boob-tube and matching hotpants. I pulled-over, wound the window down and used my best leer.

"Are you really wearing hotpants and a boob-tube," I asked, not really believing my eyes.

"Yes," she said.

"Great!" I peeled rubber and fucked-off, leaving her confused by the roadside. I put Dog In The Sand back on and considered the huge variability of Frank Black in his solo guise. I was still thinking about it when I ran a post-man off the road in his absurdly shaped van. I hadn't meant to do it but I was glad anyway. Everyone knows the post office steal your mail.

I stopped at the crapmarket to by some beer for the ocasion and was acosted by one of those promotions people. After gunning her down I swiftly proceded to chez Bricktop351. I knocked on the door, which swung open to reveal a ransacked and abused interior. It looked horrible. It looked like I had been living there. In the backgorund, a shutter began to bang in the wind, purely for effect.

As I wondered around the shattered remains of Bricktops life, it struck me that all was not a-tanto. It was neither shipshape, nor Bristol-fasion. I put on my thinking cap, took out my thinking crow-bar and carefully levered-up the floorboard. As I had feared and suspected, the cavity beneath was filled with peyote. This was bad. BT3 would never leave the house without his stash. It is his only defense against the very ghastly world we cohabit.

He had been taken, by whom and for what reason I had no idea. He is good for nothing, and definitely nothing for good. It must be something bad.

Just as I was leaving, I caught site of something stuffed behind a picture, a print of a dutch whore covered in tatoos. The European Bint concealed my first hint in this mystery - The BT3 family dental records.

I left through the window, peyote in one hand, X-rays in the other

9.7.05

ANONYMOUS & THE SLOW LORIS - THE BET

Anonymous was feeling anxious, something he hadn't felt much of since his father asked him to hold a can of baked beans while he trotted down to the shop for a packet of fags. That was twenty-six years ago. Anonymous hadn't heard from him since. In his own image of himself, Anonymous was gifted beyond common parameters. He constantly felt the need to ease the rate at which he was hurtling through the universe as he feared the Earth's sudden and unannounced halt in rotation would bring unheralded problems to anyone not paying close attention. Comfortably nestled in his own unique compartment in place and time, he preferred doing nothing to anything and was often heard but never seen; and he breathed a sigh of relief whenever the need to do less than was expected of him arose. He was heard sighing in relief a lot, moreso than regular humans of similar physical proportions.

All that was now behind him as he felt ill at ease and uncertain about his next move, deliberating and withholding a decision until something deep within him triggered a suggestion that would offer him guidance and enable him to return to his usually relieved self. That's what he was secretly hoping would unfold within the next few seconds. He didn't afford the luxury of consulting someone or the hand of God miraculously lifting him and placing him in a safer location.

Usually his thoughts would never wane at the task at hand, whereby his ambivalence to do something outweighed the probability of something actually needing to be done, though today brought with it a special set of circumstances that had resulted from a bet Anonymous's mate Who had made with him several weeks prior to his current predicament.

"I bet you can't ride a Slow Loris," Who said, snickering like a gay advertising executive who had just seen a freckle on the schmeckle of an underwear model proudly gracing the front cover of Dickem Daily magazine, a monthly publication.

"You're on," Anonymous responded without hesitation or thought. The unnerving conviction in the voices of beings of assumed almighty intellect as Anonymous were often the first to jump to conclusions on matters they had little knowledge about; conclusions that inevitably lead them to commit to actions they didn't wish to perform, though no options of turning back were afforded to them by the time they had spoken with assumed authority. Anonymous wasn't the least bit aware of the Slow Loris's small stature or unwillingness to move beyond a hesitant walk, even when pushed or dragged.

When truth about Anonymous's intellect eventually becomes public record, most likely due to an incident or accident of catastrophic proportions that he would be found to be responsible for, it will read like a gushing waterfall of deception, falsification, under education, assumption or, as Anonymous himself preferred to call it, 'fundamental bullshit artestry that went astray.'

The entire saga involving the bet was three weeks ago and in his home country - several thousand kilometres away from his present whereabouts. For a while there, the bet had all but faded in the memory of Anonymous's astoundingly vacant mind. It was cryptically awakened by a message on his answering machine after a night out with When, an educated, strikingly gorgeous woman of twenty-three years of age who preferred the company of quasi-personalities and half-wits.

"Slow," the message began, followed by thoughtful quietness of several seconds. "Lo-ris," it continued, separating the second word into two distinct syllables.

Anonymous wondered about the origin of the message and whether he knew the caller who had left it. He was almost certain he had no clue to the mystery caller's identity until he heard a snicker before the message's completion. Anonymous was 5% certain it was Who's mysterious voice on the mysterious message, though he couldn't be completely sure unless he had actually seen him place the call. 'Nobody else knows about the bet,' he thought, 'and Who is prone to think of himself as a man of comedic genius, which is why he snickers so much at most things he says.'

