|:neutralising the pH level:|

WE ALL KNEW IT WAS COMING

DDC knows that we all knew it was coming, but he let it happen anyway. What the truth mong will make of this he doesn't know:

I fucked-up. Not a big one but a fuck-up all the same.

I was there in the meeting room five minutes early, then merely on time, then ten minutes after the correct time had passed. At twelve minutes past the agreed hour I knew that I had fucked-up.

The doom box started to ring. I answered it. It was the guy I was supposed to be meeting:

TGIWSBM: We're waiting to start the meeting. Where are you?
Me: Which meeting would that be?
TGIWSBM: The funding meeting, for the project.
Me: I see. Weren't we supposed to have a meeting about the project before we tried to fund it?
TGIWSBM: Oh, that. Yeah well, the funding meeting got moved forward.
Me: I see. My bad.
TGIWSBM: Yeah, well... Hang on. What do you mean?
Me: My fuck-up.
TGIWSBM: Really?
Me: Yes. I'm sorry.
TGIWSBM: Um, well... Don't let it happen again.
Me: Don't worry. I'll make sure the last thing I do before I leave home is pack my fucking crystal-ball. Do you think you might have told me about this at some point?
TGIWSBM: Shit - I'm sorry. I meant to tell you about it but I was so busy...
Me. You know what the worst thing is?
TGIWSBM: No.
Me: I saw this coming in my horoscope but still manged to forget the fucker. You'd think I'd have learnt by now, eh?
TGIWSBM: Look, I'm sorry, but the guys from finance are here waiting to hear how much money we need.
Me: Did they forget theirs too?
TGIWSBM: Look, this is no joke.
Me: Well, let me assure you that I am not smiling on the inside either.
TGI: Well, are you coming?
Me: Of course. I'd love to come along and guess how much money we need and look like a tit in front of the guys from finance. Maybe they know how much we need already and they can tell us?
TGIWSBM: What shall I tell them?
Me: These boys will be able to work out that you fucked up, with or without their Extra Sensory Perception.
TGIWSBM: Fuck!
Me: Look. Say you're sorry and reschedule. I'll sit here and enjoy this empty room until you get here.
TGIWSBM: I'll be there in about ten minutes.

In a way, though, I was telling the truth. It was my fault and I had fucked-up. Not with the crystal ball, because I never use it for work, but in suspecting even for a minute that this arse would manage to complete a simple task like entering the correct room at the correct time. More fool me.

I've learned my lesson. Every time I arrange a meeting, I'll make sure I phone up and check they haven't rescheduled another dependant meeting for the same time without telling me. Bad DDC, bad DDC! Get on your rug!

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

HALLOWEEN SILHOUETTES

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

DECISIONS, DECISIONS

Peter and Paul were alone in the conference room.

Peter: "So, what do you propose?"
Paul: "Umm... It's a toughie."
Peter: "I'll say."
Paul: "I'm leaning the way of lunch boxes."
Peter: "Lunch boxes?"
Paul: "Yeah."
Peter: "But people don't want lunch boxes."
Paul: "I know."
Peter: "So, how can it work?"
Paul: "We put food inside the lunch boxes."
Peter: "Food! What kind of food?"
Paul: "The edible kind."
Peter: "Yeah, I gathered that, but what kind of edible food?"
Paul: "What do you like?"
Peter: "What do I like?"
Paul: "Yes, what do you like?"
Peter: "I like everything."
Paul: "Do you like seaweed?"
Peter: "I don't know. I've never tried seaweed."
Paul: "So, you don't really know if you like seaweed then?"
Peter: "No."
Paul: "That means you can't like everything because you haven't tried everything. Do you like wombat?"
Peter: "I get it."
Paul: "Hmm... It's a toughie alright. OK, I've got a way of finding the solution. I'll ask a question and you answer in the affirmative with a 'check,' just like that, and I'll write everything down so we don't forget, OK?"
Peter: "What do I say if I don't like it?"
Paul: "Nothing. Just keep quiet and shake your head. OK?"
Peter: "Check."
Paul: "Are you ready?"
Peter: "Check."
Paul: "Alrighty then. Do you like chicken?"
Peter: "Check."
Paul: "Prawns?"
Peter: "Check."
Paul: "Beef?"
Peter: "Check."
Paul: "Onions?"
Peter: [shakes head]
Paul: "Carrots?"
Peter: "Sometimes."
Paul: "Well, do you or don't you?"
Peter: [shakes head]
Paul: "Mushrooms?"
Peter: "Check."
Paul: "Rice."
Peter: "Some... Check."
Paul: "Potatoes?"
Peter: "Check."
Paul: "Broccoli?"
Peter: "Check."
Paul: "Cabbage?"
Peter: "Check."
Paul: "Celery?"
Peter: "Check."
Paul: "Trigger fish?"
Peter: "What?"
Paul: "Just checking if you're paying attention. There were a few dubious responses in those last few if you ask me. OK, so you like a fair bit of food then. Do you like noodles?"
Peter: "Check."
Paul: "Octopus?"
Peter: [shakes head]
Paul: "Squid?"
Peter: "Check."
Paul: "I think we're onto something here."
Peter: "What?"
Paul: "I said I think we're onto something here."
Peter: "I heard you the first time. What are we onto?"
Paul: "A substantial list of the foods you like and don't like."
Peter: [shakes head] "So, what now?"
Paul: "The packaging phase."
Peter: "How do we package it?"
Paul: "We don't. We hire someone to do that, preferably someone who knows how to package food."
Peter: "Any ideas?"
Paul: "About what?"
Peter: "About who can package the food for us."
Paul: "Oh, absolutely, but that's not important right now."
Peter: "What is?"
Paul: "The packaging itself."
Peter: "Why is the packaging so important?"
Paul: "Because we want our packaged lunch boxes to stand out; to be first on the agenda of hungry people and to be first off the rack ahead of all others on the market."
Peter: "Are there other packaged lunch boxes on the market?"
Paul: "There must be. Where else would they be if not on the market?"
Peter: "I don't recall seeing other packaged lunch boxes on the market."
Paul: "Where have you seen them?"
Peter: "That's my point. I haven't seen them anywhere."
Paul: "Hmm... That's a toughie. How do we compete against something we can't see? I'll have to think about it. I've got it!"
Peter: "What?"
Paul: "The packaged lunch boxes must be disposable, so we can't use the mercury, titanium and mandarin peel amalgam like those assholes did with the Citizen of the World Card."
Peter: "Oh, fuck no."
Paul: "No, it must be plastic, so people can ditch it anywhere without having to worry about the consequences."
Peter: "Check."
Paul: "And it must have a catchy reason for people wanting to buy it."
Peter: "Such as?"
Paul: "Such as... Hmm... That's a toughie. How about, 'seven-foods-in-one'?"
Peter: "But won't that be expensive?"
Paul: "Not if it has two foods it won't."
Peter: "I don't follow."
Paul: "I don't dance. Do you dance?"
Peter: [shakes head] "How do two foods equal 'seven-foods-in-one'?"
Paul: "By the addition of five fake foods."
Peter: "Five fake foods?"
Paul: "Yes, five fake foods. Five fake plastic foods that look like five real foods plus two real foods equals 'seven-foods-in-one,' just like the catchy advertising jingle."
Peter: "Which catchy advertising jingle?"
Paul: "The one the musicians are going to sing."
Peter: "I don't follow."
Paul: "We can't have a packaged lunch box claiming to have 'seven-foods-in-one' without a catchy jingle. Have you heard of John Logie Baird? He's going to make us a fortune."
Peter: "Look, I understand the concept of advertising and marketing a product. What I don't understand is who is going to write and sing this catchy jingle for the packaged lunch boxes."
Paul: "The guys who write it won't be singing it."
Peter: "Who will?"
Paul: "Creed."
Peter: "Creed can write catchy jingles, Paul."
Paul: "No, I can write catchy jingles, Peter. Creed can sing them."
Peter: [shakes head] "Fair enough."
Paul: "You bet your ass it's fair enough. I'm not paying those cretins for writing the jingle as well as performing the jingle. Do you know how much they charge per hour?"
Peter: "No."
Paul: "Me either but I'll bet it's more than I do. I can have this sucker written in twenty-four hours, no worries."
Peter: "Is there anything else?"
Paul: "Yes. We must flood the market with the packaged lunch box for seven days; no more no less."
Peter: "Why?"
Paul: "Because we only have seven days."
Peter: "Until what?"
Paul: "Until word spreads that the 'seven-foods-in-one' is a sham."
Peter: "Yeah, but what do we do then?"
Paul: "Hmm... That's a toughie. I know! We'll release a packaged lunch box."
Peter: "But didn't we just say that we can only do that for seven days before people work out there are only two real foods in the 'seven-foods-in-one' packaged lunch box?"
Paul: "Not if we make the 'fourteen-foods-in-one' packaged lunch box."
Peter: "How many real foods will it have?"
Paul: "Four. In order to maximise profit."
Peter: "But won't we be in the line of fire of lawsuits from disgruntled customers who got burnt by the falsely advertised 'seven-foods-in-one' packaged lunch box?"
Paul: "No."
Peter: "No?"
Paul: "No."
Peter: "Why?"
Paul: "Because nobody will remember the 'seven-foods-in-one' packaged lunch box."
Peter: "I don't believe you."
Paul: "It's true."
Peter: "How do you know?"
Paul: "Let me ask you a question."
Peter: "OK."
Paul: "What did you have for lunch last Sunday?"
Peter: "A Whopping Bacon Profiterole and a serve of large fries. I was going to have a Diet Bongo Banana Juice instead of the large fries but the chick behind the counter told me a funny story about..."
Paul: "And last Saturday?"
Peter: "Half-a-dozen potato fritters, an apple and a 500 ml bottle of scotch."
Paul: "And last Friday?"
Peter: "Umm... Ahh... I don't remember."
Paul: "A-ha!"
Peter: "What?"
Paul: "You remembered everything you had had for lunch up until Friday; exactly seven days ago. Is there any way I could be wrong? I don't think so."
Peter: "Brilliant!"
Paul: "Yes."
Peter: "So, when do we begin advertising and marketing the 'fourteen-foods-in-one' packaged lunch box?"
Paul: "We can't do that until a catchy jingle is written."
Peter: "Of course, but when will that be?"
Paul: "The second we pull the 'seven-foods-in-one' packaged lunch box off the market."
Peter: "Check."
Paul: "We can't waste another moment.
Peter: "Check."
Paul: "Feel like a bite?"
Peter: "Check."
Paul: "Great. Your shout."