Almost everyone else in their circle of friends thought of Who in a less than flattering light, particularly because of what Who did and whom he associated with.

Anonymous's stomach had been riddled with butterflies ever since being reminded of the bet with Who. He had transformed himself into a walking mess of fidgeting muscles and uncontrollable nerves, adding to his own assumption that it was taking years off his life. His skin's complexion had changed from healthily tanned to a shade of white Goths would deem as dull. His upper lip twitched in unison with his left-eye's eyelids and he had an irrational disposition for slow hand-clapping. It all added up to making less sense than anything he didn't understand, which made it a concern twice over. To compound his problems he couldn't cease thinking about an animal he knew nothing about - the Slow Loris - and the consequences that partnered attempting to ride it.

'Will it buck and throw me off after a few seconds?' he wondered. 'Will I need to wear protection around my groin, like cricket players do, just in case it rears its head and strikes me in the discomfort zone? I don't want to look like a loser in front of bystanders - or Who. He'd just snicker and maybe even break into song about how I got smashed in the scrotes by a Slow Loris - whatever that is.'

As Anonymous wondered about the likely answers to the questions his mind had just posed to itself, he wondered some more.

'Where are they from? I've never heard of a Slow Loris. Are they day feeders or night feeders? Can they swim or fly or maybe even camouflage themselves in times of confrontation, like when they're about to be mounted by another creature such as myself? Do they have a sense of humour or is everything serious to them, like those people who constantly sit behind slot machines in casinos and order another drink whenever they win a few dollars? Do they have complete capability of seeing the colour spectrum or are they only capable of seeing black and white? Maybe it isn't even an animal but a vehicle. Shit, that would be fucking simple, man. I'm bound to win this bet if it is. Yeah, there's no doubt in my mind that I'm going to win this bet. In your face, Who!'

Anonymous felt like a million dollars in freshly printed notes. It wasn't to last.

Deep in the rainforest somewhere in Eastern Borneo, Anonymous was precariously balancing on the edge of a narrow rocky path, three-quarters of the way up an almighty cliff face. The path was supposedly taking him straight to the habitat of the mysterious Slow Loris, though Anonymous wondered whether it wasn't more likely the direct route to Hell. Anonymous had travelled night and day and spent countless thousands of dollars to be where he is, and he was teetering on the brink of ending his life once and for all by hurling himself to oblivion. He had had more than enough of this self-imposed torture hours ago and now he had had so much that it didn't matter. Without a guide or paddle should he survive the fall, the river down below looked certain to swallow him whole. 'If that failed to happen,' he thought, 'then the rocks would certainly cause my demise.'

Immediately recognising the folly in his way of thinking, Anonymous sided with caution. He consulted the map, which an indigenous man had drawn for him on a hessian sack back in the village where Anonymous's hike began, and he proceeded hesitantly along the rocky, narrow path, maintaining a watchful gaze on the footing that had become his brand new hiking boots' best friend.

'I'm so fucked,' he thought, as sweat poured into his eyes and ran down his chest. 'I'm more fucked than a fat lady arriving at a cannibal party. I'm more fucked than a watermelon lobbed off the Eiffel Tower. I'm more fucked than...' he paused. 'Oh, fuck it, I'll just keep going.'

Anonymous could see the end of the treacherous path ahead in the distance. It was as though his mind's ability to wander had helped time pass and enabled Anonymous just enough breathing space for him to travel forwards without realising he was moving, though the strain and mental fatigue had told him to quit and sit his ass down for a few hours, perhaps even get some shut eye or some well needed nourishment. 'I could gnaw on my hand,' he thought before deciding that it was a stupid thought and continuing his forward motion.

Suddenly, as if somehow touched by inspiration, Anonymous leapt forwards upon feeling a numbing stinging sensation on his ass. He had come so far and used every milligram of strength and bravery that his body could muster for such a pethetic creature, and all of a sudden he was leaping out of his skin and within reach of the safety of the dense jungle floor. Clutching his ass where he had been stung, he continued jumping simultaneously using both feet; the weight of his backpack shuddering into the back of his head and upper back as he did.

'If. I. Can. Just. Take. One. More...'

Anonymous looked back to the last part of the route he had just jumped through, rubbing his sore right cheek as he did. Now that he was no longer moving, the sweat streaming from his head was turning into a deluge that included his armpits in a matter of seconds. He sighed in relief as he finally sensed his boots were on safer footing, though soaked.

As the pain in his ass slowly subsided, Anonymous felt the full weight of his accomplishment. It was within reason to feel it his single greatest accomplishment since holding a can of baked beans for thirty-six hours, twenty-six years ago.

'I am arguably the greatest mortal at this moment in history,' he thought; a broad smile robbing his face of its usual frown. About to leap high into the air for one final time with what little energy he had left from the gruelling three-hour ordeal, Anonymous's attention suddenly deflected ninety degrees to muffled sounds coming from deep within the jungle.

'Is it the mysterious Slow Loris?' he wondered. Anonymous looked intently for several seconds and his eyes deduced that it wasn't an animal unknown to him but an animal he had recognised many a time. He recognised this animal as a friend, though often it masqueraded as a foe.

"Who!" Anynomous gasped, struggling to ease the speed with which his blood was now pumping through his veins.

"Hey Anonymous, what's going on?" Who said matter-of-factly as he sank his teeth into another juicy mango he had brought along for the journey. "Why are you sweating like the proverbial monkey's bollocks, big guy? You want some?" he gestured, extending his hand towards Anonymous.

Instead of feeling relieved or gregarious, Anonymous felt dejected. The thought of a response to Who's jibe, one that would sound impressive or heroic, was eluding him. He had gone beyond his expectations and survived what he felt was the epitome of bravery, only to be joined in the same location by a person he had no respect for and who had done absolutely nothing noteworthy to get there.

As Anonymous wailed and convulsed on the spot where seconds ago he had stood, he snatched the remainder of the mango from Who's oustretched hand like a wild animal that hadn't had a morsel in days. He gulped it vociferously as tears welled in his eyes.

"I just spent three hours trying to avoid death in order to get here by crossing that fucking path," Anonymous said, wiping the mango's juice with one hand from his blue and weathered mouth and the tears from his eyes with the other.

"Holy fuck, man!" Who replied, looking to where Anonymous was pointing. "Why didn't you just take the jungle path like we did?" Who said, slapping Sancho his guide on the back. "We've been at it for a solid twenty-five minutes and I thought we'd never get here, but the way we came looks like a motherfucker of a lot easier than that way."

Anonymous desired to strangle the life out of Who. He thought dumping his body into the river several hundred metres below wouldn't present much of a problem. His thoughts changed from one of strangulation, an act that would cause death within seconds, to something more poetic and protracted. 'I could chop off his arms and legs first with his machette,' Anonymous thought, 'and then I could push the fucker into the river. Yeah, that would be a parting message for his life on Earth that he wouldn't misinterpret.'

Anonymous hated Who now more than ever before and he wanted him dead, albeit not instantly. Anonymous's thoughts turned to Sancho, particularly his ability to defend himself in an environment he was undoubtedly familiar with like the underside of his feet. Anonymous winced as he concluded in the blink of an eye that Sancho could probably fuck him over with two index fingers and a leaf should Sancho so desire. Anonymous scrapped the homicidal idea and sat himself down on the jungle floor, breathing as deeply as his lungs would allow and staring dejectedly at his crossed legs, which were infested by leeches.

"No rest for the wicked, my friend," Who said, adding by means of an out-of-tune verse: "We're off to see the Loris, the wonderful Slow Loris of Borneo. Because because because because because..."

With that pathetic attempt at humour, which was the bread and butter of Who's shitty existence as Copy Writer for an internationally renowned Australian-produced, world-wide deplored sitcom, the three men walked on, slashing overhanging vines, wait-a-while and bamboo in their wake.

The search for the Slow Loris had only just begun.

[Interlude]

Dearest Reader,

I'm following in the footsteps of Robert by taking a break from contributing to this web site. I've felt for quite a while now that I haven't had anything remotely constructive to contribute, so a mental and physical vacation for an indefinite time is in order. I'm leaving the task in the capable hands of Dr.DogChop, knowing that all will be well upon my return. Later.

-BT3

8.7.05

BLAIR TO HANG FOR ENCOURAGING TERRORISM

Dr. DogChop has a question for all those Islamic Militants out there:
Will his head on a spike be good enough for you?

I will explain: Anyone with any fucking awareness whatsoever will have noticed that London became the target of a terrorist attack in which a number of people were killed and hundreds injured or maimed. I'm talking about lumps of people spread all over the countryside and the inside of railway tunnels. Not a pretty way to make a statement.

Primarily responsible or this attrocity is the person who made and laid the bombs in each case. A real motherfucker who really had better never be caught because they will suffer if they are. There is no excuse for this kind of thing. How are we to stop this kind of thing happening again?

The motivation for this attack was probably the British role in destroying peace in Iraq and Afghanistan. I think there is no excuse for that kind of thing either and the majority of British people were not behind these actions, especially the action in Iraq. From what I have read, the governement was expecting this kind of thing and i think that is a reasonable assumption. In helping the US to install it's junta in Iraq a natural chain of events was started which is only going to be stopped by something pretty momentous.

I hold Tony Blair personally responsible for this whole sorry fucking fiasco. I think he was utterly wrong to violate the sovereignty of two countries and utterly destabilise the two in the process. He is the Deal: Al Qaeda, you have made your point. A good point badly made. Stop killing us and we will stop killing you and leave you to butcher each other in whatever barbaric way most suits your needs. In exchange, we will send you Blair's head on a spear, as a message to both you and our own politicians.