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

C3

Same deal as last time:
Suggest a title that you feel is appropriate: good, bad, indifferent, blah. Game Over: TXYankee wins. Thanks for the suggestions everyone, but I'm a fan of contractions.

Unless something dramatic happens within the next week or so, such as waking up and seeing footage of Junior Clitoris's decapitated head rolling down the main street of downtown Washington DC as humans with backbones throw compasses and javelins at it attempting to halt progress of the head under its own steam, it could be a while until my next written update as my headspace is presently home to unwanted tenants demanding a large sum of money for their eviction. Yes, it's a house matter.

UTMG:
The fate of the world is in your hands.

Aminah:
The fate of the world is in your hands.

Fabio:
You are an ugly fuck.

Everyone else:
Ignore the background if you can for me did and go kaka.

Excreted by Kaufman @ 9:11 PM 19 Noteworthy retort(s)

CITIZEN OF THE WORLD CARD

Globalisation.

I'll let you think about that for a while. When you're done, read on.

Globalisation is a word just like finger is a word and just like detrimental is a word and just like coma is a word. The world is full of words and even the word world has the word word in it.

But globalisation is a different kind of word. It's one that conjures beautiful images of peace and tranquillity in my mind's eye; a notion that somehow every citizen of the world, whether under the belief of a God, or under instruction of a personality residing in a wooden castle atop a hill in the valley of Schizophrenia, or vocally, physically, otherworldly and even dressed by sway of radical anti-globalisation, is somehow united by equality and the pursuit of freedom with this whole 'globalisation beats the shit out of succumbing to the forces of evil' theorising. And it makes my tummy feel gooey and warm. Mmm, how I love that feeling.

Meanwhile, the food I consume is digested and excreted at some point in the not too distant future, a future which isn't real anyway since there is no such thing as the future and we are only ever living in the present, unless you wanna meet at an agreed time in the present in a little while so we can chew some fat and spit it out or digest it and compare links; sometimes mine are in religious looking shapes that vary in sizes from extra large and chunky - like Charlton Heston - to mildly amusing and almost grape sized - like John the Baptist, and sometimes as murky as the Ganges after a wedding - like the Ganges after a wedding.

That's about as close as I've come to allocating dimensions to this proposal by our beloved world leaders in assuring us, the people, that in order to be free in mind and body we must band together under one tyranny, some of us maintaining peace by raising instances of warfare while others - known only as The Enemy, whom you should know by now from brochures and governmentally endorsed literature - hide in bunkers, caves and desert mirages in parts unknown with their heads betwixt their legs, clutching a fool-proof blueprint of their next suicide mass bombing attempt to rid this world of the evil fucks we know to be ourselves.

If I've got it right - and with the media spelling it out for me every morning, around noonish and night, just as our beloved leaders demanded - we'll need to give a little of what we have worked so hard for over the course of evolution in order to get so much more in return.

Presently, all our beloved leaders are asking for is a fraction of our freedom; a mere and inconsequential morsel in the overall scheme of theft of a global nature, so they can take whatever remains at another time in the not too distant present.

"But, hang on a minute, BT3."

Who the fuck are you asshole and how do you know me?

"I'm just a regular Jo. Sometimes I'm a man and sometimes I'm a woman."

You're a hermaphrodite, regular Jo?

"No."

Then what the fuck kind of person are you, regular Jo?

"Don't get sidetracked by my gender non-specific... Umm... Gender."

So, you're a scholar as well as a regular Jo, regular Jo. Well, fucking say something and stop yabbering.

"Err... As I was about to say by way of clarification, were you saying that in order for us to keep freedom the same as what we're accustomed to we must take bold and heroic leaps in confidence in our government to ensure that things go smoothly from here on?"

Yes: in order for it to stay, we must let it go; free it from ourselves so that it may roam surreptitiously, never to be seen or spoken of again. I couldn't draw it any clearer.

"But that doesn't make sense."

Why would it?

"Is that a rhetorical question?"

Are you a boogie board?

"No, really, because the question you asked as well as the explanation you gave don't make sense because if we give up some of our freedom in order for governments around the globe to protect us and our freedom then won't our freedom potentially erode or cease or corrode or evaporate or such until I and you and we no longer have any freedom and thereby, technically and by definition, forfeit our rights to bare freedom until all of us, at some point, eventually get labelled as potential threats to the new way of life in the timeless paradigm you painted?"

Yes.

"So, if I want my freedom protected all I have to do is play my part and give up some of my freedom now so, maybe, somewhere down the line in the present I'll get more freedom when everything gets back on track."

You won't ever have any more freedom than you do now and you're a fool for thinking so. Actually, I got ahead of myself and opened my mouth without thinking; it's rare but it does happen, like blood in faeces. Yesterday in the present you had more freedom than you do today; same with the previous day in the present and the day before that in the present. I think you're getting the picture, right?

"Umm..."

Oh, for fuck's sake. How difficult can this be, little girl? Or are you a boy?

"Umm... That's frightening."

Nowhere as frightening as you being classed in the same demographic - a Citizen of the World - as me. I don't know anything about you, little boy, and frankly I reckon that pram you're in makes the perfect hiding place for a nuclear arsenal. Are you presently in possession of, or have you at any time in the past been in possession of, a nuclear arsenal, little girl?

"No! I would never do such a thing."

Never?

"No, never!"

Not even if globalisation took a turn for the worse, which you know it will as there won't be a breath of freedom for anyone to speak of, and demanded that every little boy and girl be killed on sight because they pose a clear and present threat to the plans of grown up people and their search for infinite globalisation?

"What plans are they? What is infinite globalisation? I don't know about any plans, I swear."

Sure you don't.

"No, really, I don't."

Blow it out your ass, little boy. I see through your cowardly disguise. You, my dear, are a genuine threat to globalisation.

"I swear I know nahsink."

You sound awfully like a know-it-all Kraut. Are you a Kraut, little boy? Well, are you?

"No, no, I'm not a Kraut."

Do you swear on this Brock wurst that you're not a Kraut?

"That's not a Brock wust, that's a pair of pressed pants."

So, you know the difference between a Brock wurst and a pair of pressed pants, you Kraut!

"What, what, what, what, whaaaaaaat?"

So anyway, as a contributor to ideas within a public domain, I was thinking of introducing a Citizen of the World card onto the unsuspecting public suspecting something of global calamity come the inevitable globalisation of our planet, which, by the way, consists of people living in poverty in greater numbers than those living somewhere other than in poverty. I had a vision of a flash, non-plastic, environmentally friendly card made out of, say, a mercury, titanium and mandarin peel amalgam that enables those who carry it entry into every place on the planet - clubs, pubs, cinemas, Nascar events, Olympics, the Ashes tests (excluding one day internationals), nuclear facilities in Iraq, nuclear facilities in the USA (excluding the White House); what with it being globalised and having no borders and all, and us all having equal toe-dipping rights in the pool of globalisation, where the pH level has been neutralised for your pleasure.

I propose the card be devoid of unnecessary details such as residential address [global unity clause], telephone number [global unity clause], sexual leaning [global unity clause] or details to kin as these are rendered superfluous in the sense of the globalisation model in my mind. Instead, the card should be a proud and open display of globalisation, so no bad hair or sleepy eyed photos accepted, to be issued once and irreplaceable should loss or damage occur.

I'm willing to take on board your suggestions with regards to places where you, the public, would like to receive generous discounts to and how much of your freedom - as a percentage - you're willing to donate to the cause of globalisation as a consequence. Don't phone as all operators have been decapitated but feel free to leave a comment. We will trace its point of origin through our global mapping centre and charge you the freedom percentage amount the moment we get around to it.

You will receive your card within 365 working days of the present.

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

I WAANA HOLD YOUR FLIPPER

DCC knows he is going to get slaughtered for this but still... He has just worked out that the Beetles were good. This is not news so I have fused this with another random topic - story fusion, if you will. Just like it's jazz brother, it will probably turn out to be crap. Anyway, DDC is starting from scratch with a series of love based pieces before moving onto a strange phase. Finally, in the third phase of my plan I am going to have BT3 shot to cement our place in history. Hopefully, by ripping off the method we might be able to generate huge ammounts of money and used pants:

"And cut! That was fine guys. Let's wind everything up and get outta here."

Ben looked at the beautiful woman he had just been advertising rail passes with. She looked mighty fine in her long blue dress and blue high heels. He had never paid much attention to hair before but now he noticed that hers was shiny and long. He had never fallen for a woman like this before. It was new territory.

It was a byproduct of his body shape that he waddled. He waddled over to the beautiful woman in the long blue dress. He waddled somewhat gingerly, if that's possible. His voice was wobbling with sexual frustration when he asked, "Would you like to go for a coffee?"

She looked down at him, because he was by his nature short of stature. She said, "Why, of course! I'd love to." They finished their business at the studio quickly and drifted gracefully upstairs. There was a coffee shop on the top floor, with lots of comfy chairs and quiet corners. They drifted into one of the corners and sat perched on opposite chairs nursing a coffee each. They both started to speak at the same time.

"You first."
"No, you go ahead."

They both laughed slightly nervous laughs and took a sip of their coffees. They chatted quite normally until Ben said, "Did you know that this is the UN international year of physics?"

She looked at him in surprise and said, "What's that got to do with the price of fish?"

He paused for a second and said, "they are both topics which touch me deeply?"

She laughed her silvery laugh and touched his shoulder lightly. "You're so funny!"

Ben flushed. "Look at me! I'm like a newspaper. You really think I'm funny?"

Their eyes met, she nodded, they both smiled. Ben said, "I wanna hold your hand."

She said, "I just want to hold your flipper. It's all I've ever wanted!"

Thus began the greatest love that ever was between woman and penguin.

Excreted by Mrs DC @ 9:11 AM 8 Noteworthy retort(s)

MANNY AND HIS LITTLE NUGGET

DDC has another ace up his trouser leg:

Manny awoke and opened his eyes in the usual order. The light that came through the window was neither a wave nor a particle, but both and neither at the same time. Manny didn't care, he was only four and his experience of light was limited to switches and shining the torch beam on the wall for the cat to chase.

He went down styairs to the kitchen where his breakfast would hopefully be waiting for him. It was there with his mother. "Mother," he said, "I believe it is sunny outside. I believe you are my mother and that we were all created by some divine being, all-powerful but strangely modelled on us."

His mother smiled uncertainly. She had long ago outgrown such childish systems as belief. Cynically, she said, "You might take your phrases and put them under your pillow. I am merely convinced that it is sunny outside and that I am indeed your mother. Your belief in God is your own affair and you are free to think what you like."

Manny went back upstairs and did indeed put his thoughts under the pillow, saving the one about God, which was too big to fit under one mortal pillow.

The next morning, the sun and eyelids rose in accordance with the fashion of the times. Manny came down to his waiting mother and bacon sandwich.