Let me ask you again. Will that be good enough for you?

THE BEAST RIDES, FALLS

Dr DogChop just makes it past the post:
What a fucking day.... It's only 11 minutes past nine and I am already fucked. The beast has ruined my day yet again. It's days are numbered, and I am talking about small numbers, rather than implying it's life is not infinite.

He sits on the second floor, consuming time, money and data. He is a master of the cardinal arts of frustration, greed and wanton waste. The bastard fairly revels in his position of influence and smugly holds sway over the whole building. The only person not subject to his power is the cleaner and she has her own worries. He sits there in his air-conditioned lair, gently exuding heat and malaevolence.

This morning I was adopting a very diplomatic line - "Just let me do my fucking job, OK?"

As usual he cackled, chunnered and then spat the dummy. A demand for a sacrifice was made.
"What do you mean, you want some fucking paper?"

Unfortunately, he knew my needs and had sussed-me-up. I was forced to hand over the paper, kneeling as I did so.

"Now do your job. No more of this wrangling, these miserable little complaints. I've scratched your back, now scratch mine you arse."

Now, the bastard usually knows when i am busy. He knows when something needs doing quickly and he often does as much as possible to stand in my way. His mere presence should ease the load of the whole office but the cunt never works, and when he does he never does exactly what I want so I have to spend another hour aranging my instructions to his liking.

He sighed, chunnered and started to do what I wanted, finally. And then just gave up. I clenched my fist.

"Take this you cunt. And this and this."

I ripped him asunder with a huge grunting from me and small popping, cracking noises from him. I reached in, with no care for his squirty secretions befouling my hands and shirt. I pulled various wet pieces from within and held them without.

"Is this the way it ends for you? Is it? Is it? It's always the fucking same with you, isn't it? Always, what cannot be done."

One by one I put the pieces back, covered with his life juices and probably the lions share, at that. I picked-up the sacrifice and rammed it down his throat. I fisted it into place and then punched his jaw closed.

"Now, if I don't get my pretty pictures for the meeting, you will be exiting this life via that window. Do I make myself clear? Are you understanding how close you are to the end of this mortal coil?"

He finished the job and lost consciousness with a shudder. The meeting went to plan - it was shit, but with pretty pictures.

BT3 says:
It's moments exactly like that that [!] I search and find and wear and perspire on and wash my Franky Say Relax t-shirt.

I rarely get sucked into believing you're a confrontational human being, let alone a human being, though my mind is constantly cast back to the time [which one?] a few months ago [still no clearer] when we were in the same small bar together [nope, still nothing], where we were both sitting on a microscopic stool [what?], when - without warning - you punched me in the sternum [if I had a pound for every time...], sending me reeling backwards and ultimately on my arse [a-ha, now I remember!]. That was fucking good. No, it wasn't. That was fucking great. As drunk as I was, it gave me a new appreciation for the element of surprise, momentum, balance, gravity and the resounding success associated with underestimation.

I'd like to think that alcohol was the winner that night, for we both got fucked at the cards table. Remember? I told you that Lock, Stock And Two Smoking Barrels was a shit reason to claim inspiration for understanding the intricacies of becoming a card playing overlord, but you wouldn't listen. Still, I did get a kick out of running around the neighbourhood with my pants around my ankles and when the eventual winner of the night began lubing his forearms... Well, I'll leave the rest for those of you with access to prime time news in this country to have a quick search around.

I think the blueprints that builder did for us circa exiting the last establishment of our co-tenure should be ample to get the ball rolling a second - and last - time. As far as international relations are concerned, peace on Earth is a galaxy away. At least.

I'd rather be arse raped by a mechanical bull and forced to watch repeats of Friends at maximum volume on a football-sized screen while the festivities in my rear continue to take place than have an incident-free time at the international departure lounge. Yeah, that stamp in the passport that says I'm free to leave is looking more and more doubtful by the minute.

I'd be happy to take suggestions from the two readers of this site - you know who you are - of how to part on worst terms with the cunts that are paying our wages. Spare no details and remember that money is no objective as the current trading prices for nuclear weapons are pretty bloody good. Asta la blah blah, baby.

7.7.05

ARMAGEDDON HARD

BT3 raises two middle fingers and salutes the land of the farce and the home of the hype:
Hooray for Hollywood. Hooray for Bruce Willis. Hooray for plastic surgery. Hooray for Ben Affleck.

Retract that last statement. Good. Now, poke yourself in the eye and prepare to launch laser guided missiles into your ears. You may decide where and when to initiate launch sequence. Three. Two. One.