"Mother, my thought is gone. When I went to sleep there were two thoughts under my pillow. This morning, one is gone!" He seemed genuinely upset and concerned.

His mother spoke cynically once more. "It must have been the truth fairy. He has taken your true thoughts and used them to augment his towering castle of truth. He only uses the truth, but never that which is not fact, or merely just opinion."

Four year old Manny sat in silence, absorbed in his thoughts. Eventually, he said, "Does that mean you aren't my mother?"

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

THUS SPAKE BERNIE THE SPIDER

Another brief one before beddybies for DDC:

Said the spider:

"Though thou art afeart, this is thy dream and no real harm can come to thee from what is thine own creature."

"Thy fear has shaped mine body to this crude, eight legged form. It is but a reflection of the arachnid pall cast accross thy mind from within. It's shocking power and fearful emptiness are but a reflection of what is to be found betwixt thine own ears."

"Thou must not feel cowed, for thou hast mistook quite badly the meaning of thine nocturnal wanderings."

"The tension and dismay which pervades thy sleeping world is not thine own desire to leave the dream, but the desire of the dream to leave thee."

"By morning I will be dead, and with me all thy memory of this conversation. I welcome the blackness with all eight of my arms spread wide and my hairy, spiky carapace in the dust."

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

NATURE'S MOOD SWINGS

Title suggested by Andy.

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

COUNT BLOODULA AND THE GHOULIES

The kids and I were out Trick or Treating last night. I found it odd that Trick or Treating was a term used by Australians. I also found it odd that Rhinoceros Beatles could transmit my thoughts to one another using a series of complex head movements invisible to the human eye but that's another story, one with a phenomenal soundtrack that may or may not appear at a later date. What I discovered about Trick or Treating could be written in three volumes on the back of a beer coaster in microscopic font and it probably has been if I know my mates at the FBI well enough. Enough of the entree, let's feast on the mains.

The Lead-up:
A fucking magnificent time was had by all, especially the wife and I as I introduced her to my method of one-day style pre-Halloween vertical carnal pleasure; a method I've tweaked over the years from my previous five-day model.

Meanwhile, the kids were getting resoundingly filthy in their own way by running naked through our animal enclosure out back and smearing pig shit all over each other. It was delightful to see them frolicking about as only youngsters and people who take mushrooms know how. I wanted to join in because I have a soft spot for spontaneous behaviour, although the wife's death glare as she turned her head my way put pay to that.

The little crackers got into their home made costumes sans showers, donned the war paint: a conglomerate of self-raising flour, coagulated sheep's blood, chicken feathers, quail bones and severed pigs' hooves that I had prepared earlier, which the tackers hung around their necks. As preparation for scaring the fuck out of unsuspecting neighbours / confectionery collection was on schedule, we made a pact via exchange of outreached hands slapped on top of mine that under no circumstance were we about to accept no for an answer. Appropriate Tricking - should the need arise - would be carried out with various gadgets I five-fingered from work.

The only thing left to do was to find a costume for me. Since I had been remiss with fulfilling the duties expected of me as head lunatic of the household and instead chosen to shag, I made do with one of the black curtains from one of our rumpus rooms. Having been a tailor's assistant during a brief period of my lucky thirteen year university education didn't help with the design whatsoever as my primary role in assisting the able bodied tailor was by supplying the heroin his habit required. The pay was great but the hours were shit. What's new?

Anyway, my youngest by two minutes, Bumblebee-Frangipani, came to the rescue with skills she had learned during dressmaking class at school; a subject she was acing, to coin another American term. My other girl, Unleaded, rehearsed her scary voice, as she put it; a cacophony of random octaves to compliment her otherwise flawless grammar. Pretty soon the black curtain was a fitting representation of my character's dark and gruesome ways. All that our menacing ensemble required were names.

After a brief sit down on the throne from another afternoon of curry and naan, I decided Count Bloodula was the goods. The kids decided The Ghoulies would be apt in honor of the educational documentary we had all watched earlier that day about a man with three testicles and his difficulties using public transportation (amongst other things).

The Trick or Treating:
A more sensational Saturday night I cannot remember, bringing me to deduce that the cannabis I've consumed over the course of one to twenty-two years may have been laced with substances proficient in erasing memory. Two minutes after I took a heroic hit from a bong sculpted from exact dimensions of Gene Simmons's head I realised that I was lacking the illusion of blood and that my name was for shit if I didn't apply some immediately. I didn't want to enter the menagerie in search of a guinea pig as it was littered with turds in various forms of decline, so I wedged tips of potato peelers - we have seventeen in our household - into my nostrils, forehead, eyes and to several areas of my gums. Within no time at all, blood gushed from within like an antelope running through a field of razor blades. And we were finally off.

From the surprised looks on the faces of our prime targets we soon discovered our Trick or Treating was somewhat premature. It must have been bewildering for the good natured folks in a land as entrenched with its own culture as this to be on the receiving end of an American custom as interpreted by an Australian and his three kids.

Much like, though not exactly like, my method of intending to run for local politics, I don't have a strict series of guidelines when it comes to traditional ways and I'll be the first, second and third in line to point out that strategy is for pompous asses with gaps in their teeth, a cleft in their chin, a handlebar moustache and wads of money stuffed in their underwear for when a professional knocks on their door. So we Tricked.

We raided the homes of those who fainted upon seeing my bleeding face, collecting more than confectionery along the way. Tokyo boosted a fabulous Blaupunct hand-held TV and Bumblebee-Frangipani scored what I believe to be a set of rare Spanish coins sure to be worth something. Unleaded was in charge of the candy, to coin another American term, and she didn't disappoint by filling each of the four potato sacks that we carried.

Those who didn't faint found out the meaning of the phrase to be paintballed as my kids aimed between the eyes and between the thighs.

My memory to the remainder of the night is somewhat sketchy as I awoke in my own bed this morning, but my wife assures me that Tokyo's driving skills have improved considerably as have Unleaded's skills of stitching together human skin. In my own estimation, I should be right to return to work by around Wednesday, next month.

Happy pre-Halloween to all of you. May it be filled with vertical carnal pleasure. And God bless.

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

NIGHTMARE IN BLACK AND WHITE

DDC, in a bid to keep things short, sweet and sour:

The day dawned bright and fair for Bill the Farmer, Bill to his friends, Bill the bastard to everyone else. The sun rose, and bill rose with it. He was fond of the early bird, that got the worm. He picked up his twelve-bore from in front of the dresser and nodded to his twin daughters.

He spent the day in the fields, shooting crows and watching over a pile of old tyres that he was descreetly burning for three pounds a tyre. The police wouldn't stop him. They never did because they were too busy stopping real criminals from parking outside schools and from driving too fast. After the tyre-pile had been reduced to more fly-tippable proportions he went to feed the cows in their hutches, being careful to wear gloves whilst he did so.

He arrived home expecting dinner to be on the table. Such was life that it was there, with his worry-stricken wife. The twins were nowhere to be seen. His wife said;

"Oh what's t' be done?" She was an old-fashioned lass. "I took t' twins t't doctor today. The've got luke keem yer." She saw his confused look and elaborated. "Ther sick. They might die. T' doctor sed sum't 'bout hormones an' antibiotics. Sed the'd 'ad too much. I sed we dint know nowt about any 'ormones or antibiotics. You don't know owt about it, der yer?" She never called him Bill.

"Ah don't know owt about nowt," he said, throwing his gloves into the fire.

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

THE LIFE AND TIMES OF RAY SAMBORA

'Ray, Ray, go away,' the schoolgirls sang in unison whenever Ray Sambora stuck his head out of the classroom in an attempt to get a glimpse at what awaited him in the hallways. He never cared much for what he saw so he rarely looked.

Ray's mind was at it again, reminiscing about his childhood, although he desperately wanted to forget about the past and focus on his present noodle-bending dilemma and why the ride-on lawnmower was presently riding him.

The girls at school were acutely aware of Ray's baffling habits by what they witnessed on a daily basis. They made it clear that they wished nothing to do with him. Whether Ray micturated on the carpet at the commencement of every English lesson or clipped his toenails with gardening shears whenever the siren for lunch sounded, for them it was a case of Ray being off limits, which is the way they preferred it. At all times. To the girls, he was a weirdo; one of nature's inexplicable conundrums that could baffle scientists and maybe inspire folk musicians to write crafty tunes of misery, woe and obtuse buffoonery. But none of these people knew Ray so they didn't do any of those things.

The boys gave him shit and pelted him with school lunches that their mothers had made for them at home.

Ray was never fond of stepping outside the classroom and would often spend his entire day penned up when other children were experiencing the joys of being outdoors. Ray Sambora was no ordinary child. Gifted with only three fingers and a preposterously unnecessary twenty toes, he would be different to other children from the moment he announced his arrival on the planet, which he did with a silent yet pungent fart upon his first encounter with daylight.

He could speak English fluently by the age of six, which caused his parents and siblings grave concern about the state of his mental health as they spoke in their native Spanish tongue. They couldn't understand a word of his mysterious gibberish and they weren't willing to dedicate their time in pursuit of the cause. They often looked at him in bewilderment usually reserved for seals splashing about in killer whale infested waters, but soon learned to respond to his cleverly orchestrated body language and three-fingered gestures with shrugs of the shoulders and by turning their backs to him. They couldn't stand the sight of him in barefeet.

The only son of a sailor, Ray Sambora grew disheartened by the characteristics of his family members, especially his seven sisters, whom he called his Seven Big Fat Blisters. From an early age, Ray found comfort in solitude as he was often left to his own devices thanks in part to his father's demanding seafaring commitments and his mother's addiction to daytime soap operas and all edible items, at the zenith of which was Philly cheese steak; comprising of the rare and endangered mustangs from Philadelphia's downtown district.

There was also the language barrier. Ray's mother would later become the inspiration for the fictitious mother character in What's Eating Gilbert Grape? as she continued to pile on the kilos and reduced her life expectancy with each additional bite.

Ray decided to leave home for good when he arrived home from Solitaire Practice only to witness his mother dunking her head and holding her breath in a bath of fondue. It was the straw that broke the camel's back and Ray was out of there fearing that his family's peculiarities would eventually rub off on him and turn him into a freak of immeasurable proportions.

Ray hated freaks more than he hated his family, vampires, people with daytime commitments, the Seattle Supersonics, men called Detlef, Penelope Cruz - because she ruined Tom and Nicole's good thing - and the TV weather forecaster with a drooping breast, though he could never remember if it was her left or her right that wouldn't stand to attention.

He remembered reaching into his schoolbag for the photo of himself and the fox he had shot on his eighth birthday; leaving it on the kitchen table, right in between a bottle of Old Number 7 and a double chocolate rum cake.

Ray summoned courage that belied his youthful years and wandered to the first place his weary legs could carry him. He recognised the glowing neon sign from when he saw Mr Helgenberger, his English teacher and one true positive role model in life, one balmy summer's evening and Ray was keener than mustard on rye to feast his lips around a tasty beverage or even a mango flavoured slushy. It was the only place along the promenade that he thought he knew, but when the frumpy looking lady with black eye makeup and platform boots refused him entry, stating in no uncertain terms that the content of delights contained within Slurp's Up, a bordello of promiscuous pleasures, was definitely not for under-aged clientele, Ray was forced to trudge on.

His weary legs carried him along the street of no fixed destination and to his next port of call, which was the dockyards where he had first waved goodbye to his father more than a decade ago. As Ray remembered how much he hated remembering his childhood, the phlegm that had been building up inside his throat had turned into a solid ball. What he thought was a tear eventually became a tear and slowly trickled down his right cheek. He spat the virtually solid lump of crud from his mouth and wiped what he thought was a tear that had eventually become a tear with his left hand, unknowingly smearing his own blood, which was gushing from his left eye, under his eye and along his cheek. It was a mess that sickened bystanders, onlookers, perverts and Jesus freaks alike, though most were transfixed on Ray to see what would happen next to make a getaway for either the exit or the vomitorium.

Ray remembered getting a deckhand position on a fishing trawler within the space of two minutes of having entered an office and asking a man with an eye patch if any positions were available. He was on the open seas before he knew what day it was, knowing it was Thursday.

The vast open space and overabundance of water were a lucid introduction for a hapless teenager of Ray's demeanor and intellect. His brain couldn't comprehend the sheer size of what he was asked to cope with twenty-four hours of the day and he longed to be back in the classroom, where tables and chairs were his soul mates. He made a genuine attempt not to deliberately inflict pain upon any of his fellow crew members as vindication for having given him the shittiest job on the trawler. He taught himself the benefits of perseverance, patience, the ability to deflect derogatory comments such as, 'Nice tan line, mate,' which the Australian members of the crew often said to get up him whenever he was sprung taking off his trench coat and displaying his pasty, white, anorexic complexion.

Ray quickly learned to fully utilise his twenty toes, which kept him vertical when most others would have hit the deck or gone overboard and came in more than handy in foot wrestling tournaments, where he was the undisputed champion. He also learned to keep the decks spotlessly clean by using multiple appendages at once, a clear liquid that smelled like turpentine, but seemed to keep the decks remarkably spotless, and the enjoyment of hunting for imaginary treasure aboard the trawler once everyone was asleep.

Ray kept himself amused for hours on end by using only his imagination, while satisfying his hunger by nibbling on a selection of dried mushrooms that he had found under the pillow of the Skipper; a man he remembered only as The Duke. Ray also found time to develop his underwater breathing skills as he strapped himself countless times into the sexual apparatus the crew members called 'Swinging Betty' and then walking overboard to the underbelly of the trawler.

One time, he was scared out of his wits by what he thought was a hammerhead shark and although he ran above the water line to breathe again he was inexplicably drawn to the mysterious beast below. By the fifteenth time he ventured down, he was fully in control of his heart rate and breathing to where he could stay underwater for up to seven-and-a-half minutes each time. Fearing unwanted repercussions with the hammerhead shark, Ray took with him The Duke's genuine Japanese katana, given to The Duke by an old monk during The Duke's only singing performance in Tokyo in 1967.

Ray slashed and slashed and finally managed to cut off the hammerhead shark's head in what he remembered felt like a bloody long time though it was probably closer to eight minutes.