Good. Now, imagine for a split-second that I gave a fuck about the fourth of July, which is actually the fifth of July where I live, bringing further support to the notion that America and Americans are living in the past. Good. Now, imagine that I gave a fuck about America - and the united states thereof. Good. Now, while you're waiting for the laser guided missiles to penetrate your skull, allow me to demonstrate the reason for my indifference to the fuckfaces of the US Government and the fuckfaces of NASA this time.

I awoke with an erection: nothing unusual about that, no need to call the tabloids etc. Then I peered out my window, erection still beaming like a newborn pup that's witnessing its first dawn, and I noticed a fucking glorious morning outside where the night's storms were being replaced by iridescent rays and wispy clouds in a profusion of patterns right before my eyes no less. It hardened my erection further, though there was still no need to call the tabloids, it being a daily thing and all - kinda like deaths in Eyerack caused by W.A.R. - and I knew there and then that it would be a cunt-lapper of a glorious day.

Then I relieved my bladder, directing the surprisingly clear stream into an upturned bucket at roughly eye level a metre or so in front of me, finishing a few minutes later, I waltzed into the kitchen, activated the coffee machine, put some dacks on as the erection began to ease momentarily and finally sat down to switch on the teev: still nothing unusual or calamitous to report by that stage, except for a couple of US Navy SEALS uncoiling themselves from the mortal coil somewhere in Afghanistan, which didn't really phase me in the slightest seeing as I didn't consider it news. They were only fucking Americans after all and there are a couple of hundred million of those fucks around, aren't there? And they WANTED to be there, fighting for their right to party, or some shit. So, I ask you, apart from their respective family members, who's going to miss a couple of Yanks? Me? No.

Flicking from the Disney Channel, I unknowingly landed on my arch nemesis: CNN, where the usual fuckheads were reading the usual fuckheaded stories.

Or were they?

I need to explain that to me CNN is like a Pink Panther movie, where various self-important borderline-personality newsreader-types feel that they believe to know what's going on and endeavour to sink their proudly red, white and blue [like the French main character played superbly by Peter Sellers, RIP] teeth into biased and predetermined questions that neither challenge the interviewee nor purport to challenge the validity of each story's relevance. But news is news because its packaged into segments of time that need to be filled every day. A few stern looks by the Sellersesque hosts ensued because it was a story about the alleged rape and death of a young girl and then it was time for a break.

Following the ad break: Missile successfully hits its target and an entire half-hour of hype surrounding the super special date of it all - July 4th: apparently significant in the land of the free from liberty and the home of the police state - as my unattended erection regained girth and protractedness.

I wondered what the odds of something like that happening on such a significant date in American - and therefore everyone's - culture were. Was it like Halley's Comet? Nope. Was it like Bill Haley and his Comets [which, by the way, was a side-story accompanying the: 'We just fired a missile at something a bloody long way away and hit the fucking thing, yeeha!' story]? Nah. Was it like Armageddon? You'd better fucking believe it was.

Grown geeks with pens in their white shirt pockets were high-fiving, hugging and woo-hooing all over as the cameras couldn't get enough and zoomed in on the celebration - no, rejoicing. Scratch off another one for the good ole US of A.

Paraphrasing Bill Hicks, as I often do whenever I don't have the CD at my disposal: 'Wouldn't it be feasible that they could use that kind of technology to feed starving nations of the world?' I guess no is the the right answer there as what would be the point of that? It could mean more sheep whose minds they could brainwash through time, but I'm merely making a suggestion to the question I posed.

I was holding back the tears as I threw Aerosmith into the CD player and cranked it all the way to four. Instantly recognising the need to make the most of the momentous incident, I fumbled through my collection of women's magazines and found a you-beaut article about Liv Tyler. Ignoring the words for all their worth, I flicked and found a picture of Ms Tyler circa Stealing Beauty [1996], when she looked underage and fuckable to the nth degree, so I immediately began jerking off.

'What's a boy supposed to do?' - W. Corgan

Several seconds later, the subsequent load of fun times not only soaked the fucking daylights out of my monitor, TV and stereo, but the wonderful pages of the trashy women's mag that I had held onto for further perusal at a later date, or reasons to that effect. As a power more forceful than I would have it, it wasn't to be and even the frenzied wiping and patting down with a shitty old grey t-shirt had little effect that I could deduce to be positive and my entire entertainment system was fried. I'm still bending over and inserting broomsticks up my arse - as I've been lead to believe is customary in the Christian faith - in the hope of a miracle replacing my electrical goods as I'm struggling to find an adequate explanation for my insurance company. I'll believe, oh Lord, I'll believe, just replace 'em and replace 'em yesterday. What's worse, my day was fucking ruined and it was barely 6:15 am.

But I survived, put on a pair of pants, drove to my train driving job, drove a train, stopped at all the stops, ignored the desire to search on Goo Girl [which is interesting because they, like CNN, carried the story via Aljazeera in English] or Jahoo for the fucking comet-shattering hyperama extravaganza Bonanza yeeha Shazzamza!

Or did I?