When the crew awoke the next morning, as the trawler was floating without forward momentum only a few nautical miles off the coast of Madagascar, they realised something was afoot. The Duke dived into the drink for closer inspection and saw that the keel, a device not used by any other fishing trawler in the world, had been slashed off, albeit amateurishly, along with the sails, which were now little more than strips of white ribbons. The Duke had an understanding of people to know that Ray was the only logical solution to who was responsible for the pickle they were in.

Ray's barrage of lies was a pretty piss-poor attempt to save his sorry arse and didn't impress The Duke or the rest of the crew in the least. Ray remembered The Duke shouting, 'Stop this blockbuster of deceit, you fucking coward, or I'll haul your arse into the galley and make buttburger patties,' before Ray fainted.

Ray recalled regaining consciousness in an abandoned beach hut at an unknown latitude and longitude on an unknown island, though somewhere someone surely knew where the island was as it was directly under Ray's feet, which were sporting a freshly finished pedicure and burgundy coloured nail polish. Ray no longer felt as lethargic as he had aboard the trawler the night before, though he wondered how his head of hair had acquired a squirrely texture and why his tongue was pierced. The tiny beach hut he was lying in wasn't the epitome of five-star accommodation, but it wasn't the squalor that was his family's home either.

Just as Ray was about to get to his feet for the first time since being shoved overboard and left for dead, he heard an explosion. He was in the middle of dismissing the incident as a figment of his imagination when he heard another explosion. It was the fishing trawler and it was strewn hundreds of metres into the air in several directions.

News about the incident would later reveal that there were no survivors aboard the vessel and that police suspected an arsonist due to the unusually high level of kerosene present.

'Mr Sambora,' a female voice said. 'Mr Sambora, can you hear me? Do you recognise me, Mr Sambora?'

Ray Sambora's eyes were fully opened during most of the incident with the ride-on lawnmower inside the shopping mall, but he couldn't recollect any of the details. His short-term memory was virtually non-existent as he struggled to piece together the puzzle of what had happened. What was he doing in a shopping mall and why was a gorgeous young Asian-looking lady, whom he didn't recognise, calling out his name?

Ray's left eye was bleeding profusely and he could only now feel the pain from within and immediately surrounding the area. He gently touched where his left eye should have been but found nothing more than an empty socket and several loose bits dangling from within.

'Has anyone seen my left eye?' he asked, looking with his existing eye at anyone willing to help, but finding only expressions of repulsion and confusion at something that had obviously affected onlookers adversely.

The food mall would experience an unusual slump in sales that afternoon.

The Asian-looking lady slowly walked over to Ray and explained that he had been involved in an indoor ride-on lawnmower accident and that he had probably knocked his head in the process, as he had been underneath the lawnmower for the majority of the incident. She then explained that she was an employee of 48 Hour Photos, a moderately successful establishment that Ray often frequented, and the series of events that had lead to Ray flipping his ride-on lawnmower.

She also told him about the stray cat that had made off with his eyeball seconds after the incident took place. To Ray, it sounded like a script to a foreign film. At every turn he had found difficulty identifying to any part of the story. All he heard was that a stray cat had stolen his left eye.

He thanked the Asian-looking lady for her assistance and set off looking for the cat.

'Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,' he said, applying a wad of tissues to his left eye socket and draping a leather eye patch, which he'd been carrying on his person since he found it washed up on the small island, over it. 'Come to daddy, kitty, kitty, kitty.'

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

JESUS PANTS

"You look so different," she observed. "You look so handsome," she emphasised emphatically via emphasis of the emphatic deduction which she had so emphatically deduced.

For a split second he stood outside his own body, hovered to where the view of himself in a pair of Jesus Pants was partially obscured by a layer of low cloud, and witnessed the entity that had made favourable impact upon her eyes and thighs.

He was impressed, like how Jesus was impressed by the perseverance of each and every stone thrower with sandals.

"She's right, you know," he reluctantly concurred with her emphatic deduction that she had unearthed with emphasis usually reserved for seventy-nine strapping horses, hoping there was some way he could disagree with her findings and sink again to the pitiful and comfortable lows he had been setting in concrete for the better part of thirty-four years of his formerly hideous albeit blissful past.

But he couldn't for she was right, like Jesus was right when he said, "This really fucking hurts, oh Lord."

"It's remarkable what a pair of Jesus Pants can do," he beamed outwardly as his soul returned to the body that was being ravaged by a dozen fingers and thumbs and a glistening tongue the size of an adolescent eel.

Jesus Pants.* Now available in Stain-free Extra Stretchy Crotch for those times when you just might need them.



[* This advertisement is in not affiliated with Jesus,This Is Pants.]

Excreted by Kaufman @ 9:11 AM 12 Noteworthy retort(s)

THE MONITOR

It's Sunday evening. The doorbell rings. The inhabitants of the dwelling scurry silently across the linoleum floor. They dive for the string that's hanging from the lamp. She succeeds as the light goes out. He's wondering what the fan heater was doing in the middle of the room and if his knee is bleeding or just numb.

They tiptoe to the white monitor mounted to the wall. He dabs his knee with his fingertips and brings them to his tongue. The presence of salt lingers as his eyes turn to the image on the monitor. They watch a black and white image of a man in uniform which they do not recognise. It could be the uniform of a cop or a security guard or a delivery company employee. It's nine o'clock at night and the man isn't carrying a parcel.

'He's not a delivery guy' they surmise by exchanging doubtful glares involving frantic juxtaposition of eyebrows and mouths.

Through the monitor they hear the sound of wind caressing branches of trees outside. The man in uniform is looking down onto a pad. They cannot get a clear view of his identity or his place of employment. Paper rears from the pad but is held in place by a clip.

'Maybe it's a binder and not a folder at all,' he thinks.

They continue to wonder about the uniformed man's presence outside their front door downstairs. What does he want? Why is he there? Who does he work for? Will there be more? Like so many questions before these, they are questions deserving an answer. But who could possibly answer them, apart from the uniformed man downstairs holding the folder or binder?

For now, they're happy to play the silent waiting game, hiding behind the anonymity of a one-way image. The uniformed man looks into the camera downstairs. His expression suggests his presence is a matter of utmost urgency, if not a matter of national security.

'Were you speeding again?' she wonders, knowing his innate inclination for acceleration. 'Were you showing your tits in public again while out with the girls?' he wonders.

The doorbell rings again.

'Fuck off! It's Sunday night you fucking whore!' he thinks, now holding her hand.

'I wonder if I locked the door,' he thinks.

'I wonder if he locked the door,' she thinks.

The black and white image of the uniformed man disappears from the monitor. Sounds of the howling wind disappear as well. On all fours, they crawl to the window and gaze down at the area immediately outside the front door. Their faces cannot be seen against the darkness of the room. They hope. The uniformed man is looking up straight into the bedroom of their apartment. He scribbles something onto the rearing paper. They listen intently for other doorbells to be rung and wonder why theirs was the only doorbell he rang. They wonder how he came to their dwelling and how he will leave, having heard no motor turned off or on.

The uniformed man disappears from view. They wonder if he'll be back.

They would have to repeat their actions twice over for the remainder of the night.

The uniformed man they saw never returned. But other uniformed men dressed exactly like him did. Perhaps they were breeding at a phenomenal rate.

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

THE TAMING OF THE DIET BONGO BANANA JUICE

"I'll have a Whopping Bacon Profiterole and Diet Bongo Banana Juice, please."
"Nah, you don't want that, trust me."
"What do you mean? Of course I want it. That's why I just ordered it."
"No you don't. Trust me, OK?"
"Why?"
"Because the Diet Bongo Banana Juice isn't right today."
"It isn't right? How is it that it isn't right?"
"I'll tell you how. See that guy over there?"
"Who's he?"
"He's Nathan the Day Manager."
"Woop-de-doo. I'm Derek the Daydreamer. So what?"
"Yes, that's what I thought at first: 'Woop-de-doo, I'm Lucy the Drama Major and that's Nathan the Day Manager. So what?' Denial of that magnitude is the simplest way to get caught up in the sordid affair without realising it. And then you struggle and twist your body in contortions of improbable directions only to get yourself deeper and further into the quagmire of this tragedy."
"What are you talking about? And when you answer this time, can you please go into a little more detail than before because I'm tiring from this single question deserves a single answer philosophy of yours. I'm completely lost and I want my order to be placed right now. The line behind me isn't getting shorter."
"No need to worry. There's plenty of time for all that. I'm just saying that you ought to know about the stuff you're about to eat and drink before eating it and drinking it. That's all."
"Yes, yes. You've made that clear without telling me anything."
"So, do you want to know or not?"
"Of course I do."
"See, before you gave me the impression that you didn't but now you do. I can live with that, I guess. Well, as I was about to say, Nathan the Day Manager had a recent fall out with his girlfriend, Marla. She's a part-time prostitute but Nathan didn't know that until yesterday, even though I've known it for ages."
"She's a part-time prostitute?"
"Yes."
"But what does that have to do with my Diet Bongo Banana Juice that you don't want me to order?"
"Well, last night, when Marla came home from work, she halted Nathan's advances dead in their tracks for the first time ever. Nathan got more than a bit upset, I can tell you."
"How much more upset did he get?"
"Words elude me, but he was well pissed, let's put it that way. Anyway, after she pushed him away and gave him all kinds of flowery reasons for her AWOL sexual desire, he starts bombarding her with the usual accusations: You're a frigid cow; you're on your rags; you're sleeping around behind my back; I can smell the sex on you; you're a filthy fucking whore. Then he said that he wanted her to tell him the truth about any sexual activities she may have had without him. She asked him if he was sure and he nodded and then she let fly."
"Consider me intrigued, if only to humour you."
"Marla spills the beans, telling Nathan that she had slept with too many guys to even contemplate rounding off the number to three figures; says she slept with six blokes that evening alone, three of whom had done her at the same time. As you would expect, Nathan took it about as well as expected, throwing everything that wasn't nailed down and exploding in a right old fit. He was angrier than I have ever seen, including directly following the 1997 AFL Grand Final, where he threw molotiv cocktails at the elderly who walked past his house."
"That was a life-changing result."
"Pfft. About fifteeen minutes later, when everything that could be busted was total carnage, Nathan's erection gets the better of him and he makes a last ditch effort to get some of Marla's action. She knows that he's insatiable and reckons he's been masturbating to online porn for the better part of the day - it was his day off, afterall - though she figured he hadn't doused any of the furniture, basing the theory on Nathan's appreciation of her assets proudly on show. Even a confession that she may have caught something nasty from one or all of the guys that day doesn't dampen Nathan's determination for a quick romp through Marla's garden. He was just scratching his head as if it would help the information absorb through his skull. They end up doing it every which way; Nathan's happier than Les Murray balancing a soccer ball on his head and Marla's relieved that Nathan's no longer breaking her shit or throwing a hissy fit."
"How do you know all this?"
"Marla and I share a three-bedroom place with two other girls. Apart from Nathan, we were the only two home last night. I think Luce and Trace were playing poker at Jim's place."
"I see."
"Well, it turns out Marla did contract something sexually transmittable from one or all of the guys and in turn passed it on to Nathan. You should have seen the way his cock flared in the brightest shade of red this morning. But that wasn't the end of it. He was in such a shit that he took his pants off and pissed into the Diet Bongo Banana Juice mixer. That Diet Bongo Banana Juice mixer right there. Now I'm no expert on STDs or anything, and I'm not suggesting that you'll catch what Nathan, Marla and those guys have, but all the same there's a giant dose of piss in the Diet Bongo Banana Juice today and I'm just doing my part to maintain the status quo."
"Are you fucking serious?"
"As serious as I can be after two solid hours of sleep."
"Fuck! That's more than disgusting. There's got to be a law against that."
"There usually is."
"I really can't believe that Nathan the Day Manager pissed in the Diet Bongo Banana Juice. What do you recommend instead?"
"Fries."
"Fries?!"
"Yes, fries."
"I can't drink fries."
"You can't drink any of the liquids we carry either; yep, they're all tainted, but I don't want to see you or any of our other valued customers leaving here dissatisfied. Trust me, you want the fries."
"I hate the fries here. They're undercut and overcooked; like wallpaper shavings dipped in whale fat and glazed with lard. Oh, man, I really felt like a Diet Bongo Banana Juice. It's so zesty. Ah, to hell with it: gimme an order of fries."
"Do you want the 800 grams or the large?"
"Eight-hundred grams! How's big's the bloody large?"
"One-point-two kilos."
"One-point-two kilos!"
"Yeah."
"I'll just have the 800 grams, thanks. One-point-two kilos sounds like a reduction of life expectancy."
"Na."
"Why na?"
"Coz the spuds we use for the one-point-two kilos are a-grade, certified good shit whereas the 800-gram spuds are..."
"B-grade?"
"I was going to say certified shit."
"Shit, man. So, I guess it's a Whopping Bacon Profiterole and large fries then."
"No wokkas. That'll be $18.28."
"$18.28?!"
"Well, $18.30 actually."
"Why?"
"We haven't had a coin denomination of one or two cents for over a decade. I'm too young to remember the exact year they were phased out."
"Fucking hell!"
"Yeah, I know. People tell me how much they miss the ones and twos all the time. Here's a buck seventy change. There's a two-minute wait on the large fries."

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

TRIVIA

DDC has to admit that givig up posting has been good to him, productivity-wise:

The day has come - I know.

I have seen myself as if from outside and it has not been a pretty picture. I have stumbled from the embarassment of a failed peonship under Maggie, through numerous costly legal process as a result of my dog-chopping activities (plural) in the UK to the sorry state of watching prime-time TV in a country I do not call my own. My question, echoed by many, including prominent members of the family and, unfortunately, of the constabulary, is not how I can abuse the comma so freely and ruthlessly, but "What are you doing?"

Good questions both but I intend to leave the first for a much duller and less wordy post. The second has plagued me like a mother-in-law and mother in law court for as long as I can remember, which is since the late nineties. I just don't know.

Some people have this, quite frankly, odd drive to be an accountant or a dentist or even a secondary school teacher, God forbid. Whatever the job is, you have to know about it before you can want to be it. Also, you've got to want to BE the job, live the lifestyle, talk the talk, wash the dishes, etc. For me, the thing with the dogs and the other bits and pieces have always been about filling time and pockets.