Is there a doctor in the heeeeeeyaaaaaause and if so, what do you make of this superheated story of backslapping until you're red, white and blue good times, Doc?

Dr. DogChop skim-read the above:
It has all the right ingredients for an extremely funny story, it's just the Yanks got them in the wrong order.

There is an urban myth about British Aerospace (BAE) testing their new plane for safety. The object of the exercise was to make the cockpit bird-proof. I forget the details, or at least the boring ones, but they managed to borow a gun for firing dead chickens at the plane to simulate a mid-air collision. BAE were utterly perplexed by their new products vulnerability to birdstrike. At the postmortem, it emerged that one single, seemingly obvious instruction had been omitted. The outcome of the PM was "Let's try again, this time we'll defrost the chickens first."

The US bozos managed to get right to final post before dropping a bollock and forgetting the vital ingredient. For if anyone deserved to die screeming inside a washing machine as it hurtled towards the surface of a lump of rock coated in ice, it is Bruce Willis.

Can you picture it? A cross between Gataca, Armageddon and Carry On. As good ol' Bruce plunges into the comet at 37,000 mph we can faintly here a Kenneth Williams' voice saying "For Christ's sake! All I want to do is hang me bloomers out to dry."

But come the launch, Bruce was still stood at the launch site, like the scene in Holy Grail with the rabit. In the end they must have snook his name onto the guest list to cover the gaffe.

5.7.05

I BET FRANK BLACK NEVER HAS DAYS LIKE THESE

Dr. DogChop is going to have a damn good crack at keeping one under 500 words:
I was having a chat with a friend of mine in a pub of somebody else's the other day. I should explain that my friend has the local equivalent of a Ford XR3 with tinted windows and a bean-can on the exhaust to make it sound more farty whilst reducing the economy of the car. The conversation culminated with the following snippet, when I asked;

"What do you care about?"
She said, "This and that"
"What do I mean to you?"
"I'll show you if you want me to"

We left the pub and got into her car. I noticed that the driver's seat was different to the rest, it was a "bucket seat". I would have found a better name for the item, if I liked them.

Without a word, she put the car into gear and pulled away. She quickly race-changed into fourth and proceded down the road. I felt every bump along the way, a direct consequence of the lowered and stiffened suspension, which probably cost half of the original buying price of the car. I let this pass, as I did the random assortment of sounds attributed to Britney. Which was being pumped through a large pair of sub-woofers in the rear of the car.

Eventually, she pulled over next to a field, where we exited the car. She gestured to the empty field with her chin, dyed blond hair slipping to hide half of her face. We got back in the car and drove back to the pub. In silence. On at least one level I agreed with her.

What do you make of that BT3?

BT3 shouts obsenities at the clouds:
Well, I'm prone to untying my shoelaces, taking off my shoes, peeling off my socks and trousers - in that order - and then jumping into the sack for a well-earned sweat session, so I wouldn't call it odd behaviour on behalf of the femme in question. Perhaps her intricate lead in the merry dance was a fraction disconcerting, but her response wasn't a surprise.

My encounters with femmes prior to tying the knot and evacuating Singlesville weren't much different to what you went through in this instance, in the sense that most answers sought by me from the more beautiful sex were dealt with through a series of perplexed [and perplexing] looks, an immediately firmer grip on my genitalia, a swag of internal dialogue - none of which involved me - and outward noises that lead me each and every time to deduce that I had no fucken right to be asking such questions. Having said that, dear DDC, I must admit to never being driven around in a fucking pretend fucking sports car with fucking jerk-off music playing as the potentially final fucking soundtrack to my fucking life, if you'll permit me to use the word 'fuck' or a derivative thereof excessively in a sentence. The bile residing in my stomach was launched prematurely onward and upward, eventually seeing the light of day when it hit a work colleague's kid flush in the retina. The little turd muncher's inability to handle life in the real world was obvious to all but his step-father, who ponced around for nigh on three minutes claiming that I had deliberately embarrassed both arseholes in question. I'm surrounded by a pack of ungrateful cunts, I tell ya, DDC.

Getting back to the skirt, I don't suppose she had a fluffy stuffed toy hanging off her rear view mirror, did she?

In many ways, I respect that femme for what she did, showing you, via a lack of words and dramatic flare, what a meaningless cunt you are - and for sake of emphasis, the entire male populace is, for that matter. But let's not split hairs between the benefits of saying naught and the utter contempt for time in driving to an open field in order to make a point. I would've smeared excrement on your face - and not said a word. I would've lit my first cigar ever, taken a few solid tokes of the Cuban missile and then slowly pressed it against your Adam's Apple. I would've looked for the nearest sharp object and driven it through my own heart, then slowly died in your arms whilst blowing diarrhea onto your new slacks, like a squid leaving its final word to its brutal captor. In many other ways, I felt the urge to rip her heart out and eat it - just for pleasure [which movie?].

Surely there was nothing to savour from the experience, was there? I know how precious your time is anyway. What's more, what the fuck were you doing asking that question of someone other than your wife? What is this, Eyes Wide Shut or something? We mean fuck-all to them, they mean a ridiculously laboured effort for a bit of poontang between the nostrils to us. Whatever. Meh. Pffft etc.

I'm happily married with three children that I know of and I don't care what bizarre rituals singles are going through in order to play whatever game they're playing because I never anticipate being single again. If, however, through sheer fate determined by a figure to the power of forty-two I become single again, I shan't be heeding the care factor of anyone with dyed hair or a poofy wanna-be sports car with fucked suspension, especially if the music blaring from the sound system is anything Top 50 based. What a fucking pillock. I just don't trust 'em if they're that way inclined - male of female. That, plus my increasing hunger for apathy leads me to deduce that I just don't care about how much people other than my wife and kids care about / for me.

You know that I know that you know many people who would've just kicked her in places where others get their kicks.

Dr.DogChop is glad that BT3 bought the dummy on the sex front:
I'm not sure and I can't be fucked to check but I think we actually managed to keep it down that time.

In what was supposed to be something purely platonic, and I would never consider fucking the driver of a kiddy-car like that, I never considered a sexual aspect. Actually, I got my revenge a few days later by not just buying her a sensible mid-range family saloon, but buying one for each of her family, and indeed every person she had ever been fond of. My guess is, she won't try anything like that again.

4.7.05

ENGLAND CRASH TO HUMILIATING DEFEAT

Dr. DogChop went to bed in disgust last night:
Weelllll, the least said, the better. Or not, in this case, as this is a blog. I'm waiting with Bated breath for the sarky emails to come pouring in for BT3. No doubt Scooby Doo will get a mention and mabye he will throw in a mention about the Pink Panther, in one of his "humourous references". Kato and Cluseau can be played by any one of each team, judging by the number of "pre-match targetting" manouvres and during match "accidentally-done-on-purpose" with the ball targetting manouvres.

Let's have a look at cricinfo and see if we can find some amusing posts. There is a £10,000 reward for the person who catches Michael Vaughan quoting Michael Atherton when loosing. Hang-on, what's this? England didn't loose? After slumping to 33-5? How is this possible? Maybe Scooby Doo did come good after all. Or maybe he was busy investigating allegations that a Mr. Hayden spat on an orphan.

Either way, the series tied and knotted for good measure, the captains pose smiling in this picture and not looking terribly happy to be there. From what I heard on the radio, this is to be the last triangular series of this kind. Somebody like old Mrs. DogChop would harp on about the last one finishing in a draw and how it is nice that everyone gets to win and then be silenced by the entire rest of the family. Both captains thought they should have won, but I think it is Michael Vaughan is the one who dodged the bullet.

Actually, that was Marcus Trescothick. Aparently Brett Lee wasn't content to let the England Opener dismiss himself in the usual way and tried to nail him with a ball that came through at head-height. The Australian commentator thought this was funny. I can see his point. I am up for a system like in baseball, where if you get hit you can advance one. Maybe they can bundle it through with the new rules?

BT3 spits absofuckenlutely everywhere:
Mate, have as many pot-shots at the Aussies and at me as you like and don't bother anticipating any private correspondence regarding the facade that some people term a tournament. I have some opinions and observations based on statistics in B&W as they're my sole record of events of the past few weeks due to not being privvy to the live-on-the-teev action because I live in a country that believes cricket is an insignificant insect.

A thought: If your lot can't chase down the paltry total of 197 then so be it, and let's rejoice in a tie. If your lot thinks that it was a resurrection to go from 33/5 to 196/9 to tie the game then maybe they ought to re-think the 40 overs they had [33/5 from 9.2 overs] to get the extra one run required for an actual victory, and let's rejoice in a tie.

Let's fucking rub sensual oils over each others naked bodies and caress our erogenous zones with lips and pigs hooves while we're fucking at it.

I can't pretend like this fucking tie was all England's fault and I can't pretend like both sides couldn't have and shouldn't have fucking won the fucking thing at any given time, but in the end I'm tearing my ball sack apart to see if there are two actual oval-shaped goodies in there for a reason completely removed from the should'ves and wha-wha-boo-boos that exist on the surface.

Why on Satan's third planet from a small sun is the final decided by a one-off match? It's enough to castrate yourself and the fuckers who devised the competition, isn't it? I mean, the Sponsor's Name series in Australia is a best-of-three format, allowing for a first-off loss to either side in the final and then a chance to redeem oneself come the next game or perhaps two. After all, a final[s series] is a completely different ball-game and in theory either side should be capable of putting up a performance untrue to form.