Anyway, the day has come. my old friend the TV has dropped the bombshell in my lap when I thought that all was lost. I need to be the bear-suited dog-tester. It fits like a diabetic Charlie.

Ok, ok, I'll get to the point. I've just been watching a TV show called Triva. The whole idea is a kind of Weird Stuff Wow! kind of thing. Someone wrote in with this query, which I have translated and paraphrased a bit:

"My husband died in a bear attack a few years back. He was out walking the dog when a bear jumped out of the bushes like a hamster out of a nursery school. The dog failed to prevent the tragedy because it was busy fucking off into the sunset. How many dogs would have saved their owner?"

So the boys at the national broadcasting place set up an experiment where they dressed a guy up in a bear-suit and got a hundred guys to bring their dogs along to test their mettle, or cheap plastic as it turned out. Bascally, they wandered along a path until the bear jumped out of the bushes. Ninety-seven percent of dogs did what any sane animal faced with a bear would do and made like an anti-bloodsport activist.

Of course, for most of the guys, their "pride" was at stake (I mean, for fucks sake, is this the kind of dog that you would base your manly pride upon?) so we had guys accidentally rolling onto the lead and calling the dog's name despite being under the influence of a heart attack at the time. It was a sublime piece of comedy in its own way. Some of the dogs achieved surprising speed, a couple of them before the bear had even come within ten meters.

My ideal job is the continuance of this experiement minus the prior notice, so we get a proper scientific test. Mrs. DC has already promised me a bear-suit for my birthday, so I will be in a neighbourhood near you soon.

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

EXCERPTS FROM AN ACQUIRED DIARY 3

By popular demand, BT to the 3 proudly presents another installment of the now world famous - formerly only famous in the eastern sector of the former USSR - 'Excerpts From An Acquired Diary.' If you're not up with the Joneses, the Schneiders, the Kowalczeks or with Jen's previous memoirs about reality, the first phase of the diary can be read HERE. The second phase can be read HERE. As always the option of ignoring all three phases of Jen's tender story, which has caused so many around the globe to wring out their hand towels, is made available to you. I hasten to add the last option will mean you'll miss the rambunctious encounter with Jen's dogs and people from Jen's work place caught in compromising positions. To choose the third option dial 1-900-outta-here followed by scrolling down the page. Please save your applause 'til the end as nobody likes premature appreciation.

"I decided to put the post it note revenge theory on ice indefinitely. I just don't have the energy to follow through with something as energy sapping as that and I'm certainly in no mood to extend my already hectic time at work in order to get one over the dimwits that work there. I've had no luck catching the two babboons sodomising each other on the conference desk, but it certainly wasn't for lack of trying. On no fewer than six occasions was I primed and raring to snap away with my Panasonic digital camera.

I did, however, accidentally walk in on Mr Fuckface relieving himself in the unisex toilet this afternoon. Mr Saggyass was nowhere to be seen so he may have been hiding in one of the cubicles. I won't ever truly know though I have my suspicion. The face Mr Fuckface made when he saw that it was me and not one of the pretty bimbos like Sam was something I'll treasure forever. I might even take it to my grave if fuck-all else happens between now and then. If only I had my camera with me then. I wouldn't have hesitated in firing off a dozen shots. At least. In hindsight, if I had my camera and if it was on the movie function it would have been priceless. Just imagining capturing the way Mr Fuckface yelled "Holy fucking shit!" when he saw me enter would have been worth savouring on the hard drive and sending copies around anonymously. The fact that he pissed on his shoes made it all the more worthwhile. The more I think about it the more I wish I had have taken my camera with me. That guy is such a dick. It's a pity he hasn't got much of one himself otherwise he would make a decent catch for someone down at the nursing home. I know that Nanna is always looking for more man power in her life. On second thoughts, Mr Fuckwit would probably go the backdoor route with One-eyed Dave or Saucy Sven before even giving Nanna a look in. Mental note: take camera into the dunny from now on.

In other news, I did manage to take a few shots of my so called work colleagues as they went about their daily routine of doing nothing. I captured Kevin with his hand down his pants. Climbing the scaffolding to get an aeriel view was a stroke of genius. Thank you, thank you. The scrapes will eventually heal and my doctor assured me I didn't need a tetanus injection. There's nothing that says a man's a pervert more than catching him red handed with a hand down the trousers. If it was someone else's hand he would no doubt be Employee of the Month by now, but catching the sly shit with his own hand down there is how this story ought to read. My positioning was perfect. It caught his surprised expression looking skyward and his hand inside his pants in classic alignment. The composition on that shot rocks and I couldn't have got a more believable pose had I move the runt into position myself.

Tim also showed what a dedicated worker he is. I wasn't sure whether rumours of him bypassing work's firewalls were legitimate but I figured he looks like a geek so the rumours probably were true. What's more, I remember my mum always said that "If it looks like a geek, talks like a geek and bypasses firewalls like a geek, it must be a geek." Nice one, mum. Sometimes I wish I had never left home. The photo of Tim's expression is only bettered by the boobs that filled his monitor in the background. I reckon that one might be worth several months' of free lunches and maybe even a back rub here and there. Ah, to hell with it. I might as well go all the way and demand a new scooter. He's on a bigger income than most of us anyway. IT professional my ass. Porn surfer extraordinaire, more like it.

The best photo without a shadow of doubt was of Sam in her crotchless knickers. I never knew how invaluable the shelves under our desks would be, though I've always appreciated my camera's minute-long timer. In silent mode, even a flash under the table doesn't give the game away, at least not with someone as thick as Sam modelling unknowingly. Now I have something on her that will freak her out beyond my wildest dreams. No longer will that stupid cunt denigrate me by telling everyone about my yeast infection or that I wore a training bra until I was twenty-three. I'm partially to blame for that because I shouldn't have told her about it in the first place, but she didn't need to send out a mass email titled 'Did You Know?'. No longer will she pout and roll her eyes in my direction when she gets roses from her countless admirers on Valentine's Day while I sit behind my desk and twiddle my thumbs waiting for someone to send me something - anything. No longer will she strip the unisex toilet of its last roll of loo paper as I'm just about to bust at the seams. Oh, no. Those days are long gone, sunshine. You can sit on my fist and rotate until the cows come home if you think you're going to tell me what to do ever again. Bitch!!!!

I can't wait to tell her about the photo. She's gonna freak so badly that she'll develop vericose veins and vomit blood. The stupid self-obssessed cow deserves everything coming her way. I bet she won't even believe me until I show her proof. I must remember to save multiple copies in case the fat tart rips the one I show her.

Apart from that it's been the usual eventless week. Rommel and Stalin are getting used to our new sleeping arrangement. They're also shitting inside with less frequency than when they were sleeping in the same room with me. Since I bought a kennel for them and ignored their continual yelping and howling they've been getting progressively better. Next item on the agenda is desexing them so they stop fucking each other. I don't understand male dogs and their infatuation with humping other male dogs. Are they idiots or just gay without knowing it? I wonder. But then again I don't get male humans either. They'd sure be a whole lot easier to manage if they went around humping each other in broad daylight - photos or no photos."

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