I realise that this way of thinking may be the exception to the rule and all that, but for fuck's sake, even the most pointless game in the world - soccer / the real football - has a few minutes extra should there be the usual 0-0 or 1-1 or heavens forbid, 5-5 result after the expiration of time and effort. Then there's the ever popular penalty shoot-out, a kind of 'if all else fails' theory. Whatever the motherfucking cunting rodgering ballbag slapping verdict, there's a fucking result!

Why wasn't there a bullshit 20/20 game after this bullshit tie? Why wasn't there an arm wrestling tournament with each member of the side up against their opponent as listed in the batting order? Why wasn't there a pants-down-let's-measure-your-manhood contest to determine the motherhumping winner? ANYTHING OTHER THAN A FUCKING TIE, YOU CUNTS INFECTED WITH EVERY IMAGINABLE STD THIS MISTAKE OF A PLANET HAS TO OFFER.

The World Series - a baseball competition to decide the eventual winner of an American-only tournament throughout the year: you work out the reason for the name - is best-of-seven. Seven fucking games to decide the outcome, not one. Why isn't there something like THAT adopted by the fucking MCC pricks? After all, don't we want to know the true champion and not just allow the toss of a coin to decide [or in this instance to not decide] a winner? And fuck it, instead of playing just in England, why don't the teams head over to Australia for a few games? And fuck it some more, this time in the back end, why don't they get out the plastic stumps and bats and tennis balls and fucking play at various beaches for a bit of extra crowd participation? Anything beats a fucking tie, doesn't it?

England won the toss, sent Australia in to bat on a pitch that was moving more than treetops in gale force winds. Where's mention of the Poms having the Aussies at 5-for sweet fuck-all? That should've been the end of the story. But, there was more in store, for THE POMS COULDN'T WIN. History will show that all it required was a partnership with heads down and shots played when they ought to have been - and the Poms got that through one of the Jones boys and one of the Collingwood girls, and a damned fine affair it was at that, but don't tell me that the Australians bowled like uber champions and that a scampered two leg byes off the last ball couldn't have been a victory well before that eventuality. I'm not sitting down in order to sit down to believe that.

In my eyes, England won this fucking thing because:
A) There should be a count-back system based on what happened in the round-robin / pre-final stage of the tournament, which England finished first in and were, therefore, the best team out of the three in the tournament.
B) The Aussies don't deserve it based on a pathetic batting display and a mediocre bowling display - not just in the final, either.
C) A tie essentially means the entire tournament was a fucking waste of time, not including any psychological and / or puerile antics that the crowds may have witnessed and got emotional about for reasons beyond my comprehension.
D) A tie is just plain old pathetic.

FUCK!

3.7.05

LIES THAT WORKED, LIES THAT DIDN'T

BT3 ponders the 'u' in you and wonders if the world would be a better place without 'u':
It's been a while since I've lead the charge in this quasi-sensical nonsense of quasi-nonsensical sensory perception of overloading the senses. You can see from the previous sentence why. The reasons are rather boring: Too many late nights watching the Missiles, not enough pay. Then there's the excessive drinking and flaccidity of mine penis that has accompanied it, so I've been spending every waking second breathing life into the old member for Adelaide. Also, it's been getting decidedly hotter by the day and life inside a pressure cooker doesn't suit my pussy-whipped temperament or my super droopy cock-a-doodle-doo.

Having said that, I'd like to dedicate this post to my overworked and undervalued teammate / conspirator, Dr.DogChop, who not only came out with bazookas blazing in seven dimensions but restored the sanity that rightfully deserves to sit atop this tainted ego-driven place I refer to as our home away from home. If nobody's noticed the dedication and effort the man's gone to in order to keep the interest level peaking at optimum [+ or - 6], then you would've been as impressed as several blokes I met at the slaughter yards the other night.

I figured I'd throw a question your way. To those of you who have been a fraction hesitant about offering your opinion[s] or perhaps a touch shy or maybe even a bit constipated, I simply ask for your input. Be Anonymous for all we care. Be Sinbad The Tailor for all we care. If truth be known, be Salamanko The Petrified Onion for all we care. Unlike most / all shit we've been writing about since we first dropped our bathers, bent over and squeezed out a few elongated cables of pungent Pepe le Poo into the pool of life, I ask the following question without the intention of leading the witness in any way: call it Lies That Worked, Lies That Didn't, if you will. Call it LTWLTD, if you will.

We'd like to know about the biggest heap of shit-bullshit-lie you've told someone in order to get out of something you didn't want to do. What's more, we'd like to know the outcome. Let us know who you said it to [alter names if you wish] and what transpired during the conversation. Of course, the proof of the glazed cherry on top of the clitoris is the lie itself, so remember to mention that somewhere. Try to be as detailed as you can because it looks like a wet weekend coming up over hyar and we'd like to get the juicy bits between our teeth and have a bit of a poke around with a toothpick as I'm sure we'll have a chunk of indoor time at our disposal.

|:neutralising the pH level:|